In the name of the mutual interest

A mysterious meeting between two artists.

 

I’m spending long hours in my studio lately, although those long hours haven’t proved to be fruitful. Most of the time I’m seating next to my easle buried in my thoughts, while the brush that I’m holding in my hand hardly touches the canvas.

 

That studio of mine which I’ve managed to rent just a few months ago, ‘at the twilight of my life’ �" the impact of that ‘great achievement, is still imprinted in my soul.

 

I’m loafing between my easle and my kitchenette, holding a cup of coffee in my hand; glancing at the unfinished painting on my easle from any possible angle, without being able to grasp what keeps bothering me? What prevents me from finishing it?

 

While I’m roaming around wondering, drinking coffee cup after cup, my phone rings barging rudely into my thoughts. I freeze in mid movement in alarm, almost dropping my coffee cup on the floor. Except emergency cases I didn’t wish to receive a call in my studio, calls that would interrupt me in mid work �" reluctantly I pick up the receiver.

 

‘Yes, speaking…’ I answer, trying to curb the rage that builds up in me.  A young and impeccable voice sounds in my ear; his words whir in my mind, but their meaning are beyond my ability to grasp it. I’m still too excited and disturbed.

 

‘Do you mind repeating your last words?’ I ask him, doing my best to calm down and clear my mind from the maze of suspicious, which has already engulfed me.

 

‘I represent someone,’ he says. ‘A very important person as a matter of fact; who is visiting our country these very days; and heard about you and your work.’

 

‘What does he want then?’

‘To see you as soon as possible. He’s leaving in a couple of days; sorry I couldn’t get in touch with you earlier.’ He aplogises briskly. ‘Well, it wasn’t an easy task to track you down, you know.’ He adds with a nervous laugh.

 

Is he trying to flatter me or what? ‘I see, do you wish to fix a meeting in my studio?’

 

‘No, he would see you at his place, and right afterwards I’ll take you back.

 

I won’t be surprised if that important person as he defines him, has hired the entire outfit of a private investigation agency, and its owner is the one I’m talking to. ‘I see, and when do we meet?’ I ask

 

‘Tonight from midnight on up to two am, that’s the time he’s ready to spare for you. You may pick your own time or reject his invitation, it’s a free country.’

 

He may afford himself that hint of sarcasm, he’ll get paid whether I accept or reject that rather strange offer. ‘All right,’ I say, ‘Let’s do it at midnight then’.

 

‘Very well, just make sure you’ll be downstairs where you stay right now, at about two minutes to midnight. Bye now…’ He adds and hangs up.

 

Is it some kind of a prctical joke or what? Nevertheless, shortly before the appointed hour I close my studio’s door, and switch on the light in the stairwell. That old house that doesn’t have a lift; hardly sixty seconds elapse, and I’m at entrance facing the street.

A car is parked opposite me on the other side of the pavement. It starts its engine with a loud cough, loud enough to wake up the entire neighborhood. The driver switches on the car’s headlights and sends forth his hand through the open window, moving it impatiently �" I couldn’t have missed him. Reaching the car I open its front door and soon as I settle in my seat and close that door, we’re on our way through the deserted, quiet and poorly lit streets. My guide and escort seems to be a youngish man with fine features, not too conspicuous though. He looks like  an efficient exectutive, not the private eye type. A few moments pass in silence before he ventures to open his mouth. He has some instructions it seems.

 

‘I’ll let you off at the hotel’s entrance,’ he says. ‘Go straight in, there’s no need to ask questions everything is prearranged, the night receptionist is updated. After passing his counter turn right and you’ll find yourself in front of his private elevator, his private secretary will be waiting for you there. If you won’t feel like talking, you won’t have to.’ He adds sneaking a look towards me. ‘All your escort has to do is to show you in, and whatever you’ve on your mind you can save for the boss himself.’

 

I move and act as if the whole thing is an unreal dream, just like a switched on machine. I climb the stairs to the broad enrance, cross the lobby, pass a few indifferent faces but nobody seems to notice me.

 

The use of an elevator all for himself, just imagine…He must have thrown some money just for that sole operation �" meeting me. Whether he did it on purpose or not, I’m deeply impressed; and when I’ll face him at last, amazed and bewildered, I’ll be at a rather low starting point �" an easy prey to deal with no doubt… The riddle is about to be solved.

