Crossing the line - 17. The Exhibition

“You reckon Ercole really did want to do summat last night, or was he just a tease?”

We were driving to Verona, having managed to escape the house without any interruptions, this time.

“I reckon a bit of both, though I don’t know where we could get up to any hanky panky, its hardly a vast place and I bet his bedroom’s in earshot of his parents’. Besides, with everything else going on…”

“That ding-dong he was having with his Dad when we left.”

“Business deal gone wrong?”

“Mebbe. If he’d offered, would you have wanted to?”

“Ah, there’s the rub, he’s definitely charming.”

“Oh boy, he ladles that on.”

“The younger me would have jumped at it, for a bit of fun. Don’t expect anything more.”

“And the older you?”

“Depends on my sexy young companion.”

We burst into laughter, but Dan looked at me and his eyes crinkled, warmly, “He’s cute, in his way, and I thought in the right circumstances, it’d be a bit of fun.”

“OK, let’s see what tonight brings.”

Parking in Verona was by no means as taxing as we’d been led to believe, though Dan was much fussier about parking places than some of the locals seemed to be. As we walked away from the car, he was commenting on various parking idiocies and driving solecisms, then brought himself up short.

“I’ll try to put PC Plod away.”

I laughed, “If you worried about everything here, you’d go mad.”

“Hmm.”

I’d downloaded a guide to Scarpa’s work at the Castelvecchio, one that was up to date and followed the current visitor route around the Museum (missing out the exhibition space, however, that would come later). We largely ignored the exhibits and Dan got a nice lecture on Scarpa and his work. As expected, the warrior was a hit, the Renaissance statue of a war-monger on his horse given a superbly mid-Century setting by Scarpa. But Dan also seemed interested in the rest, it proved a surprisingly absorbing tour, one however that did involve both of us. At the end, there was time for a quick coffee sitting outside a nearby café. I apologised to him for the lecture. I do get carried away by my enthusiasms. But Dan stopped me.

“I loved it. If I’d been on my own, I’d have just walked past and never really noticed. As it was you’ve got me intrigued; can we see more of his stuff?”

“Not this trip, but we could plan another one. And, if I was to write about him then Giulietta, the deputy director, says that she can get us into other places, more private places.”

“Would you, write about him?”

“I’d love to, but I’m known mainly for my contemporary stuff. I’d have to see whether I could flog a Scarpa article, get someone suitable interested.”

“You need an angle.

“Ha. I can see you’ve been listening to me talking guff a bit too much.”

We laughed and then a voice came over my shoulder and Dan stood up. It was the curator, whom we’d met the previous evening. There wasn’t much time before we were due at the exhibition, but she still joined us for coffee. In person, Larissa was charming, if intense. She wore her curly hair with a parting top dead centre, anchored by clips that reminded me of the stuff girls wore when I was a kid. Round dark glasses, a severe dark outfit offset with touches of colour; last night it had been a scarf with streaks of brilliant red in it, today vintage costume jewellery and a belt. She detected me staring at her brooch, a big red 1960s number.

“You like? I wear in tribute to Scarpa. I love his work.”

Dan volunteered that we had just been on a tour looking at the Scarpa interventions in the Castelvecchio.

She looked from him to me, “You know Scarpa?”

“I do, I fell in love on a visit to Venice years ago when we were taken to a palazzo owned by a bank. And I’ve been collecting his work ever since.”

“Is a dream come true for me. An exhibition here. The dynamism between the old castle, Scarpa and modern art is so terrific.”

Larissa was a great enthusiast, intense with a tendency to stare at you as if assessing your reaction. She made me feel as if she was clocking whether we were enthusiastic enough. Luckily something chimed, and she fished out her phone, swore filthily in Italian (even I could recognise it) and said we were late, we were due at the exhibition. She said it with a charming smile and didn’t seem upset, I think Larissa’s whole life might have been late. Once at the exhibition, she gave us a quick presentation, then thankfully disappeared saying she would see us later. Oh dear, I’d hoped to step away without further comment.

Dan dutifully read the Italian exhibition blurb, whilst I skimmed the English translation that Larissa had given me, thereafter we wandered round the exhibition separately. It was beautifully thought out and it used the museum space well. Much was made of the dialogue between old and new, the artist’s older paintings (of which there were just two) and the newer ones. I could keep going, but there was a catch.

Moroni painted nudes, his pictures were seething masses of them in agony or ecstasy and everything in between. Yet, the overall impression was less of nude bodies and more of some sort of abstract image. His early works, where the emphasis had been on the male nude, felt vigorous and visceral. Dan thought my appreciation of the two early works in the exhibition had more to do with the size of the men’s dicks than anything else. But, like some of Epstein’s male sculptures, these men weren’t that erotic; roughly painted, they were vigorous, alive, and powerful.

The later pictures were a disappointment. Too many big breasted women, trying to be erotic and not succeeding. The men here were subdued, still nude, still impressively endowed, but lacking vigour. These newer paintings were unimpressive, or rather impressive but lacking fire and emotion. Technically well executed, the brushwork beautifully smooth, they felt commissioned by the yard for a major headquarters building, the pictures you find yourself staring at whilst waiting in reception and wondering why anyone ever thought this a good idea. In the earlier pictures, each figure was a vibrant portrait in its own right, in the later ones they were more abstract confections. Or perhaps Dan was right, and I just didn’t like big breasted women. I tried, I really tried but failed utterly to either like them or enjoy them.

