The Art School Dance (16 page)

‘
You
think it’s funny?’ I asked, sitting on the edge of the bed and
seeing her grin reflected in the mirror.

‘
Just a
little, yes,’ she said, putting down the lipstick, shaking with
laughter.

‘
Well it
isn’t! I was all set to tell him everything and then this stupid
slut comes along and starts chatting him up!’

‘
So you
took her by the scruff of the neck and flung her aside?’ Paula was
watching me, now, in the mirror, her eyes sparking with mocking
mischief. ‘I think that was very gallant of you, Ginny.’

‘
I
didn’t do us any favours though, did I?’ I said, quite
miserably.

Paula
swivelled around on her low stool to face me. ‘That’s one of the
things I like about you,’ she said, to add to my confusion.

‘
What?
That I’m such a coward when it comes to being open and honest? That
I’m so much a coward that I kept putting off the moment until it
was too late to say anything?’

‘
No,
that’s what I mean at all,’ she said, her smile becoming less
teasing. She slipped from the stool and knelt on the floor before
me. ‘You care, Ginny, that’s what I like about you. You’re
sensitive to other people’s feelings. It’s going to hurt Stephen
enough when you tell him about us, so naturally you couldn’t say
anything to him after what happened last night.’

I brushed
Paula’s hair back from her face, I needed to see her more clearly
and understand more fully. ‘You’re not disappointed with me,
then?’

‘
Why
should I be? You’re here with me, not with Stephen, so there’s no
reason whatsoever to be disappointed.’

I had to
smile, there was something quite unique about Paula. ‘You must have
the patience of a saint,’ I commented.

‘
Your
Saint Sebastian?’ she laughed, and got to her feet, striking the
pose we both remembered, one knee slightly bent so that her
bathrobe parted at the thigh. ‘Is this how you see me, as one of
your martyred pieces of meat?’

I caught hold
of her and pulled her close, toppling us both back onto the
bed.

‘
The
next time I see Stephen,’ I vowed. ‘I'll tell him everything
then.’

Sadly I never
got the opportunity.

*

Work was again
the distraction which prevented me from speaking with Stephen.

One Saturday
early each year the college held its open day, a public relations
exercise to emphasise its importance to the community and attract
more students for the next academic year. Saturday was a poor day
to choose, in Sleepers Hill on Saturdays people went shopping or
drinking or to the football match; the time of the year was awkward
for the us students, too, since we were so busy thinking about our
applications to other colleges. The administration insisted,
though, the locals had to be impressed and we were all obliged to
do our best.

Before I could
find the time to speak with Stephen, then, I was caught up in work
for the open day, for which the art school was predictably expected
to put on an exhibition of work; we wasted valuable time mounting
drawings and tarting up paintings and the staff appointed
themselves as the hanging committee, choosing the work which would
be shown.

I never quite
imagined that it was they’re going to hang, along with my work.

*

The three
tutors saw each student in turn, looked through our work and
decided what would go into the exhibition. It was immediately
apparent that there are dual standards in operation at this
particular ‘crit’; Ben, Ian and Maggie were faithful to their
artistic integrity for the most part, they chose work which they
thought was good, but in order to please the uninitiated locals
they also opted for a number of ‘pretty’ pieces, drawings and
paintings which they believed have no merit other than a technical
competence or superficial attraction. It was in accordance with
this criterion that they picked out my favourite drawing of Paula.
This I didn’t mind, for I still thought it to be the best drawing
I’d done, despite what Ben said. Nor did I mind when they selected
my crucified carcass of meat, as an example of ‘true’ art. When
they also picked out the portrait of Stephen, though, I had to
complain.

‘
No,
leave that one out,’ I told them.

‘
Why?’
asked Ben. ‘It’s good, it deserves to be shown.’

‘
But you
know what people are like around here. They’ll laugh at
it.’

Ben was
disappointed with me. ‘You’re surely not worried about that? They
laughed at Picasso, Chagall, Van Gogh. That’s pretty exalted
company, Ginny. You should be flattered if they laugh at your
work.’

‘
I know,
but I’d still rather you left it out of the show.’

‘
Are you
perhaps worried that your boyfriend will see it?’ Maggie asked
suspiciously.

‘
No, he
won’t be coming, he’s out of town at a cousin’s wedding that
Saturday.’

‘
So?
You’ve no objection other than the fear that people will laugh at
it?’ said Ben. ‘Your objection is overruled, then. You’ve got to
have the courage to stand by your work, Ginny. The portrait goes
in.’

So it went
down to the exhibition hall with the other selected work and we
spent the latter half of that week arranging the pictures and
drawings and fixing them to the walls and screens. They were a
pretty relaxed couple of days, though everyone knew that this
should be the busiest time of the year for us we rather enjoyed the
brief respite from the business of preparing portfolios and getting
work together for interview. We made quite a few trips to the pub,
brought bottles back so we could drink while we prepared the
exhibition, and rather than complain at our indulgence our tutors
frequently joined in. Each of us was allotted an area of space in
which to hang our work, our names were there in bold lettering and
each piece had to be given a title or description; it was much like
a genuine exhibition, except for the fact that nothing was for
sale, and we soon forgot that the open day was an unwanted
intrusion and began to enjoy ourselves.

I had
scribbled down titles for most of my work, and passed them on to
Paula to be typed out, but there was still the portrait of Stephen
left untitled.

‘
How do
I describe it?’ I asked Gus, as we sat and considered the painting
over a bottle of beer.

‘
How
about ‘Portrait of a Boy-fiend’?’ he suggested.

We were both a
little merry with drink, so we laughed, but I knew that it was
rather more cruel than funny. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘I’ll
just call it ‘Portrait’.’

