Paint. The art of scam. (35 page)

He really threw
himself into his painting. He was actually getting quite good, technically, and
within a few weeks he had to park his brand new Ford Laser outside the bloody
garage, to make room for the bloody barbiturate induced paintings he’d churned
out.

He was also
feeling terribly lonely. The new peace of mind he had discovered, through the
brush, had opened up a hole in his spirit. Doctor Hindberg told him that he
must see that hole as a space. It took Henry a while to work out what he meant.
Doctor Hindberg was like that: sometimes he would say things that sounded more
like a crossword clue than advice. Up until his breakdown, Henry had appeared
to be a rational steady man of integrity, a natural leader. His mind however
was an hysterical mess of chaotic thoughts and confusions and there was certainly
no space or time available for anything rational. The image, he somehow
projected, was just programmed body language.

Henry started to
get out more after more Doctor Hindberg advice. Get involved with groups and
clubs, take classes and generally swim in the pool of life. He’d said. Henry
had never looked at life as a pool before, more an angry sea, full of sharks
out to get him.

He took up
evening painting classes at the local school and met a whole new world of
characters, all trying to stay sane. Being painters, often wasn't the only
feather in their caps, some were writers too, mainly mind numbing poets, who
twisted language to extremes to get words to rhyme and laboriously dull short
story writers. Within no time Henry had taken over the class and had them all
running around after him, putting together the Easel Magazine, with tips,
techniques, competitions, stories written about paintings, painted by the
writer, and all kinds of self indulgent content, born of people with too much
time on their hands.

The Easel became
incredibly successful in no time. A reflection of, possibly, how many bored
people there are in this world and within two years, Henry had set up a fully
equipped publishing house, above a bakers shop in Hove. The Easel had become as
solid and dependable as a good friend and every month, when it was dropped in
your letterbox, you knew that inside that rather childish, amateur looking
cover, there were many a secret unlocked. Whether it be, how to paint a wave!
Or how to paint eyes that follow you round the room, you would be in for a
treat and no artist's studio should ever be without one.

But that was all
about to change. Ed had other ideas. Sales were dropping off, costs were
rising, the business was in trouble. Ed had been saying for months that they
should start putting ads in the Easel. That sent a shudder through the office.

‘Never!’ Henry
had bellowed. ‘Over my dead body.’

That, thought Ed,
was becoming increasingly likely.

Ed didn't
actually work
for
The Easel, he partly owned it, or at least 10,000 U.S.
dollars worth. That's how much Henry owed Ed's father for a gambling debt. Ed
had just finished a degree in media studies in Los Angeles and couldn't find a
job anywhere, mainly because he just didn't look right and Ed's dad wanted his
money. Perfect: Ed takes a share in the Easel, gets shipped off to England, so his
Dad and his new wife Trixie hadn't got to deal with the irritating little shit
for the foreseeable future.

Ed's surprise
arrival at the Easel's offices was a shock for all four of the permanent staff.
Ed was presented by Henry as an initiative to bring new blood, to freshen up
the magazine, to revitalise its sales. Henry was unconvincing in his delivery
and, of course, had no intention of doing any such thing and would happily see
the Easel die with him.

Ed, nor any of
the staff knew anything about the debt. Ed had been told by his father that
he'd been head hunted and to, 'go over there and kick ass.' Ed had promised his
father he would do just that.

Henry was in a
critical condition on a life support machine at the hospital. The Easel staff
were with him, taking turns in shifts to stare at him. Henry had no family. The
Easel was his family and nobody dared think what would happen when he would
make that last call to the printer after reading the final proof. It was a
moment everybody worked for. The moment when Henry closed the last page of the
final proof copy, picked up the phone and said. ‘Print it!’ Those two words
made all of their lives worthwhile.

Ed had assured
all the staff that everything was under control and that he would get the magazine
out if it took his last breath and for them to not worry and concentrate on
helping Henry. They all wanted to put an ad in the Times to apologise for not publishing
the next edition. Ed objected and said something like, ‘Newspapers are not a
job, they are in your blood and if I don't get that damn newspaper out in time,
I ain't the man I wanna be.’

