The Art School Dance (24 page)

‘
Sorry?’
I would say, after my mother had broken that uncomfortable silence,
speaking slowly, as if only after careful consideration.

‘
With
your studies, Virginia! Good luck!’

‘
Oh.
Yes.’

A hand would
then be extended, which I would shake without knowing why. It would
only be after my mother had left, wrapped in that reconstituted
silence which seemed the one natural thing after so many years
together, only once I was alone that I would consider the gesture,
recalling that the hand in mine had seemed so much smaller than in
the past, when it had been used mainly to scold and rarely to pet.
I would feel that there had to be some reason for it, that quick
thrust forward and the embarrassed contraction of the fingers, but
would be able to recall no clues in my mother’s expression, only
the permanent wrinkles around the eyes and the furrows across the
brow which had been drawn out by nineteen years of motherhood. So
what might have been the reason? Could it have been pride in a
daughter, or envy of her? Sadness, perhaps, at seeing the only
child finally leave home?

I would never
know.

Mother was
dead.

All I could do
was shrug and set aside the problem, empty the cardboard boxes
around me of books and music, stack the tiny dressing table with
cosmetics and creams, then go outside to see what life away from
home might have to offer, determined that I would sleep with the
first clean man I met.

*

The first clean
man I happened upon wore a shirt which was shredded at the waist
and cuffs, as though he wanted buckskin but found it beyond his
budget. He also wore a string of small beads around his neck, and
across the room, through the smoke which was like a summer haze,
blurring colours and making shadows of every shape, I was pushed to
decide if they were wood or plastic or ceramic.

They might
even have been tiny cowrie shells.

‘
Lemon
pips,’ he told me, crossing the room to stand beside me.

‘
Huh?’

‘
I saw
you looking at these.’ He smiled as he rattled the beads in front
of my face. ‘They’re varnished lemon pips.’

‘
Unusual,’ I acknowledged, taking the beads between my
fingers and shaking them as he had done.

‘
They
suit my nature,’ he laughed. ‘I’m bitter, acidic.’

I took a sip
from my drink, then held up the glass. It was beer, but darkened
with a splash of blackcurrant cordial. ‘Look how it melts in with
the walls,’ I observed, pointing at the wood panelling of the bar
through the brown liquid. ‘You can hardly see the beer for the
wood. Or the wood for the trees.’

I was thinking
in colour and tone, which gave the young man his clue. ‘You’re at
the art school, aren’t you?’

‘
Yes. Or
at least I will be from tomorrow.’ I flattered him with a smile,
complementing him on his insight. ‘How clever of you. How did you
guess?’

He shrugged,
as though the answer was obvious and my flattery had been wasted.
‘I’ve not seen you in here before, so you’re not local. The only
other people who come down here are from the art school. It’s that
sort of place.’

Loud and
extravagant. Or moody and soulful. Faded denim and second-hand
frills. That sort of place. A dive of a bar in a sprawling
basement, the ceiling low as if the weight of the office block
above it was bearing down too heavily.

We moved from
the bar to sit down and I noticed a particular fragrance as he
shook his long hair from his eyes, fruity again, limes or lemons.
It might have been his shampoo.

‘
So?’ he
asked. ‘What do you want to do at art school?’

‘
Things
that will make people cry,’ I answered, and he laughed his
cheerfulness laudable but maybe a little ill-timed.

I must have
look hurt, for he placed his hand on mine, still laughing as he
said, ‘But that’s good. That’s great. I can appreciate that. Now
don’t you go away, there’s someone over there I have to see.’

I watched him
as he crossed the room, tight trousers adding a certain effeminate
elegance to his stride, his eyes sparkling, smiling greetings at
people as he went. Back at the bar he stopped to speak with a young
couple, both about my age, the girl dressed all in black, her
partner with long curls which danced about his shoulders as he
speaks, shiny dark knots which twist tightly and dance ever more
wildly as he nodded his head enthusiastically, responding to
whatever was being said.

Then the smell
of fruit and the faint sound of lemon pips was before me again.

‘
There’s
a party,’ he told me. ‘Want to come?’

