art world together, having met in London in the seventies, expatriates avoiding military service. Hugh had a small gallery in Soho and gave Noonan his first real show. Later, with the amnesty, he’d returned to the States and opened a gallery in New York, then, over the years, in Paris and Rome. Noonan had remained in Europe, chasing women and commissions and good light—the right balance of conflict and ease—until finally settling in Venice a decade ago. Next month, when he went to New York, it would be his first trip to the country in more than twenty years.
Hugh regarded the painting, the painter, then the painting again. “Shouldn’t you be getting younger?” he said.
“You don’t like it?”
“Well, it’s all worm, isn’t it.” It had long been Hugh’s contention that Noonan’s only subject, regardless of who or what he was painting, was the worm in the apple, the small, off-putting detail that registered in the viewer’s subconscious and undermined the overall effect, the too-pale white spot on the skin that hinted at malignancy beneath. The result, in Hugh’s view, of growing up in a place where everyone was being poisoned, to a greater or lesser degree, from an early age.
“We’re all poisoned at an early age,” Noonan was fond of reminding him.
“‘They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do’?”
“I was thinking of original sin more than Larkin, but whatever. Anyway it isn’t finished.”
“Are you saying I’ll like it when you’re done?”
Noonan shrugged, then held the Barolo up to the light, squinting at it.
“I mean, Christ,” Hugh said, waving at the painting as if to make it disappear. “Have you titled it? May I suggest
Portrait of the Artist as a Serial Killer
?
As Burn Victim
? Who paints something like this?”
Caravaggio, for one, Noonan thought.
David with the Head of Goliath.
Perhaps Noonan’s favorite canvas. How long had it been since he’d laid eyes on it, that monstrous, severed head, Caravaggio’s own, still full of rage, held aloft by a weakling for all the world to see? He’d like to see it once more before he died.
“My God,” Hugh continued, “you look like you’re poised to lunge right out of the canvas at prospective buyers. This troubles me, Noonan. I’m sorry, but I have to say this troubles me.”
“Have you ever noticed that when people use the expression ‘I have to say,’ what follows usually needn’t be said?”
“And what is
this
?” Hugh said, ignoring Noonan in his infuriating time-honored fashion, pointing at the dark rectangle on the wall behind the subject.
“A painting,” Noonan explained. “That glint of gold is its frame.”
“I know it’s a painting. Of what?”
“Does it matter?”
“It looks like a fucking gallows.”
It was the Bridge of Sighs, actually, or would’ve been, had Noonan allowed more of the picture into the light. Not that he saw any particular reason to explain. “Then it is.”
“So what’s it
doing
there?”
“I’m sorry. It’s supposed to do something?”
“Oh, stop. You know what I mean. You’re predicting you’ll hang one day? Or saying you
deserve
it?”
“Stop being melodramatic. And where do you get burn victim?”
“That dark stain on the forehead? At the hairline?”
“The birthmark?”
Hugh poked him on the forehead with his index finger. “The point is, you don’t
have
a birthmark.”
Noonan covered the canvas again. “Do you have any feelings about the paintings you were actually supposed to look at?”
Together, Hugh rather reluctantly, they went over to the finished paintings along the wall. Next week they’d all be crated up and shipped to New York. Was it Noonan’s imagination or had Hugh rearranged them? They now sat in chronological order. He didn’t think that was how he’d set them, but who knew, maybe he had.
“It’ll all sell, of course,” Hugh conceded, as if this went without saying. But the “of course”
Hugh regarded the painting, the painter, then the painting again. “Shouldn’t you be getting younger?” he said.
“You don’t like it?”
“Well, it’s all worm, isn’t it.” It had long been Hugh’s contention that Noonan’s only subject, regardless of who or what he was painting, was the worm in the apple, the small, off-putting detail that registered in the viewer’s subconscious and undermined the overall effect, the too-pale white spot on the skin that hinted at malignancy beneath. The result, in Hugh’s view, of growing up in a place where everyone was being poisoned, to a greater or lesser degree, from an early age.
“We’re all poisoned at an early age,” Noonan was fond of reminding him.
“‘They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do’?”
“I was thinking of original sin more than Larkin, but whatever. Anyway it isn’t finished.”
“Are you saying I’ll like it when you’re done?”
Noonan shrugged, then held the Barolo up to the light, squinting at it.
“I mean, Christ,” Hugh said, waving at the painting as if to make it disappear. “Have you titled it? May I suggest
Portrait of the Artist as a Serial Killer
?
As Burn Victim
? Who paints something like this?”
Caravaggio, for one, Noonan thought.
David with the Head of Goliath.
Perhaps Noonan’s favorite canvas. How long had it been since he’d laid eyes on it, that monstrous, severed head, Caravaggio’s own, still full of rage, held aloft by a weakling for all the world to see? He’d like to see it once more before he died.
“My God,” Hugh continued, “you look like you’re poised to lunge right out of the canvas at prospective buyers. This troubles me, Noonan. I’m sorry, but I have to say this troubles me.”
“Have you ever noticed that when people use the expression ‘I have to say,’ what follows usually needn’t be said?”
“And what is
this
?” Hugh said, ignoring Noonan in his infuriating time-honored fashion, pointing at the dark rectangle on the wall behind the subject.
“A painting,” Noonan explained. “That glint of gold is its frame.”
“I know it’s a painting. Of what?”
“Does it matter?”
“It looks like a fucking gallows.”
It was the Bridge of Sighs, actually, or would’ve been, had Noonan allowed more of the picture into the light. Not that he saw any particular reason to explain. “Then it is.”
“So what’s it
doing
there?”
“I’m sorry. It’s supposed to do something?”
“Oh, stop. You know what I mean. You’re predicting you’ll hang one day? Or saying you
deserve
it?”
“Stop being melodramatic. And where do you get burn victim?”
“That dark stain on the forehead? At the hairline?”
“The birthmark?”
Hugh poked him on the forehead with his index finger. “The point is, you don’t
have
a birthmark.”
Noonan covered the canvas again. “Do you have any feelings about the paintings you were actually supposed to look at?”
Together, Hugh rather reluctantly, they went over to the finished paintings along the wall. Next week they’d all be crated up and shipped to New York. Was it Noonan’s imagination or had Hugh rearranged them? They now sat in chronological order. He didn’t think that was how he’d set them, but who knew, maybe he had.
“It’ll all sell, of course,” Hugh conceded, as if this went without saying. But the “of course”
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