the ear as well. Almost overnight, scraps of pigmented fabric of virtually no intrinsic value were being transformed by the logic of the marketplace into commodities whose prices could have fed all of Africa.
Not to be outdone by New York and London, domestic prices were hot on the heels of the global trend. According to the gazette of Australian auction records, modest little pictures by well-known Australian artists that could’ve been snapped up any time in the previous two decades for a couple of grand were suddenly fetching five or ten times that amount.
Victor Szabo’s name appeared infrequently, in some years not at all. But then, according to what I’d heard at the Botanical Hotel, his life’s work amounted only to forty or so known paintings. Eleven of these had been offered at auction in the previous few years, six more than once. The prices had risen slowly at first, barely keeping up with the general trend. Then, more recently, the pace had quickened. This improvement was in line with a general tendency of the market to seek out previously underrated artists as the value of the big names went stratospheric.
One hundred thousand dollars was the top price listed for a Szabo. Nothing remotely like the figure Karlin was charging. Either there was more to Our Home than met the eye or somebody was being taken for a walk.
A Fierce Vision: The Genius of Victor Szabo 1911-77 by Fiona Lambert was a handsomely produced coffee- table job published two years previously. Plentiful text, lavish illustrations and a one-paragraph biography of the author on the inside flyleaf. Exhibition curator, gallery director, BA(Hons). Fluff.
Flipping through, I found what I was looking for. Our Home: Oil on canvas, 175 cm x 123 cm, 1972. Private collection. I pored over the plate’s glossy surface, searching for some previously unnoticed detail that would spring out and distinguish this image from the one I had seen in Marcus Taylor’s studio. It was useless. The two paintings had converged in my memory.
Two pictures, two dead men. One an artist of growing repute, dead ten years. The other an unknown loser, dead twelve hours. Two things linked them. One was a picture of a house with a lawn-mower in the front yard. The other was a dog-eared photograph among a suicide’s pathetic collection of personal effects. Something about all of this didn’t feel right. Disturbing possibilities rattled around in my brain, nagged at me. The missing painting. Salina’s emotional game-playing. Spider’s menacing evasions. Something was cooking and it didn’t smell right. It smelled of egg on Angelo Agnelli’s face. I decided to keep sniffing.
Taylor, Marcus was listed nowhere in Lambert’s index. I waded into the body of the text. The literalness of Victor Szabo’s work deploys a multi-layered, almost compulsive, disjunction of a myriad of identities, it began. Its vocabulary welds the specificity of circumstance to the logic of allegory so as to create a bridge between the depersonalised formalism of abstraction and the narrative poetics of an uninhibited quest for the archetypically mundane.
Well, she wasn’t going to hear any argument from me. I read on. It didn’t get any easier. In comparison with art criticism, the mealy jargon of bureaucracy sparkled like birdsong. Not even in the mouth of the Leader of the Opposition did words convey so little. Scanning and skipping, attempting to draw a thread of comprehension from the furball of Fiona Lambert’s prose, I jotted the few biographical facts I could garner on a library call-slip with a pencil someone had mislaid on top of the catalogue cabinet.
The bare bones, as far as I could make them out, were that Szabo had been born in Hapsburg Budapest, had studied art in Paris in the thirties and arrived in Australia as a displaced person after the Second World War. Isolated from the local art scene by circumstances and temperament, he found work as a railway fettler in the Blue Mountains west of Sydney, sketching and painting intermittently. By the late fifties he had moved south and was living on the outskirts of Melbourne, painting full time, occasionally exhibiting his work, even sometimes finding a buyer. His trademark realism and suburban subject matter began to emerge. Painting constantly, he destroyed most of his output, retaining only his most highly finished pictures. Anti-social and reclusive, he made contact with the outside world only through his dealer, Giles Aubrey. Eventually he fell out even with him. His talent, Fiona Lambert put it, could no longer endure the constraints of the relationship.
About this time, ’77 or ’78, Lambert herself appeared. And not a moment too soon. Up until that point in the story, no woman had been mentioned who was not another artist, an artist’s wife, or a critic. No wonder, if Fiona’s version of Victor Szabo’s life story was to be believed, the old coot expired in her arms. Sheer astonishment at his change of luck.
