Crossing the line - 29. Little surprises

Getting the hang finished was an unutterable pain. What had seemed like a lovely idea, swanning around buying pictures, turned tiresome very quickly and the logistics… I spent far too much time on the phone to Cecily, The Manor’s house manager, or talking to her at The Manor and I got heartily sick of the drive down there. As things got closer, anxiety gnawed away too.

I was too close to everything. I no longer knew whether it all made any sense. What I’d like to have done is start again. Dan was, thankfully, a rock, keeping me sane though I must have driven him mad. I was trying to write a Diary of Curator column on the blog, but that was becoming patchy as I could not always face rehashing everything.

It had better be worth it!

Dan came over to The Manor a few times whilst I was there, he was bored doing routine catching up and paperwork. His first comment on seeing the hang had been an explosive, “Fuck me, what a lot of willies!”

Cecily had looked at the pictures and simply said, “Precisely.” But it was clear she was amused.

Then there was the need to keep Francis Heyward in the loop, emailing him constantly. He didn’t want me to send pictures but there were detailed questions to be clarified. I still wondered why Francis Heyward had not got in a professional. We had various ideas, that he wanted it done on the cheap, that he’d been worried a professional might quail at the thought of hanging all those male nudes, or that he simply wanted a quirky take on it (he’d get that alright) and would feel able to dispense with the hang with impunity.

I’d been having another fit of doubts after a particularly trying day, and Dan had turned to me in the car (one of the delights was being able to travel home together).

“Are you enjoying it, and do you think you are achieving something worthwhile?”

“Yes, and, I think, yes.”

He grinned, “Well then. Relax, enjoy things and write about it in an article.”

--oOo—oOo—

That the photographs of Greg and Len actually happened seemed nothing less than a miracle. Despite Greg’s apparent change of heart, I had still half expected to hear that he had backed out of the photo shoot. To my surprise, the dates fixed were soon. The photographer, Mirko, said he’d had a cancellation of a project, but we suspected he’d made room for what seemed like a potentially significant (and lucrative?) project. There had been talk of me accompanying Greg and Len, which would have been interesting at first and then tedious, probably.

But it was decided that that wasn’t necessary, they were comfortable on their own. And Dan suggested that the prospect of me seeing the pair of them in the buff might well have been a deciding factor, that they were uncomfortable with a third person around.

Mirko would take the photos, and only Greg and Len would see proofs and have a right of veto, ensuring that the images were under their control. Mirko would then manipulate the photographs to create the final images. The results would then be sent to The Manor. So, we would have to wait to see them.

--oOo—oOo—

My birthday was looming, and Dan announced that he was organising a surprise for me. One morning we caught the train (!) from London Bridge to South-East London where we walked through a 1950s housing estate. I was puzzled. Dan however knew where we were going, and I would just have to be patient. But he was tense too. Nerves, I later gathered, anticipating my reaction.

It was a pretty ordinary semi, with a battered Bedford van in the drive (which covered most of what would have been the lawn). Dan rang the bell and a short guy in his mid-30s answered, curly grey-ish blond hair, and ordinary rather pudgy face but a big smile and lively eyes. I’d never met him, but I recognised the man, the photographer, Mirko. What?

We were showm into a sitting room where the ordinary trappings of suburban life, comfortable sofa, TV, flowery wallpaper, seemed to compete with bits of folk art, embroidery and such. Items, we later learned, Mirko had inherited from his Serbian grandmother. Dan explained that Mirko was going to do a photo of the two of us for my birthday. If I agreed.

If I didn’t, we’d had rather a long journey for nothing.

Dan made it clear it was the both of us or nothing. Plenty of folk had seen me naked, seen me having sex for fuck’s sake. But having a photo taken seemed different, and the whole process gave me a tiny inkling as to what Greg must have felt when he thought about Donald Mitchell’s paintings. When I told him this later, Dan laughingly suggested we could say it was research and offset the costs against tax, but I doubted that my accountant would allow that.