They all thought
he was a knob but didn't have the energy to argue anymore.

Ed moved the desk
lamp back a few inches and looked closer at the front cover. ‘
This is good
,’ he thought, nodding to
himself in agreement.

The cover, had a
photo of a confused looking man with a woman just behind his right shoulder. It
was one of those photos that worked. The way her head was framed between the
man's shoulders and the top of the photo somehow made her the main subject, not
he. You could never plan a photo like that. Well, Ed couldn't anyway. Ed
considered himself to be a good photographer. He had years of experience. Had
boxes and boxes of slides and prints, all of which looked like those family
snapshots you flick through whilst wondering if you had turned off the gas at
home, with a stale breathed relative, you don't particularly like, leaning over
your shoulder, a little too close for comfort, saying things like, ‘That’s me
in Malaga.’

But this photo
was the first photo that he had ever taken that really lived.

The fact that the
photo was of the people he had written an article about was a bonus. The
headline on the front of The Easel, below the photo said. ‘Behind Every Great
Man. A Perfect Match.’ And below that, was a painting of a vase. The usual logo
was superimposed over the top of the photo, rather cleverly, Ed thought, along
with the cartoon like drawing of an Easel on one end and an artists pallet on
the other. Just in case people didn't know what an easel was.

Ed was really
pleased with the article. His articles were normally based on interviews with
artists, unknown to anyone but Easel readers. He would simply transcribe the
recorded interviews word for word, thinking that it brought out the raw truth
and got to the heart of the artist. Which it did, after about fifteen pages: by
then you didn't care if the artist had a heart or not.

Ed. ‘So, Hi
Charlie, how are you today?’

Charlie. 'Hi Ed,
I'm fine. How are you?’

Ed. ‘I'm just
great!’

Charlie. ‘Good.’

Ed. ‘Your
paintings are very good.’

Charlie. ‘Thanks.’

Ed. ‘What are
they about?’

Charlie. ‘What do
mean?’ Etc. Etc. Etc.

This article was
very different. Ed had tried to interview the artist, Seymour Capital, on
several occasions, but it never seemed to happen. Then one day, when he was on
his way to Seymour's apartment, at yet another arranged time, he spotted
Seymour walking away briskly along the pavement, then slipping into a cafe.

Ed waited a
moment, wondering if Seymour was trying to avoid him, or that maybe he had just
forgot their appointment. That had happened a couple of times before.

When Ed walked
into Rosey's cafe, Seymour was at the counter. Ed played it cool and pretended
not to see Seymour, as he stood next to him.

‘Ed!’ said
Seymour with surprise. ‘I was just grabbing a quick coffee.’

‘Oh! Hi Seymour,
yeh me too.’

‘Here let me get
you one, we can talk here.’ said Seymour. ‘bit of mess back the apartment
anyway.’

Rosey looked at
Ed and nudged her head, asking him what he wanted without saying a word.

‘Oh yeh? Cool.’ said
Ed. ‘Uh. You have any decaf Ma'm?’

Rosey stared at
Ed and shook her head slowly.

‘Oh.’ said Ed.

Rosey briskly
stirred a mug of thick dark coffee, put it on a saucer with a sweet biscuit and
handed it to Seymour.

‘How about herbal
tea?’ said Ed.

Rosey shook her
head again.

‘Oh.’ said Ed. ‘Ok
blow it, why not, I'll have the same as Seymour.’

‘You sure?’ said
Rosey and Seymour in unison.

‘Yeh, damn it.
Why not’ said Ed.

‘Ok sit down,
I'll bring it over.’ said Rosey smiling at Seymour mischievously.

Seymour led Ed
over to his favourite table by the window and sat down. Ed nervously rummaged
through his little backpack and pulled out a Phillips cassette recorder.

‘Mind if I record
this Seymour? Helps me remember things, you know? Artists get pretty deep
sometimes.’