I found Dan sitting on a bench by the exit, “I should warn you, there’s a welcoming committee or whatever.”

“Bugger, and we can hardly slip out unnoticed?”

“Nope. Was it me, or were they…”

He left the question hanging, “It wasn’t you; my review is going to be a bugger to write.”

“You were right, I liked the early ones, bit of life in them. Those later pictures, a bit too shiny and slick.”

“Do you think those women were attractive?”

“The big breasted birds?” He pulled a face, “Frankly, no. However, I know some blokes that are really into that.”

“Takes all sorts. And I can hardly use that in my article.”

He gave a lopsided smile, “And if you put the boot in, you’ll never be asked back.”

“And if I don’t, no-one will believe a word I say. Welcome to my world.”

There were drinks in the director’s office, mercifully brief. Along with museum people there were one or two Brits, the consul or some such thing. I didn’t pay too much attention. The room itself was intriguing, with various historical layers, the old building overlaid with 19th century interventions including a wonderfully grand, heavily classical fireplace, plus furniture that moved from mid-century to contemporary, and a selection of books that made me want to ignore everyone and start browsing. Unfortunately, a rather eager, elderly woman, English and very county, came up and asked me what I thought. I try to temporise on such occasions, but the mind went blank. Thankfully, Dan came to my rescue and produced a glorious bouquet of platitudes. Where had he learned them from, I wonder!

We slipped away after thanking everyone and went in search of lunch. A little restaurant, just round the corner from all the famous bits. I wasn’t thrilled by Juliet’s balcony, but the Piazza Erbe with its fountain was quite something. During lunch, I got a text from Giulietta. A private bank with a fine art collection was happy to host us that afternoon, and the gallery was an intervention by Scarpa. Minor, but interesting.

“You fancy it?”

Dan shrugged, “We won’t get another chance?”

“Probably not. And the art might be worth looking at too.”

He looked at her text again, “What does ‘minor but interesting’ mean?”

“Probably Scarpa’s involvement was not large; not much was planned, or the planned works were unfinished or even taken over by someone else, cheaper. Happens.”

Nemon was a private investment bank, based in Germany. Or at least that was what the rather eager young woman who greeted us explained. Greta was slim, blond, and conservatively dressed, her small metal-rimmed glasses adding to the fogey-ish or academic image. Though I imagine few academics could afford the clothes she was wearing, they might be conservative, but they were expensive and superbly cut. Her English was excellent, and she seemed remarkably eager to be helpful to a pair of stray visitors.

Only we weren’t strays at all. Giulietta had managed to get us in at the last minute because she’d waved Francis Heyward’s name. Evidently it was enough to open doors, even here at the bank. Nice. Though when Greta had greeted us as friends of Heyward’s, I had felt a bit of a fraud. Amazingly, Dan had kept his mouth shut, but I could tell the whole thing tickled him.

The building was a 19th century neo-Renaissance palazzo, small but attractive. Nothing spectacular till you got to the courtyard, which was filled with Scarpa’s gallery, a tiny but shimmering modern cloister, all geometric lines, changes of texture from wood, to glass to stone to running water. An air of timelessness. And luxury.

Oh. And a stunning collection of drawings and engravings.

“Is all this stuff for real?”

Greta had left us to browse on our own, in quiet contemplation. We were lucky, this was a selection of highlights from the bank’s collection, normally kept at their Frankfurt HQ.

“Judging by the quality of that Mantegna engraving, I’d say they were.”

“Good stuff?”

“You bet.”

I was continuing to stare at a pair of Mantegna engravings. Dan wandered off but returned quickly. “There’s a Pontormo over there, looks a lot like the one you described in Mr H’s boudoir. Says it’s a recent acquisition from a private collection.”

When Greta reappeared, we were both peering at the Pontormo. It would have made a nice pair with Heyward’s one.

“Ah, that is lovely. We were so lucky that Herr Heyward agreed to part with it. You have seen it before, perhaps?”

“I’ve not seen this one, but its pair at The Manor.”

She smiled, “We are hoping Herr Heyward will let us have that one too.”

“Well, being friends of Herr Heyward certainly got us more than we bargained for”, Dan smiled over his ice cream. Immediately on leaving the bank we’d decided we needed sustenance. He gave me a concerned look, “What do you reckon?”

“That Heyward’s discreetly disposing of works, perhaps.”

“Legally?”

“What, you think Ercole or Tony might have slipped it in their briefcase on a business trip? If it was hidden away, maybe, but out on display?”

“No. ‘Spect not.”

“But. She didn’t actually say they’d bought it.” He pulled a face, I smiled, “He agreed to let them have it.”

“So?”

I put my head on one side and stared, “Moving money around? Long term loan? Collateral. There were one or two other items that would have fitted in nicely on his walls.”

“Bloody hell. Seriously?”

“Serious maybe.”

“It could all be legit.”

“Or a coincidence.”

“But you don’t reckon so.”

We forgot Heyward, illegal Pontormos, Scarpa and even slick modern nudes, and went a-wandering. Dan took over the guidebook and it was fun having someone else suggest what we should do next. Gardens came into it, but much else, besides; we ended at a Renaissance garden at the Palazzo Giusti which had us both chattering, about the survival of the garden itself but also about the links between what we saw here and the Villa Torronia.