‘
Where?’

‘
Not
far. You’ll enjoy it.’

I didn't even
know his name yet, was about to ask but then decided that perhaps
this was for the best.

*

The house I was
taken to must have been the strangest I had ever known, unlike any
I had visited before. In the room where the two of us sat -on the
floor with our backs against the wall, drinking cheap red wine from
paper cups- my eye was first caught by an ashtray next to the
fireplace, a child-size mannequin sawn in half at the waist and
filled with grey ash and cigarette stubs, a strip of emery paper
strategically glued between the legs and darkened by the striking
of many matches. Then I saw the upper torso of the dummy on the
other side of the room, in the bay of the window, a noose about its
neck and the body scarred by a bread knife, this still buried to
the hilt where the jugular might be. Dark shadows to either side
were a result of the wall being painted in matt black emulsion,
this then leaking onto a second wall only to stop abruptly,
replaced by a vivid Day-Glo orange. The wall against which I leant
was similarly decorated, but with one quarter black and the
remainder green.

‘
They
ran out of paint?’ I supposed.

‘
Maybe.
Or maybe it was intentional. They come from the art school, the
people who live here. Perhaps you’ve met them.’

I shook my
head, reminding him that I didn't start my studies until the next
day. ‘I’ve met no one yet,’ I told him, still a stranger to this
world.

‘
Apart
from me.’ Fingers clasped mine and urged me to my feet. ‘Come
on.’

I was about to
ask where again, but instead said, ‘To?’

‘
Just
come,’ he said impatiently, and dragged me between the bodies which
were now crowding the room.

I found the
route harder to negotiate than he did, and he must have mistaken my
slow progress for a reluctance to follow. Stopping, he turned to me
and explained that we were going to Fraser’s bedroom-

Whose?

-to Fraser’s
rather than to any of the others because he had the largest bed.
This said, I was hurried on, up the stairs and along the landing.
Faced with a door, a hand in the small of the back ushered me
through and led me to the bed

The kisses I
was subjected to were obviously passionate, for I almost choked on
them. For my own part I was able to demonstrate a little more
finesse, though, calming the hands which pawed me before leading
them to the buttons of my blouse. There was some fumbling, the
first button was managed but the second proved a little more
awkward, and perhaps it was embarrassment or frustration which
brought the return of the enthusiastic kisses. Impatient with my
suitor’s clumsiness I sat upright and shrugged myself free of
blouse and bra and skirt, then settled back against the pillows,
sliding my arm beneath my partner’s shoulder blades.

A caressing
word, this was obviously what he thought was needed now, and he
softly whispered my name. ‘Virginia.’

‘
Yes?’ I
said, my movements coming to a sudden halt, and his expression told
me that this wasn’t the response he had hoped for. I should have
moaned with pleasure, maybe, or murmured his name in return, but I
would still rather not know his name so I pulled his embarrassed
face to my body, where it could burrow a space between my breasts
to bury its reddening cheeks.

‘
Come on
sweetheart, please try,’ I said in encouragement, wanting to get it
over with, for I had more important things to do.

*

The one thing
foremost in my mind was the desire to be an artist, to communicate,
to move people, and the attempt at making love had been nothing
more than a gesture, something expected of an eighteen year old who
has finally escaped the confines of home. By the following morning
I had dismissed the episode from my mind, much as I would any other
obligation fulfilled, and all my thoughts were of the college
before me and what it held in store.

The steel and
glass of the building shone like a Bauhaus blossom, its windows
tilted at various angles to break the September sun into so many
mosaic pieces. I walked up the two flights of steps and into the
entrance hall, where a notice directed all new fine art students to
the fifth floor. A lift took me there, where I found the first year
students assembled in the studio. They seemed to be an affable
bunch, but for the moment I chose to sit alone.

Be different
and make an impression, I reminded myself, sitting apart and
staring ahead.

Through the
narrow window which ran the length of the studio I could see the
city, the dull grey rooftops and foggy lines of perspective which
led from one diminishing plane to another, to the suburbs and then
to the distant countryside where a paler greenery predominated. For
a moment I wondered if I was in the right place, if lack of
interest in anything else and dreams of being another Gwen John
would be enough to see me through the next three years.