‘
That’s
a bit boring,’ Gus thought.

‘
But
‘Portrait’ it is,’ I insisted, and wrote down the title and the
dimensions of the canvas.

When I went
upstairs to the office Paula was still rattling away at her
keyboard; I placed my slip of paper with the others on the
desk.

‘
Is that
it now?’ she asked.

‘
Yes.
All finished.’

‘
I wish
I was,’ she said. ‘I’ve got about forty more of these to do before
I can leave.’

Ben was off at
a meeting somewhere, Maggie and Ian were downstairs helping with
the exhibition, so I sat down for a while, asked if there was
anything I could do to help.

‘
Can you
type?’

‘
No.’

‘
Then
you won’t be much help.’

‘
How
about if I read them out to you?’ I suggested. ‘Would that be any
use?’

‘
My own
Dictaphone? Yes, it might speed things up.’

I picked up
the scraps of paper, which were all shapes and sizes, started to
read through the titles so Paula could type them out; I had to
admit there were some pretty weird titles, and I wondered how the
locals would respond.

We were just
about coming to the end when Ben entered, saw me and bellowed,
‘You’re on hallowed ground, Ginny love! Sitting in my office!’

‘
I was
just helping,’ I explained.

‘
Helping
yourself to a bit of what you fancy, eh?’ he laughed, with a guffaw
which shook the room. ‘Well you just carry on, Ginny, you just
carry on.’

He rifled
through a filing cabinet or two, plucked out a few documents and
sheaves of notes and then was off again.

‘
He
won’t be back today, we may as well finish,’ said Paula, pushing
her chair back from the desk.

‘
Has he
said anything about us?’ I asked, as she pulled on her
coat.

‘
Not an
awful lot. Just told me to be careful that I didn’t interfere with
your future.’

‘
That’s
all?’

‘
He did
add that it might improve your life drawing, having a model all to
yourself, said your technique needed polishing up a
bit.’

Always strong
on sarcasm, was Ben.

*

The night
before the open day I stayed over at Paula’s, on the Saturday
morning awoke in her bed. We both had to go into college, even
though it was the weekend; at some time or other everyone would
have to be there, operating a rota system so that there would
always be someone on hand to talk to the visitors, to tell them how
marvellous art school was, to persuade young kids to enrol and to
explain what the paintings were all about. Paula would be there to
talk to people about grants, to hand out enrolment forms and so
on.

The affair
didn’t begin until ten o’clock so we had the chance of a lie-in, a
chance to make love in the morning, which I had come to see was the
sweetest time; then we had a leisurely breakfast before walking
across town to college. Saturdays were hectic days in the town
centre, the streets were crowded with shoppers from early on, and
though Paula and I had become more open about our relationship we
avoided holding hands or embracing for the moment; there was too
great a chance of me being seen by a neighbour or a relative.
Neither of us liked having to behave this way, we itched to touch
each other, but we recognised the need for caution and again I
promised Paula that next week for certain I would tell Stephen
everything; then there would no longer be any need for secrecy.

‘
Being
selfish, I’ll look forward to that,’ said Paula, as we found time
for a quick embrace just inside the college entrance.

In the
exhibition hall Paula took up her place at the desk by the door and
I wandered about, chat with Gus and Chrissie who were working the
same ‘shift’ as me –an hour on and an hour off was how we'd work-
while we waited for the first visitors to drift in. As the hall
slowly filled we strolled among the visitors, explaining various
aspects of art to them, making up excuses for those paintings which
were a little difficult to justify. Quite a few old school-mates
passed through, some of them regretting leaving school so early and
looking for courses that might suit them. Those people that I knew
I took across to look at my work, not the portrait or the crucified
carcass, which might have been difficult to understand, but the
drawing of Paula, which had them all stunned, the blokes and the
girls alike.

‘
Was she
really like that?’ the blokes would ask, and I could see them
almost drooling.

‘
She
was.’

‘
Weren’t
you embarrassed?’ the girls wanted to know, and when I told them
that I wasn’t I could sense a kind of envy in their manner, as if
they regarded me with a certain awe because I could look
respectfully at a naked woman while all their boyfriends could do
was pant and lust over dirty pictures. I could see in their eyes
just how much they wished that they themselves could be seen as
beautiful women, rather than simply as bodies with boobs and bums,
things to be used rather than admired.

I stayed there
for a little over an hour, then went for a pie and a pint with Gus
and Chrissie.

‘
We’re
going for lunch,’ I told Paula, as we passed her desk.

‘
I don’t
have time for any, so don’t rub it in,’ she said, for she had to
stay there from start to finish, since she was actually being paid
for her time.

‘
It’s
true love, isn’t it?’ said Gus, seeing my smile.

I shrugged; I
knew it was, but I wasn't not going to admit it to him.

We had time
for a couple of pints in the ‘Commercial’, stretched out our break
from an hour to an hour and a half. On the way back to college we
decided that we would take no more crap from the peasants of
Sleepers Hill; we’d all three of us done far too much grovelling,
ingratiating ourselves with the public and making apologetic
excuses for our work. Enough was enough and we’d not take any
more.

*

The three of us
were arrogantly cocky as we walked back into the hall, but then my
bravado wilted as I heard someone cry out, ‘Oh, Mum! Look what
she’s done to me!’

Stephen and
his parents were standing in front of his portrait, dressed for the
wedding, and I wondered why the bloody hell they’d changed their
plans. I stopped beside Paula’s desk, and from either side Gus and
Chrissie looked at me as if they were ready to catch me, as if they
expected me to pass out.

‘
Is that
who I think it is?’ Paula whispered to me, for of course the
subject bore no resemblance at all to the portrait.

I was frozen,
speechless, I tried to nod my head but was unable to.