sorry.?
Peter nodded again, and walked out.
He sat on a stool in the classroom at seven-thirty, while the pupils filed in. He had not known, when he took on the job of teaching art classes in the local polytechnic, how grateful he would one day be for the ?20 a week it brought in. The teaching was a bore, and there was never more than one youngster in each class with even a glimmering of talent; but the money paid the mortgage and the grocery bill, just.
He sat silent as they settled behind their easels, wait ing for him to give the go-ahead or to begin a lecture. He had had a couple of drinks on the way: the expenditure of a few shillings seemed trivial compared with the disaster which had overtaken his career.
He was a successful teacher, he knew: the pupils liked his obvious enthusiasm and his blunt, sometimes cruel assessments of their work. And he could improve their work, even the ones with no talent; he could show them tricks and point out technical faults, and he had a way of making them remember.
Half of them wanted to go in for Fine Art qualifications, the fools. Somebody ought to tell them they were wasting their time—they should make painting their hobby, and enjoy it all their lives while working as bank clerks and computer programmers.
Hell, somebody ought to tell them.
They were all here. He stood up.
?Tonight we are going to talk about the art world,? he said. ?I expect some of you hope to become part of that world before too long.? There were one or two nods around the room.
?Well, for those who do, here?s the best piece of advice anyone can give you. Forget it.
?Let me tell you about it. A couple of months ago eight paintings were sold in London for a total of four hundred thousand pounds. Two of those painters died in poverty. You know how it works? When an artist is alive, he dedicates himself to art, pouring his life?s blood out on the canvas.? Peter nodded wryly. ?Melodramatic, isn?t it? But it?s true. You see, all he really cares about is painting. But the fat guys, the rich guys, the society women, the dealers, and the collectors looking for investments and tax losses—they don?t like his work. They want something safe and familiar, and besides, they know nothing—sweet FA—about art. So they don?t buy, and the painter dies young. Then, in a few years? time, one or two perceptive people begin to see what he was getting at, and they buy his pictures—from friends he gave them to, from junk shops, from fly-blown art galleries in Bournemouth and Watford. The price rises, and dealers start buying the pictures. Suddenly the artist becomes (a) fashionable and (b) a good investment. His paintings fetch astronomical prices—fifty thousand, two hundred thousand, you name it. Who makes the money? The dealers, the shrewd investors, the people who had enough taste to buy the pictures before they became trendy. And the auctioneers, and their staff, and the salesroom, and their secretaries. Everybody but the artist—because he?s dead. Meanwhile, today?s young artists are struggling to keep body and soul together. In the future, their pictures will sell for astronomical sums—but that?s no good to them now.
?You might think the Government would take a cut on these big art deals, and use it to build low-rent studios. But no. The artist is the loser, always.
?Let me tell you about me. I was somewhat exceptional—my work started to sell well during my lifetime. I took out a mortgage and fathered a child on the strength of it. I was England?s up-and-coming painter. But things went wrong. I was ?overpriced,? they say. I went out of fashion. My manners don?t quite fit in with polite society. Suddenly, I?m desperately poor. I?m on the scrap heap. Oh, I?ve still got enormous talent, they say. In ten years? time I?ll be at the top. But meanwhile, I can starve, or dig ditches, or rob banks. They don?t care—you see—? He paused, and realized for the first time how long he had been speaking, and how engrossed he had been in his own words. The classroom was completely silent in the presence of such fury, such passion, and such a naked confession.
?You see,? he said finally, ?the last thing they care about is the man who actually uses his God-given gift to produce the miracle of a painting—the artist.?
He sat down on the stool then, and looked at the desk in front of him. It was an old school desk with initials carved in the woodwork, and ancient ink stains soaked into its wood. He looked at the grain, noticing how it flowed like an op-art painting.
The pupils seemed to realize that the class was over. One by one they got up, put their things together, and left. In five minutes the room was empty but for Peter, who laid his head on the desk and closed his eyes.
It was dark when he got home to the small terraced house in Clapham. It had been difficult to get a mortgage on the place, cheap as it was, because of its age. But they had managed it.
Peter had turned handyman and created a studio out of the upper floor, knocking down internal walls and making a skylight. The three of them slept in the bedroom downstairs, leaving one living room and the kitchen, bathroom and toilet in an extension at the back.
He went into the kitchen and kissed Anne. ?I relieved my feelings by shouting at the kids, I?m afraid,? he said.
?Never mind,? she smiled. ?Mad Mitch has come to cheer you up. He?s in the studio. I?m just making some sandwiches for us.?
Peter went up the stairs. Mad Mitch was Arthur Mitchell, who had studied with Peter at the Slade. He had become a teacher, refusing to go into the risky, commercial business of being a full-time artist. He shared Peter?s utter contempt for the art world and its pretensions.
He was looking at a recently finished canvas when Peter walked in.
?What do you think of it?? Peter said.
?Bad question,? Mitch replied. ?It invites me to pour out a load of bullshit about movement, brush-work, design, and emotion. Better to ask whether I would hang it on my wall.?
?Would you hang it on your wall??
?No. It would clash with the three-piece suite.?
Peter laughed. ?Are you going to open that bottle of scotch you brought with you??
?Sure. Let?s have a wake.?
?Anne told you??
?She did. You?ve discovered for yourself what I warned you of years ago. Still, there?s nothing like finding out on your own account.?
?I?ll say.? Peter fetched two grubby glasses from a shelf, and Mitch poured whisky. They put on a Hendrix record, and listened to the fireworks from the guitar in silence for a while. Anne brought cheese sandwiches, and the three of them proceeded to get drunk.
?The worst of it,? Mitch was saying, ?the kernel, as it were, of the shit, as it is—?
Peter and Anne laughed at the mixed metaphor. ?Go on,? Peter said.
?The fundamental piece of godawful bollocks, is the uniqueness of a work. Very few paintings are unique in any meaningful sense. Unless there?s something very tricky about it—like the Mona Lisa smile, to take the outstanding example—then it can be repeated.?
?Not exactly,? Peter put in.
?Exactly where it matters. A few millimeters of space, a difference in color which is only just noticeable— these things don?t matter with your average fifty-thousand-pound painting. My God, Manet didn?t paint an exact replica of an ideal picture in his head—he just put the paint roughly where he thought it ought to go. He just mixed the color until it seemed about right.
?Take the
He drank from his glass, and poured more whisky. Anne said: ?I don?t believe you. It would take almost as much genius to copy a great painting, and get it right, as it would to paint it in the first place.?
?Rubbish!? Mitch exploded. I?ll prove it. Gimme a canvas, and I?ll paint you a van Gogh in twenty minutes. ?
?He?s right,? Peter said. ?I could do it, too.?
