Read Online Night Street by Kristel Thornell - Free Book Online

question of design, rhythm. She took a long time over the hanging of her works. She agonised, her back burning. She dithered till she was— almost—content. Paintings grouped together could be mirrors. The right placement would angle them towards one another so that each melted into and deepened the others, giving a feeling, soft, powerful, of amplified space.
    At the opening, she was unspeakably proud of her temerity. She—yes, she , Clarice—was exhibiting. This was part of being an artist; you had to do this. She was elated and terrified. It was a rowdy crowd of intellectuals, art people, eccentric and original, or more conventionally fashionable, and others who belonged to who-knew-what passions, fixations. The talk flowed in excited eddies and she did not follow its circles. Her position in relation to any group was always at its edge or beyond. Arthur was there, though he had nothing in the show; painting for little more than a year, he had not felt ready. It was months since her last glimpse of him at the studio. He was like a painfully handsome groom, in a black suit and extremely white shirt that gave his skin the appearance of milk tinged with coffee. He looked as though he had not expected to find himself there, yet he was not out of place. She had an urge to stand near him, but did not give in to it. They did not speak or meet one another’s eyes. People were attracted to him; he was always in a binding conversation.
    Ada, on the other side of the room, was a little pale, her face serious and disbelieving. Was she quaking too? Clarice’s eyes kept returning to the places on the wall where her own paintings hung, severely edged in black. Would she remember anything of that night, other than clamorous voices, a brightly coloured, slippery surface? She tried to focus on some of the details in all that fuss.
    As if to help with this, Ada arrived beside her on the arm of a statuesque personage swathed in velvet and lace. ‘Let me introduce you to Mrs Hamlin,’ she said, reassuringly.
    The lady’s hair was golden, thick, complexly vertical, like some fantastical plumage. ‘What a delight to meet you. I’m so taken by your paintings, which are absolutely exquisite. Delicate! I don’t have words for them. You must be a highly, an unusually sensitive person. I can tell.’ Her manner as velvety and intense as her dress. ‘I’m a bit of a patron of the arts.’ She beamed an enormously satisfied smile, finding everything delectable. ‘This is one of the things I’m most proud of. You see, my husband, Mr Hamlin, has been successful as a jeweller and I’ve had advantages. I try to use them well. Some years back, I fought for our suffrage. I used my influence in little ways.’ Clarice’s own achievements, on the wall, now seemed rather questionable. ‘But returning to the topic of art, I’m a great admirer of Mr Meldrum. And I’d heard of you, but this is the first time I’ve had the pleasure of observing your art first-hand.’
    â€˜Clarice is a unique talent,’ Ada said. ‘It’s almost unnatural—everyone is in awe of her, even if they don’t let on.’ She laughed modestly. ‘She intimidates us.’
    Seeing Clarice’s face, Mrs Hamlin said, ‘Surely you’re not surprised. After all, you’re the artist most represented here tonight, after Mr Meldrum.’
    She desired and dreaded this singling out. She knew, of course, from his words and acts, especially from his mannerisms, that Meldrum appreciated her work. The choice of so many of her paintings for the exhibition had only really been a minor shock—more a confirmation. But she had not been sure of the others’ opinions. They had laughed at her Princes Bridge; she was taken aback by the idea that she might intimidate them.
    â€˜I’d be honoured to buy one or two of your canvases,’ Mrs Hamlin went on,