In my case, my work will be hailed for its subject matter and its ability to sell tickets. Its notoriety will sustain its appeal. The art world is a sham in which art lovers will come to recognise my paintings in an instant.
To date I had painted some, oh, twenty-or so models. I really do not recall the total number. Only eleven singles were of a sufficient standard to warrant exhibiting. The others had not turned out as I had hoped. The bosoms, you understand. Their texture and skin tone cannot be ascertained until clothing has been removed, venal fluids drained and flesh left to settle. Hence their ultimate rejection. No matter; mustn’t complain.
I had begun my clandestine career with the notion of formulating a sequence of portraits, each representing the seasons. Then I changed this to months. One portrait representing each of the twelve.
In the UK and the United States, at least, the carnation is the January flower, the primrose February, violet March, daisy April, lily of the valley May, rose June, water lily July, poppy August, morning glory September, calendula October and chrysanthemum November. These portraits I had completed, each depicting a flower, plus something from the Greek, Medusa being a particularly difficult one to encapsulate. I had added the Greek connotation, plus a little something from my own past, to satisfy the pretensions of the art Establishment. Art scholars and critics give more credence to mythology. It allows them to appear erudite. ‘Ah, yes,’ they would postulate, ‘Hockler clearly substituted fingers for snakes to …’ I don’t know. Whatever they come up with, it will be pure supposition. And wrong. I had not the slightest reason in the world for supplanting snakes, other than to give them something to muse over. I used fingers because I had no snakes. It was that simple.
Alas, I had yet to find a suitable model to complete my collection. Although I had a model in mind – for narcissus, the December flower.
Together these twelve works of art would be known as the ‘Hockler Women in Bloom Collection’. I had initially considered the ‘Hockler Blooming Women Collection’ as a title but, after many sleepless nights of cogitation, settled for the former.
As to why it had occurred to me to bring my models home, well, I simply became fed up with lurking in the shadows until the first suitable female happened by. To photograph under such circumstances is an absolute pain. One has the problem of lighting, weather conditions – on a bad night one risks catching one’s death of cold. The times I have had to postpone, you simply would not believe. Weather forecasts are of no help. And, of course, as I have alluded, if a girl is heavily wrapped up, it is impossible to tell what lies beneath her clothing, apropos her overall figure. I cannot work with plump models. A waist is vital. To sketch the stem of the bloom, one must have the curves of the waist to give symmetry. A big belly would look grotesque. And the skin must be taut, not aged and slack. Large breasts, too, are out. One ends up with squashed petals between the cleavage. Small, pert breasts are by far the more desirable.
Thus I went to the bank and arranged a loan to renovate my cellar into suitable accommodation. Naturally, I had to carry out the work myself, which involved going to night classes in block laying and welding, to make the doors and the masonry to support them. Finally, when the last block had been mortared, a serving hatch and a peephole fitted in each of the four doors, I loaded Shirley, my dog, into the back of my van, fed her a heavy sedative – nothing harmful, for I would not hurt a defenceless animal – and drove straight to a park that bordered a housing estate on the west of the city – the nocturnal habits of whose residents I had been monitoring for some weeks. I parked in a nearby lay-by used by lorries, from which one could see right along the road in either direction. I enjoyed a little Mozart while waiting. His Requiem.
The time was approaching half past ten when I saw the two models I had selected, their Labrador on a leash, crossing at the pedestrian lights, as I had observed them doing on previous evenings. I drove straight in through the park gates, lifted Shirley out and laid her unconscious on the ground, then hunkered over her as they drew near.
‘Excuse me,’ I began in a very polite and pitiful voice, which, I have found to my advantage, evokes compassion among fellow dog lovers. A hook, if you like.
Their Labrador strained to attend and commenced sniffing Shirley, as dogs are wont to do, in her nether regions.
‘What’s the matter?’ the dark-haired one of the pair asked.
‘It’s Shirley. She’s had an attack of some kind. I’m so worried. Would you mind giving me a hand to lift her inside? I must get her home. Only it’s my back, you see. She’s too heavy.’ I sounded at my wits’ end.
‘Of course. The poor thing.’
‘Oh thank you. You’re very kind.’
‘Not at all.’ She turned to her friend. ‘Come on, Lisa. You take her front and I’ll take her rear.’
They were so helpful.
My chloroform spray caught them as they stooped. I reached for the two soaked cloths I had prepared moments in advance and pinned their heads back against my chest until they lost consciousness, then gently lifted them, one at a time, into the back, for I did not wish their skin to be bruised. Then I