 

We’re at the ante-room, his secretary knocks on his door, opens it and sends me in. As I’m standing in front of his desk, facing the man himself �" I’m overwhelmed. It isn’t another rich art collector and not some Jewish millioner, but the famous local celebrity, a local artist in fact. Just a week ago he unveiled a huge memorial of some several tons of concrete; in the presence of the country’s elite, who gathered humbly beneath it, to worship his creation in public. Distinguished he’s no doubt in his peculiar way, and I do admire his acheivements in that certain field. Alas, what an amount of scorn was poured over him by his own colleagues, those who deem themselves the sole experts of their high stretched theories. Those who push the public into a labyrinth whose obscure passages only they are able to light; those who shared his own views and embarked with him on the same path, with its multiple forks �" the path that leads to nowhere…

 

‘Sit down please.’ He asks me, sending forth his right hand to grasp mine. ‘Well glad to know you.’ He smiles at me. ‘What will you have? Or shall we get right down to the point, eh?’ Without waiting to my reply he gets on with his monologue: I’ve visited one of those public institutes not long ago, which I’ve promised to assist.’ He adds with a chuckle. ‘And that’s how I’d the chance to see one of your works, hanging there. Although I’ve never heard your name before, I was quite impressed. Well then, both of us deal with the same business, and our interests must be mutual I dare say. He makes a short pause, clears his throat, as if he wonders what he said up till now is clear to me. It’s quite late after all, I could be tired after a day of work in my studio.

 

‘I’m the one and only representative of our future!’ He dcclares with vehemence. ‘I mean the interests of our future. You must have heard about my projects; I do employ quite a bunch of “pros”… Well then, in the very near future artists will associate into art guilds, and I do use that archaic term on purpose; those guilds would turn into huge sophisticated art corporations, which would employ computers, robots, competent crews, craftmen, art technicians and their line of production would be a kind of art that is unconceivable yet!’     He made another short pause, watching my face with an intent gaze. ‘It’s completely different from the archaic kind of art, which is still being represented nowadays!’ He declares with much ardor. ‘I’ve no intentions to offend you of course, and I do hope you haven’t been offended; but this kind of art with which you’re dealing, is bound to disappear. Nevertheless, I would like to see you work by my side in the near future. Don’t you worry you’ll survive, I’ll help you to get along… But as for the first stage of our cooperation, I’ve got a job for you…’

 

Without wasting precious time he opens one of his desk’s drawers, and pulls out a manila envelope, which he hands over to me. ‘Take a look at it when you’ll get back home, you’ll find there my instructions; and till my next visit I hope, you’ll have that job done and ready.’

 

Against his expectations and will I open up that envelope and spread its contents on the desk before me. He doesn’t expect me to slave for him unpaid, does he? Neither greenbacks are visible nor any local bank notes. With the heaps of dough that he had amassed, he could have left me a blank cheque… I raise my eyes to his with wonder.

 

‘Trust me,’ he says. ‘Every task you’ll take on my behalf, would benefit you enormously.’

 

I check the envelope’s contents while gathering it back There’s one black and white print of my future benefector in his prime, some twenty yours previously no doubt, and a few more prints depicting his huge monument; taken from different angles; several sketches laboriously done, by an unskilled hand �" not a hand of a master artist, and a page with a few printed lines �" his instructions: oil on canvas, seven feet six inches long, on five feet and four inches wide. Well, well, where do I get the money to buy it? I’ll have to take a loan, God forbid… On top of it all, I’ll have to bring it in my studio folded up, stretch it on a frame, work on it for months long; fold it back again after it will dry �" it’s sheer madness!

 

All that while he keeps talking on. I’m trying to listen to him but I can’t. The sound my ears transmit to my brain is undecipherable. I watch his moving lips and nod my head as if I agree to whatever he says. He smiles at me and extends his right hand. I get to my feet, shake his hand with a forced smile and leave.

 

On the pavement in front of the hotel, my escort touches my shoulder. I haven’t noticed him so perturbed I was.

 

On our way back I revive my unexpected benefector’s monologue in my mind, I mean what I’ve managed to hear. Was he really impressed by my work? What is he after? I’m not some kind of an obstacle in his way, as far as he’s concerned. Is he pushed by some urge to wipe out the truth, which he might have believed that was forgotten long ago? Nonesense, I’m not the last of the figurative artists, am I? I’m simply supposed to praise, to glorify his deeds by a painting, without his own knowledge of course; and that’s why this operation was carried out with such a “hush-hush” manner. What am I supposed to gain out of it? His friendship for a short spell of time �" that’s all. Well I’ve got a painting to finish, and his job can wait till his next visit.

 

 © Copyrights Haim Kadm 1987

Author's Note

This short story is in fact a protest and criticism of modern art, that turned artworks into common commodities.