the white wall was an inscription: 'Alex Bassan. Girl in Front of a Looking Glass. Oils on a twenty-four-year-old girl with full-length mirror and lights. 195x35x88cm.' Under the title was a shelf with a pile of catalogues. There was no podium or any kind of security rope: she was simply standing on the bare white floor that shone as brightly as the looking glass and her body did. The room was really cramped, and as it filled up, Clara was worried someone might step on her foot. A white fire extinguisher hung from the wall in a corner. 'At least I won't go up in flames if there's a fire,' she thought.
She could hear the art critics praising the work. A few criticisms as well. Not of her, of course, but of the work. Yet it was her they were staring at: her thighs, her buttocks, her breasts, her unmoving face. And the looking glass as well. There was one exception. At a certain point out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a silhouette coming close to her, and mouthing an obscenity into her left ear. She was used to this, and did not even blink. Often in hyperdramatic exhibitions some crazy person got in who was not in the least bit interested in the work, but in the naked woman on show. To judge by his breath, this guy was drunk. He stood right next to her for quite a while, staring at her. Clara was concerned he might try to touch her, because there were no security guards anywhere. But a few moments later he moved off. If he had tried anything, she would have been forced to abandon her state of quiescence and give him a verbal warning. If he had continued to pester her despite this, she would have had no problem kneeing him in the balls. It wouldn't have been the first time she had stopped being a work of art to defend herself from a troublesome spectator. HD art aroused a mixture of passions, and the female paintings who had no protection soon learned the lesson.
Girl in Front of a Looking Glass would fit easily into any reasonably spacious living room. Her percentage from the sale and rental, together with the money she had already received for her work with the painter, would have lasted her the whole summer. But nobody wanted to buy her.
'Clara.'
She breathed in sharply when she heard Gertrude's voice on the stairs. 'Clara, it's half past one. I'm going to close the gallery.'
It was always an effort to emerge from her state of quiescence and step back into the world of real objects. She twisted her head from side to side, swallowed several times, blinked (two cameos of her face were imprinted by light and time on her retinas), stretched her arms and stamped her feet on the floor. One of her legs had gone to sleep. She massaged her neck. The oil paint tugged uncomfortably at her skin.
'And there are two gentlemen to see you,' Gertrude added. 'They're in my office.'
Clara stopped sketching and looked at the gallery owner. Gertrude was at the foot of the stairs. As usual, her green eyes and scarlet lips gave nothing away. She was no longer young, and was as tall and white as Mont Blanc; so white she almost glistened. If she had fallen into snow, all you would have seen of her would have been a pair of almond-shaped emeralds and a stain of red lipstick. She liked wearing white tunics, and talked as if she were interrogating a prisoner of war under torture.
‘I'm German, but I've lived in Madrid for several years,' she told Clara when they met. She pronounced 'Madrid' like a robot from a B-movie. 'GS are my initials.' She went on to tell her her surname, but Clara couldn't remember it. 'Pleased to meet you,' Clara had replied, and was rewarded with a smile. Bassan said she was a successful gallery owner and had a select clientele of hyperdramatic art collectors, but Clara hadn't been able to discover if this was true or not. What she had found was that Gertrude was rude and disdainful towards the paintings. Perhaps she was a little more pleasant with the painters. On top of that, she was a cleanliness freak. She did not allow Clara to use the bathroom to wash or make up after work. She said she had no wish to see paint anywhere else apart from on the skin of her paintings. On Clara's first day she showed her a small space at the back of the upstairs office and said that all the works got on just fine in there. Each day before work Clara had to go into this wretched cubicle and put on the porous swimsuit and the hair-dyeing cap, soaked in the colours Bassan had prepared, and wait for almost an hour until they had dried on her skin. Then she took off the swimsuit and cap and emerged naked and gleaming white, walked down to the basement and took up the pose and expression the painter had chosen for her. When the gallery closed, she was forced to make her way home with her body still painted under her tracksuit and wearing a ridiculous beret to hide her white hair; all she could scrape off was the paint on her face. It was no fun driving with her skin stiffened with oil paint.
