The Modigliani Scandal - Ken Follett [14]
They shook hands. Peter said: ″You′re looking prosperous.″
″A necessary illusion. But you′re doing well—my God, a house of your own, a wife and baby—you realize you ought to be starving in a garret?″ He laughed as he said it.
Peter jerked an inquiry toward the woman.
″Ah, sorry,″ Julian said. ″Meet Samantha. You know the face.″
The woman said: ″Hi.″
″Of course!″ Peter exclaimed. ″The actress! Delighted.″ He shook her hand. To Julian he said: ″Look, I wondered if you and I could talk business for a minute.″
Julian looked puzzled and a little wary. ″Sure,″ he said.
″I must be off,″ Samantha said. ″See you soon.″
Julian held the door for her, then came back and sat on a packing case. ″Okay, old friend: shoot.″
″I′ve left the Belgrave,″ Peter said. ″I′m looking around for a new place to hang my daubings. I think this might be it. Remember how well we worked together organizing the Rag Ball? I think we might be a good team again.″
Julian frowned and looked at the window. ″You haven′t been selling well lately, Pete.″
Peter threw up his hands. ″Oh, come on, Julian, you can′t turn me down! I′d be a scoop for you.″
Julian put his hands on Peter′s shoulders. ″Let me explain something to you, old mate. I had twenty thousand pounds to start this gallery. You know how much I′ve spent already? Nineteen thousand. You know how many pictures I′ve bought with that? None.″
″What′s it all gone on?″
″Advance rent, furniture, decoration, staff, deposits on this, deposits on that, publicity. This is a hard business to get into, Pete. Now if I were to take you on, I′d have to give you decent space—not just because we′re friends, but also because otherwise it would get around that I was selling you short, and that would harm my reputation—you know what an incestuous little circle this is.″
″I know.″
″But your work isn′t selling. Pete, I can′t afford to use precious wall space for work I can′t sell. In the first six months of this year four London galleries went bankrupt. I could so easily go that way.″
Peter nodded slowly. He felt no anger. Julian was not one of the fat parasites of the art world—he was at the bottom of the pile, along with the artists.
There was no more to be said. Peter walked slowly to the door. As he opened it Julian called out: ″I′m 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