If there was some clue to connect Szabo and Taylor, it certainly didn’t lie in Fiona Lambert’s text. I flicked through the illustrations again. Sketches, draughtsmanlike renderings of landscapes, architectural details, life- studies in charcoal, the finished paintings.
Two of the sketches, dating from the early fifties, were female nudes. Where had he found his models, I wondered, this New Australian railway labourer? One was a rear view, rough-hewn, a few broad strokes outlining the curve of a back, a fall of hair, the droop of buttocks. The other was a pencil sketch, highly finished, face and shoulders turned in three-quarter profile.
The resemblance was unmistakable. It was the woman in the photograph in Marcus Taylor’s desk drawer. In the souvenir snap she was more carefree. But the woman in the sketch knew he would go soon, her artistic European lover. That happy time when the camera had captured them together on the mountain-top lookout was already fading fast. Her belly was distended, her expression resigned. Marcus Taylor’s birthplace, according to his grant application form, was Katoomba, Jewel of the Blue Mountains, gateway to the original Australian bush.
Before I left the library, there were a couple more publications I wanted to consult. Veneer: A Journal of Contemporary Cultural Criticism, appeared quarterly. I went straight to the list of editorial credits. Veneer, said the tiniest possible type, acknowledges the financial support of the Visual Arts Panel of the Victorian Ministry for the Arts. I attributed no significance to this fact. I was just interested, that’s all.
The second book I consulted had printing almost as small. It was thick and yellow and lived in a metal bracket under the pay phone in the foyer. Under Art Dealers, between Atelier on the Yarra and Aussie’s Aborigine Art was a listing for Aubrey Fine Art. I dialled the number and asked for Mr Giles Aubrey.
There was a moment’s silence, then a sound that could have been eyebrows being raised. ‘Giles Aubrey has not been associated with us for quite some time,’ said a snooty male voice.
‘You don’t know how I can contact him?’
‘Not really. He sold the business and retired several years ago. This is the current proprietor speaking. May I be of assistance?’ Meaning, can I sell you a picture, and if not piss off.
‘It’s a rather delicate matter,’ I said, ‘concerning the provenance of an item bought some time ago, when Mr Aubrey was in charge. Before beginning legal proceedings, I’d prefer to speak with Mr Aubrey. If, however, that’s not possible, what did you say your name was…’
‘Just a moment, sir.’ After a few seconds, he came back with a phone number. The first three digits, denoting the local exchange, were unfamiliar. Somewhere in the eastern suburbs gentility belt, I assumed.
‘That’s Eaglemont, is it?’ A locale of faintly arty pretence.
‘Coldstream,’ said eyebrows, eager to send me packing.
Coldstream, of course. Eltham, Kangaroo Ground, Christmas Hills, Yarra Glen, Coldstream. Out where the Food Plusses and the Furniture Barns gave way to plant nurseries and pottery shops. A bushland bohemia of mudbrick and claret in whose sylvan glades colonies of freethinking artists once made their abode, sculpting wombats out of scrap metal, listening to jazz, swapping wives and growing their beards. Where shadow Cabinet ministers in turtle-neck sweaters once went to have their portraits painted by polygamous libertarians. Long before art was an industry, when it was a talisman against the triumphant philistinism of encroaching suburbia, these scrubby hills on the urban fringe were its Camelot.
Not a lot of Camelot left out there any more, not since art had decamped to the inner city, gone post-modern, started pleading its multiplier-effectiveness and cost/benefit ratios before the Industry Assistance Commission. Not since the bird-watching suburban gentry had parked their Range Rovers in its driveways and paved its bush tracks with antique-finish concrete cobblestones available in an extensive range of all-natural designer colours. Only the artists’ half-feral children remained, gone thirty, still barefoot and stinking of patchouli oil. And old Giles Aubrey, retired to some bend in the river.
His phone rang a long time, long enough for me to rehearse my approach, long enough for me to think he wasn’t going to answer. ‘Giles Aubrey speaking.’ A voice with rounded vowels and clipped diction, the sort of voice that would once have been called educated, that suggested I forthwith state my business and heaven help me if I was a fool.
Anyone hoping for Giles Aubrey’s assistance would need to play it deferential, keep their wits about them. I