I was aware of Mirko discreetly disappearing to make us coffee, and of Dan looking at me nervously. Oh, what the hell. Let’s do it, and I gave him a kiss, aware that he’d risked quite a lot. I might regret it later, but I didn’t want to disappoint him. Mirko’s coffee made you really zing, it was proper strong Eastern European coffee. The sort I never normally drank. I would be hyper.

The studio was at the foot of the garden, occupying the footprint of an old garage block. There was even a changing room, with mirror, dressing table, hooks, and clothes hangers, though it seemed to be doubling as a storage space for all sorts of odds and ends. We disrobed, feeling a bit strange and clinical. To our surprise, Mirko was naked too; he evidently always did so to make his guests feel more at ease. He was remarkably hairy, not fit but trim, though frankly there was far too much hair for him to be at all sexually tempting and I suspect Dan felt the same.

The shoot was remarkably fun. After a few wobbles (mental and physical) we stopped worrying about how much we were showing; Mirko explained that images could be cropped later, what matter most was getting the relationship right. It helped that he was so relaxed, and he had us messing around, playing games, and doing stupid things. Sometimes we’d stop and pose, other times it was less studied. Eventually, he was satisfied. We dressed and departed. He would email proofs in a few days. We could then select a few favourite images, and he would work one up. When I asked Dan what we’d do if we didn’t like any of the images, he’d grinned and said that we could simply stick a pin in. I don’t think he was joking.

The proofs arrived a few days later. In truth, we were both apprehensive, neither completely confident in front of the camera, pictures rarely satisfied. They were, in fact, delightful and great fun, and the people in the photographs really did look like Dan and me, not a pair of zombies. We combed over them, selected our favourites, and ended up with three that we both agreed on. I insisted that Dan send our decision to Mirko before we could change our minds, and we made another daring decision. No cropping, let it all hang out.

--oOo—oOo—

Mirko’s image of Dan and I appeared completely unexpectedly. I was working at home when a courier brought something. It was addressed to me, so I opened it.

Fucking hell.

There, in forensic detail, was Dan and me, unashamedly enjoying ourselves, and letting it all hang out. The picture was huge, and we would have to have it floating over us above the stairs. The only wall big enough for it.

I was just about to phone Dan when my mobile went. It was Cecily, The Manor’s House Manager sounding somewhat put-out. There had been a delivery for me, two in fact, comprising seven packages in total. For me, at The Manor? Pictures, presumably, but what?

“I’m not expecting anything, I’ll be right over.” I apologised again, and she sniffed that she had had them transferred to the basement and she trusted that was correct.

When I got to the gates, Dan was waiting for me and the two of us went to find out. Cecily was waiting in the basement where the packages were neatly lined up. Six were professionally done and had come with shippers and bore Mirko’s address.

“Bugger, that was quick.”

Dan grinned, “Either that or he’s desperate for the cash.”

Stripped out of their packaging and leaning against the utilitarian walls of the basement room, the six pictures positively sang. They were all details, not portraits of Len and Greg, but intimate visualisations of them in forensic detail. The individual images were almost abstract, but you got a sense of the two people from the whole. I couldn’t wait to see what they looked like near the Mitchells.

As we explained to Cecily what they were, and where Francis wanted them to go, I examined the seventh package. It was not professionally wrapped, though it was entirely secure. The address was written in a big bold hand, and I did not recognise the return address. I was about to open it when my phone went.

It was Amanda, “Thank goodness, sweetie. Are you busy? You’ve got to get over to The Manor. Donna McKee has sent you a picture. Says you talked about it, and she decided it was time. For fuck’s sake, that woman. She’s just packed up one of her key pictures and sent it off on spec. What the hell are her agent and her gallery for.”

I explained that I was there, and it was safely in one piece. I recalled my recent encounter with Donna. I’d been at a private view at the Tramshed, more for sociability than anything else. It was a show of contemporary political sculpture from Eastern Europe, interesting but I’d written a lot about the area recently, so wouldn’t be covering the show in detail. Dan had been working late, catching up on paperwork (still) and was joining me later.