Seymour took a
sip of his delicious Cafe Loco.

‘No, I don't
mind, no problem, what do you want me to say?’ said Seymour, savouring the rich
spicy aroma coming from the coffee as Rosey appeared and gave Ed his mug. ‘Thanks
Rosey.’

‘Yeh thanks
Rosey.’ said Ed laughing nervously. Rosey flashed him a look and smiled
sarcastically.

Ed took a sip, as
Seymour watched Rosey's bum until it disappeared behind the counter.

‘Interesting
looking woman.’ said Ed.

‘Yeh. I reckon
she would suck you in and blow you out in bubbles.’ said Seymour.

Ed momentarily
visualised Seymour's words and really didn't know what to do with the image.
It was a strange thing to say
, he
thought. He was hoping this was going to be his scoop. An intellectual insight
into a real artist that's had a show, in a proper gallery and had sold his
work! ‘
Maybe he's a rebel, a maverick
,’
thought Ed, ‘
like Dali or Picasso or Van
Gogh or someone
.’

‘Ok.’ said Ed,
moving things along. ‘Shall be begin?’

Seymour nodded,
Ed pressed the record button with a clunk.

‘So, hi Seymour.
How are you doing?’

‘I'm good, how
are you?’

‘I'm doing great,
really like your paintings.’

‘Me too.’

‘So Seymour,
what are they about?’

‘What do mean?’ said
Seymour, taking another long sip.

‘Well you know
uh, what's your inspiration?’ said Ed taking a sip of his coffee. ‘Hey this is
real nice coffee.’

‘Yeh, it's great
innit, you can't beat a good cup of coffee.’

‘So what is your
inspiration Seymour?’

Seymour thought
for a moment. He'd been asked this before and indeed had asked himself the same
question.

‘Um. I don't
know.’ said Seymour watching Rosey as she blew the dust off an LP record and
bent down, delicately placing it on the turntable deep inside the old valve
radiogram in the corner by the counter. Rosey had a wonderful cleavage even
though, Seymour suspected, her tits would be a bit saggy.

‘Oh.’ Ed looked
around the cafe. There were just a couple of other people sat at their tables,
reading papers who were now swaying their heads to Mendelssohn's violin
concerto. Ed was racking his brains to remember that bit on his course about
how you keep an interview going and keeping in control, by steering the
narrative with clever questions.

‘I suppose,’ said
Seymour thoughtfully, rubbing his unshaven cheeks. ‘I suppose, well, life?’

‘Life?’ said Ed. ‘life
is your inspiration?’

‘Why not?’ said
Seymour.

‘But the
description about your work in the catalogue of your first show at the Carva
Gallery was kinda in depth.’ said Ed. ‘I thought...’

‘Oh that was
Polly,’ said Seymour interrupting. ‘Fucking hell, she's amazing the shit she
can come up with. Sort of makes sense though.’

‘So all that
stuff was written by Polly, and you had no say in it?’ said Ed.

‘Uh, not really,
why should I, why should I tell her or anybody what it's all about? I paint stuff.
It's up to you what you make of it. It's not my business.’

‘Yeh right, wow,
this is kinda blowing my mind.’ said Ed, battling to concentrate. ‘So you don't
really have a concept when you work, you leave that to everybody else?’

‘Yup.’ said
Seymour, taking another huge glug of his cafe loco. Ed did the same. The coffee
was cooler now and the fireworks of spicy, exotic flavours seemed to aerate his
brain as he copied Seymour's, almost ceremonial coffee drinking. This involved
burying one's nose and mouth inside the mug, taking a healthy gulp and then a
single large slow breathe through the one's nose.

Ed sat back.
Seymour had just said something significant. If only he could remember what it
was.
Ah the cassette, Ok then, that's
good, it'll be on there. Right.
Ed looked at Seymour, who was staring out
of the window. It didn't seem right to stop the interview, to rewind the tape
to see what the hell Seymour was talking about. You should never do that, it
kills the flow of connection with your interviewee.
Ok, change the subject
.