After an
awkward period, during which other people tried to become
acquainted, a lecturer entered, ambled around the studio with a
clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other, checking off names on
his list. His trousers were inches too short and flashed white
socks at the ankles, he had a shambling gait and greasy black hair
which made him look more like a fifties teddy-boy than an academic.
Making his tour of the studio, he eventually stopped before me.

‘
And who
are you?’ he asked, looking down the column of names rather than
directly at me. It wasn’t until he looked up, thinking that I might
not have heard, or he might have missed the answer, that I
replied.

‘
There’s
Schopenhauer, see, and he’s walking along the street, wondering
what it’s all about as philosophers often do, when he bumps into
this bloke. ‘Who do you think you are, barging into me like that?’
the bloke rants. Now me, I’d’ve poked him in the eye or kneed him
in the nuts, but Schopenhauer just looks up and smiles, kind of
sad, asks the very same question: ‘Who am I?’’

The lecturer
walked away, to check the rest of his list, returned to me when
there was only one name left. ‘I take it you’re Virginia-’

‘
Just
Virginia, plain Virginia,’ I cut him off with a smile, agreeing;
yes, I was Virginia, and everyone in the studio knew it.

‘
Right,
Virginia plain,’ said the lecturer with a brief peevish scowl,
sitting on a stool with everyone gathered around him in a semi-
circle. ‘And the rest of you. My name is Mr Goode. Barney, if we
get on well together, since we’re generally on first name terms
here, though some of you might think of other things to call me
once you get to know me better.’ He offered a weak smile, which did
little to make anyone feel at ease. ‘Now I’m the senior lecturer in
fine art, I know why I’m here. But what about you lot? You, for
example. What do you intend to do now that you're here?’

The one he
singled out, a young man with long hair and an earnest expression,
hunched his shoulders and clasped his hands. ‘What I’d like to do
are paintings that are accessible to people, paintings like pop
songs-’ he began.

‘
Then
you’re one naïve fucking nerd,’ Mr Goode interrupted. ‘Paintings
for the people, is it? Well balls to the people ‘cause it’s wasted
on them. You aren’t here to do stuff to hang over your Mum’s
mantelpiece and just you remember that.’ He looked from face to
face while the message sank in, then settled on another student, a
girl. ‘You. What about you?’

This girl was
plump, like a marshmallow or something more fattening, and her
cheeks reddened as if she was toasting, her eyes darted across the
steel-vaulted roof of the studio as she looked for an answer,
stammering, ‘I.... I.... I.…’

‘
Yes?’

The girl
lowered her head to look at the tortuous trickles of dried paint
which covered the floor, intricate arabesques which broke up the
monotony of the grey tiles. Here and there was a more expressive
outburst, probably the work of some frustrated soul or other.

‘
Well,
I...,’ she tried again, but her voice tapered away to a
sigh.

‘
Well
I... what, for Christ’s sake?’

Her eyes grew
moist and her face flushed brighter still.

Forget the
things that make people cry, I decided; this bastard harassing us
was more capable of doing that than mere paint and canvas.

‘
It’s
just as I expected,’ says the lecturer, with a sad shake of the
head, though he was too triumphant to be wholly disappointed with
his new students. ‘You’ve all either got such infantile notions
that they aren’t worth considering, or you’ve simply got no idea
what you’re about.’ He paused, then smiled as if to suggest that
our collective silence signalled agreement. ‘It might be rumoured
elsewhere that actions speak louder than words, but that doesn’t
hold here. In this studio, in my studio, it’s the thought that
counts. Know what you want to paint, why you want to paint, what is
good in a painting and how the painter ought to behave. I don’t
want just any long-haired pillocks in here, smoking hash and
flinging paint about the place, not unless you can justify your
actions. The next time you see me you must have reasons, motives,
ideas of what a good painting is. If you must do, you can put your
ideas down on paper or canvas, but that isn’t necessary, it’s not
important. What is important is the idea.’