The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [13]
Usher became intense, almost pleading. ″Listen, if you turn me down, I may have to start painting houses. Don′t you see—I must have a gallery!″
″You will survive, Mr. Usher. In fact you′ll do very well. In ten years′ time you will be England′s top painter.″
″Then why won′t you take me on?″
Dixon sighed impatiently. He found the conversation extremely distasteful. ″We′re not your sort of gallery at the moment. As you know, we deal mainly in late-nineteenth-century painting, and sculptures. We have only two living artists under contract to our galleries, and they are both well-established. Furthermore, our style is not yours.″
″What the hell does that mean?″
Dixon stood up. ″Mr. Usher, I have tried to turn you down politely, and I have tried to explain my position reasonably, without harsh words or undue bluntness—more courtesy, I feel sure, than you would grant me. But you force me to be utterly frank. Last night you created a terribly embarrassing scene at the Belgrave. You insulted its owner and scandalized his guests. I do not want that kind of scene at Dixon′s. And now I bid you good day.″
Peter stood up, his head thrust aggressively forward. He started to speak, hesitated, then turned on his heel and left.
He strode along the corridor, through the foyer, and out into the street. He climbed onto his bicycle and sat on the saddle, looking up at the windows above.
He shouted: ″And fuck you, too!″ Then he cycled away.
He vented his rage on the pedals, kicking down viciously and building up speed. He ignored traffic lights, one-way signs, and bus lanes. At junctions he swerved onto the sidewalk, scattering pedestrians, looking distinctly manic with his hair flowing in the wind behind him, his long beard, and his businessman′s suit.
After a while he found himself cycling along the Embankment near Victoria, his fury exhausted. It had been a mistake to get involved with the art establishment in the first place, he decided. Dixon had been right: his style was not theirs. The prospect had been seductive at the time: a contract with one of the old-line, ultrarespectable galleries seemed to offer permanent security. It was a bad thing for a young painter. Perhaps it had affected his work.
He should have stuck with the fringe galleries, the young rebels: places like the Sixty-Nine, which had been a tremendous revolutionary force for a couple of years before it went bust.
His subconscious was directing him to the King′s Road, and he suddenly realized why. He had heard that Julian Black, a slight acquaintance from art school days, was opening a new gallery to be called the Black Gallery. Julian was a bright spark: iconoclastic, scornful of art world tradition, passionately interested in painting, although a hopeless painter himself.
Peter braked to a stop outside a shop front. Its windows were daubed with whitewash, and a pile of planks lay on the sidewalk outside. A signwriter on a ladder was painting the name above the place. So far he had written: ″The Black Ga.″
Peter parked the bike. Julian would be ideal, he decided. He would be looking for painters, and he would be thrilled to pull in someone as well-known as Peter Usher.
The door was not locked, and Peter walked in over a paint-smeared tarpaulin. The walls of the large room had been painted white, and an electrician was fixing spotlights to the ceiling. At the far end a man was laying carpet over the concrete floor.
Peter saw Julian immediately. He stood just inside the entrance, talking to a woman whose face was vaguely familiar. He wore a black velvet suit with a bow tie. His hair was earlobe length, neatly cut, and he was good-looking in a rather public-school sort of way.
He turned around as Peter entered, an expression of polite welcome on his face, as if he was about to say ″Can I help you?″ His expression