Donna unexpectedly appeared; it wasn’t a show I would have imagined her to be interested in. She loomed over me, tall, grey-haired with a rasping voice and the feeling she was attempting a Bea Arthur impression; except Donna had never watched The Golden Girls (‘don’t have tele, Duck’). This was the real Donna. She scared the hell out of people, but if she took to you, then you had a friend for life. I had written a supportive article some years ago about a protégé of hers (not because I was buttering Donna up, but because I really got a thrill from the guy’s work), and ever since she had regarded me as ‘one of the good guys’.

“Thought I’d see you here, duck. Look, I’m dying for a fag. You can catch this rubbish later.”

She waved a hand at the pieces and drew me outside, where we had the dubious pleasure of watching the Bermondsey night-life.

“Gather you’re taking young Greg under your wing.”

A nod.

“Good thing. Done well, he has. Deserves your support. You’re writing an article.”

I explained about the article and the exhibition.

She nodded, “Good on you, duck. He sat for me, about a year. Looked like a lost soul. Very professional, pleasure to draw, you know duck.” She stared at me intently, “But on breaks he was different. Had a way of sitting. We talked. Heavy stuff. But I couldn't resist. Did a painting.”

“Of Greg?”

“Yep. Not a sketch for those blasted murals. Proper picture.” She leered at me, “Donna McKee painting a naked man! Told no-one. Put it to one side. A special piece.”

I kept nodding; all you could do with Donna in full flow. But where was this going?

“Now it’s time, let the image out. Good for Greg, go with those poxed Mitchells, and that porn thing of his. This is the real Greg. Thought Heyward might like it, go with all those naked willies he’s been collecting.”

Again, she peered at me. “You got the say-so on his new pictures; I figured a Donna McKee would do nicely alongside those others. And, you’d have it for your exhibition. You interested?”

“You bet.”

“Will be in touch. Say ta-ra to Amanda for me.”

And she was gone. Amanda and I were a bit gobsmacked. But since then, there had been silence. Evidently Donna had changed her mind, or so I thought.

But here it was.

Cecily and I carefully unwrapped it and laid it on a table.

“Fuck me”

I mentally echoed Dan’s comment.

It was letterbox shaped and a naked Greg was crouched in one corner, squatting on his haunches. It was pure Donna McKee, strong and powerful and the way she’d captured Greg was devastating. A lost soul, it was almost painful to look at. I was about to take some pictures to send to Francis, when Cecily reappeared, with a very professional camera. Taking photos of work in progress for Mr Heyward was part of the job. I had no idea on what basis we had the picture. A scrawl from Donna simply instructed us to take care of it. Amanda would have to sort things out.

--oOo—oOo—

“I read your Diary of a Guest Curator column.”

Cecily had suggested coffee, so she, Dan and I were having a quick coffee in her office – slick, practical, and rather impersonal - before returning to work.

“Very amusing and illuminating. Will you be mentioning this?”

“Of course. A great story and terrific picture.”

She nodded, “Quite a coup, presumably?”

“For me or for Mr Heyward?”

She smiled, “Both? Has he realised yet?”

“What?”

“Your article, all this exposure.”

Dan twigged first, “That he’ll have to be more public about the pictures.”

Cecily agreed, “You’re generating interest, people will want to see them.”

“We’ve not discussed it.”

She pulled her mouth into a line, “You should.”

The resulting email exchange had been brisk and to the point. He was delighted with the Donna McKee, whatever it took. He also risked a rare joke, ‘Now, does that mean I can stop looking for an affordable Lucien Freud’.

He had also realised about the collection, the need to make it more visible. He was a bit brisker about this; he wanted privacy but wanted to show his pictures too. It would be interesting to see which Francis Heyward won. There was a throw-away sting in the tail, too. ‘If we do offer some sort of access when The Manor is closed, then it would be good to have curator’s tours.

I should have seen that one coming.