course this was not ideal, but I obviously could not have them in the studio shouting in my ear.
"OK, Michael," said Detective Ewbank, "it's time for show-andtell." I made some joke--forget it now--about a warrant being required. "It's in the car," said Amberstreet. "We'll show you later."
This gave me a jolt, but I got over it. What was the worst thing that could happen? I'd be charged with making art on Jean- Paul's credit? Fuck him. The patience of the rich is easily strained. But I remained an obedient little citizen and I rolled out the first painting, 7, the Speaker, Ruled As King Over Israel, laying it on a springy three-inch cushion of improved pasture.
So clock this: eight miles out of Bellingen, NSW, me in my shorts and bare feet and Amberstreet like some crane or heron with his short upper body and his long thin legs and cinched-in belt and the whole of his skeleton throwing all its force into his eyes as he looked down at my canvas. The work had a sort of nailed-down fuck-you quality with all the process showing. I had--I hope I told you--already begun to glue down rectangles of canvas onto the broader field. Even in the warm misty sunlight it looked very bloody good indeed.
The police said nothing throughout the first inspection, not even when we found the nest of baby mice living in the centre of a roll. To tell the truth, I was almost happy. I could not go to gaol, and the work looked so good, in no way diminished by the smell of mice, or the waving light brown watermark that now ran, like the hamon on a Japanese sword, along the bottom edge.
Amberstreet wished to view 7, the Speaker again. And I was an artist. Why wouldn't I wish to show? I watched the strange little critic, arms folded, shoulders hunched. Ewbank, for his part, began to whistle "Danny Boy".
"What would this be worth?" Amberstreet asked me. "On the market, at auction." I assumed he was trying to think how to recoup the cost of Raphaelson's one-
pound tubes, so I told him it was worth exactly nothing at this moment. I was out of fashion. Couldn't sell a painting to save my bloody life.
"Yes, I understand that, Michael. Five years ago, you might have got thirty-five thousand dollars for this."
"No."
"There's no point in lying, Michael. I know what you used to sell for. The thing is now, you're in free fall. Isn't that so?"
I shrugged.
"I'll give you five," he said suddenly.
"Oh, Jesus," said Ewbank, and walked over to inspect the concrete pigsties, whacking at them with a length of irrigation pipe. "Jesus," he cried, "Joseph and Mary."
"No tax," said Amberstreet and I saw his eyes all glistening. "All cash." Ewbank, meanwhile, was pissing himself with laughter, shoving heaps of black shag into his fat pipe. His younger colleague's face, by contrast, was creased like tissue paper protecting the bright stones of his eyes.
I won't say I wasn't seriously tempted.
Ewbank had wandered back, puffing on his pipe. He had an extraordinary way of doing this, making his big black eyebrows shoot up every time he took a puff, the result being that he looked to be in a state of active astonishment.
"I couldn't give it all at once. I'd pay you over a year."
If it had been a lump sum, I might have said yes, but it was not enough to save me so I turned him down. Even now I don't know if what happened next was connected to my refusal, but I don't think so. It was more as if we'd had a little pleasant break and now we must return to work.
Amberstreet frowned and nodded. "I understand," he said. He then turned to his partner: "You got the tape, Raymond?"
Ewbank withdrew from his pocket a dirty-looking handkerchief and then a very snazzy little tape measure of a type I had never seen before, as if he might be a surgeon with instruments designed in Tokyo for a task so specialised it had no English name. My balls tightened at the sight of it.
"Measure the addition," Amberstreet said, an ugly word for the rectangle which bore the single word "GOD"
"OK, Michael," said Detective Ewbank, "it's time for show-andtell." I made some joke--forget it now--about a warrant being required. "It's in the car," said Amberstreet. "We'll show you later."
This gave me a jolt, but I got over it. What was the worst thing that could happen? I'd be charged with making art on Jean- Paul's credit? Fuck him. The patience of the rich is easily strained. But I remained an obedient little citizen and I rolled out the first painting, 7, the Speaker, Ruled As King Over Israel, laying it on a springy three-inch cushion of improved pasture.
So clock this: eight miles out of Bellingen, NSW, me in my shorts and bare feet and Amberstreet like some crane or heron with his short upper body and his long thin legs and cinched-in belt and the whole of his skeleton throwing all its force into his eyes as he looked down at my canvas. The work had a sort of nailed-down fuck-you quality with all the process showing. I had--I hope I told you--already begun to glue down rectangles of canvas onto the broader field. Even in the warm misty sunlight it looked very bloody good indeed.
The police said nothing throughout the first inspection, not even when we found the nest of baby mice living in the centre of a roll. To tell the truth, I was almost happy. I could not go to gaol, and the work looked so good, in no way diminished by the smell of mice, or the waving light brown watermark that now ran, like the hamon on a Japanese sword, along the bottom edge.
Amberstreet wished to view 7, the Speaker again. And I was an artist. Why wouldn't I wish to show? I watched the strange little critic, arms folded, shoulders hunched. Ewbank, for his part, began to whistle "Danny Boy".
"What would this be worth?" Amberstreet asked me. "On the market, at auction." I assumed he was trying to think how to recoup the cost of Raphaelson's one-
pound tubes, so I told him it was worth exactly nothing at this moment. I was out of fashion. Couldn't sell a painting to save my bloody life.
"Yes, I understand that, Michael. Five years ago, you might have got thirty-five thousand dollars for this."
"No."
"There's no point in lying, Michael. I know what you used to sell for. The thing is now, you're in free fall. Isn't that so?"
I shrugged.
"I'll give you five," he said suddenly.
"Oh, Jesus," said Ewbank, and walked over to inspect the concrete pigsties, whacking at them with a length of irrigation pipe. "Jesus," he cried, "Joseph and Mary."
"No tax," said Amberstreet and I saw his eyes all glistening. "All cash." Ewbank, meanwhile, was pissing himself with laughter, shoving heaps of black shag into his fat pipe. His younger colleague's face, by contrast, was creased like tissue paper protecting the bright stones of his eyes.
I won't say I wasn't seriously tempted.
Ewbank had wandered back, puffing on his pipe. He had an extraordinary way of doing this, making his big black eyebrows shoot up every time he took a puff, the result being that he looked to be in a state of active astonishment.
"I couldn't give it all at once. I'd pay you over a year."
If it had been a lump sum, I might have said yes, but it was not enough to save me so I turned him down. Even now I don't know if what happened next was connected to my refusal, but I don't think so. It was more as if we'd had a little pleasant break and now we must return to work.
Amberstreet frowned and nodded. "I understand," he said. He then turned to his partner: "You got the tape, Raymond?"
Ewbank withdrew from his pocket a dirty-looking handkerchief and then a very snazzy little tape measure of a type I had never seen before, as if he might be a surgeon with instruments designed in Tokyo for a task so specialised it had no English name. My balls tightened at the sight of it.
"Measure the addition," Amberstreet said, an ugly word for the rectangle which bore the single word "GOD"
Similar Books