'Two gentlemen?' Clara had to clear her throat to get the words out. 'What do they want?' 'How should I know? They're waiting in my office.'
'But did they come down to see the work?' Often she was unaware of how many visitors there had been.
'Not today, that's for sure. They asked for Clara Reyes. They didn't mention any work of art.' As Clara mulled this over, Gertrude went on:
'I suppose you're not going to want to see them like that. You can put on one of the robes from the loft. But don't touch anything. I don't want any paint marks in my office.'
The two men were standing waiting for her, looking at glossy catalogues of other works she had been. She recognised Tenderness by Vicky, Horizontal III by Gutierrez Reguero, and The Wolf, in the Meantime, Is Dying of Hunger by Georges Chalboux. The illustrations showed her naked or half-naked body painted in a variety of colours. There were also a few Girl in Front of a Looking Glass catalogues. One of the men was throwing the catalogues on to the table after showing them to his companion, as if he were counting them. They were dressed in expensive suits and looked foreign. When she realised this, Clara's heart skipped a beat: if they had come a long way, perhaps that meant they were really interested in her. Hey, slow down a bit, you've no idea what they're going to propose, she told herself.
They offered her a chair. As she sat down, her robe opened over her knees like a petal, and one leg painted titanium white and white lead was revealed halfway up to her thigh. She crossed her hands under her chest and sat there like a patient child. 'Well?' she said.
The men did not sit down. Only one of them spoke. His Spanish was full of errors, but was easily understandable. Clara could not place his accent. 'Are you Clara Reyes?' 'Aha’
The man took something out of a briefcase: it was the resume Clara usually sent out to the most important artists in Europe and America. Her heart beat faster still.
'Twenty-four years old,' the man read out loud, 'one hundred and sixty-five centimetres tall, bust eighty-five, waist fifty-five, hips eighty-eight, blonde hair; light blue eyes tinged with green, depilated, no skin blemishes, firm and well-toned, primed four times
… is that correct?' 'Correct.' The man went on reading.
'Studied HD art and canvas techniques with Cuinet in Barcelona, and adolescent art in Frankfurt with Wedekind. Also in Florence with Ferrucioli. Is that correct?' 'Well, I was only with Ferrucioli for one week.'
She didn't want to hide anything, because that always led to difficult questions later on.
'You've been painted by both Spanish and foreign artists. Do you speak English?' 'Aha. Perfectly.'
'You've done interior works and open-air ones. Which are you better at?'
'Both. I can be an interior work or a seasonal outdoor one, or even be outside permanently, depending on the clothes and the time of year, of course. Although I can pose permanently outside with adequate protec-'
'We've seen other works you've done,' the man interrupted. 'We like you.' 'Thanks. But haven't you been downstairs to see Girl in Front of a Looking Glass? It's a really impressive Bassan, and I'm not just saying that because I'm the work, but-'
'You have also done mobile works of both sorts: performances and reunions,' the man cut in again. 'Were they interactive?' 'Aha. They were sometimes, yes.' 'Were you ever bought?' 'Almost always.'
'Good.' The man smiled and peered down at the sheets of paper as if there was something there that amused him. 'This resume is for promotional purposes. I'd like to hear your private one.' 'What do you mean by that?'
'I mean your whole professional career, and what you can't put in a promotion leaflet. For example: have you ever been an ornament, a mobile, a utensil?' 'I've never been a human artefact,' Clara replied.
It was true, although she had no idea whether the man believed her or not. But her own words sounded rather haughty to her, so she quickly added: 'Human ornaments have not really caught on yet in Spain.' 'Art- shocks?'
She hesitated before replying. She straightened up in her chair – her painted buttocks making a swishing sound – and told herself to stay on her guard. 'I'm sorry, but where are these questions leading?'
'We want to know what demands we can make of you,' the man responded calmly. 'I should warn you, I
