Crossing the line - 33. A preview and a press launch

In fact, Amanda, Mae Martin, Bart, Len, and Greg all got a preview of the hang.

After an exhausting week when I supervised the hanging and fielded Heyward’s obsessive interest in the minutiae, we were done. There had been a few late nights and Heyward got the guys to rehang the rehang. They at least got overtime, all I got was a headache and a burning desire to strangle him.

Yes, it was worth it, but some of the fine tuning that Heyward wanted was simply obsessive attention to detail, hardly visible at all from a viewing distance. Dan sort of installed himself at my place for the duration, and I’d come home each night to a lovely late supper, and he would provide a sympathetic ear to my moans.

We had a few moments when I’d overruled Heyward; he’d look and say, ‘wouldn’t it be better if…’, and I learned to be firm. And now a photographer was coming.

Heyward had suggested I invite a few friends for a preview, and so Amanda and Mae would be coming, as would Greg and Len, and there was no way we would keep Bart and Martin away. Plus Dan of course. Amanda’s Bill was evidently mighty annoyed that he had work commitments and so would miss this but would be at the official party at the end of the week.

Both Amanda and Mae had retained a sort of amused composure when presented with the house in all its monstrosity, walking up the grand staircase and under the portico. But their composure broke when they saw the Marble Hall, with the Norman James as the focus of attention. They’d known what to expect, of course, but it still had a strong effect, the fact that it was the sole major piece of colour, the finish of the picture combined with that outrageously presented erect penis. Amanda exclaimed, ‘Bloody Hell’ and Mae simply whistled. Both laughed and stared. Martin and Bart arrived shortly afterwards, and their response was similarly awed; I could tell that neither was impressed with the house, but the combination of the Marble Hall and the Norman James had an effect.

Francis Heyward stepped forward, an amused and pleased look on his face, and champagne appeared. I saw Amanda giving the waiter a good look (young, personable, curly dark hair, tight white shirt, and figure-hugging black trousers), and we exchanged glances; I could see her speculating about the stories of naked waiters and more. Whilst Martin and Bart were giving the Norman James a close scrutiny.

Greg and Len arrived shortly after, escorted by Dan and we made our way into the staircase hall with its Donald Mitchells. Here, we’d hung the sequence of photos Mirko had taken of Greg and Dan; it made for a slightly too dense hang, far too busy for the room but the combination of images sure knocked your socks off.

Amanda’s response was immediate and vivid, “Bloody Hell, I’m not sure I’ve seen so many stiffies in one place before”, she turned to Frances Heyward, “It’s stunning.”

Mae shook her head, “Lots of willies, and more to come”, she gave an impish smile, “like a classy porn film.” This got a look from everyone, what sort of porn had she seen, but she gave nothing away.

“Speaking of which”, Amanda dug in the large shoulder bag she was carrying, “A present from all of us.” She gave a large envelope to Francis Heyward and another to me, and smiled at Dan, “You don’t get one, but I’d imagine you can share Vaughan’s.”

Tim had slipped in discreetly in time to watch Francis Heyward open the envelope. It was a mounted print, a cartoon, one of Bill’s I could tell, but it was a reinterpretation of the Scottish cartoon Oor Wullie, only this time Wullie was being chased by a very naked, very well-endowed man. There was no caption, just a large Oor Wullie logo.

Francis Heyward stared at it, bewildered, a ‘what the hell is this’ expression on his face. Tim laughed, and then had to explain the comic strip, everything. But Heyward was delighted. Mine was the same, signed of course, with a wry note from Bill at the back.

For all his professed delight, I had assumed that the print would simply disappear into Heyward’s archives, but no. Come the launch partly, it had pride of place in the saloon, propped up on a table, with a note saying that it was a gift from the artist, Bill ___________, on the occasion of the launch.

At some point Cecily appeared with the photographer, who was to do a thorough documentation of the entire hang. But I barely noticed. I was so fucking nervous. It had all hit me the night before. I’ve written countless articles, put my name to all sorts of things and I’d convinced myself that this was just another gig. It was in a way, but it was also different. Dan had been staying in his flat, but had offered to come over, which was wonderfully sweet. In the event we ended up having a long phone conversation which helped bring me down.

I was wearing one of my standard PV outfits; that was something else that had been on my mind, what the hell to wear? For this event, just wearing my Old Town suit worked fine, it was the sort of thing I’d worn plenty of times at the Tramshed. For the press do and the launch party, I was still undecided.

And now, I was going to see what my friends thought, friends who were in the business of doing this for a living. No, they wouldn’t be rude, they would be polite and find plenty of positive things to say, but I convinced myself that I would know.

We’d agreed that Francis Heyward would show us round quickly, then they could wander freely. We went round in near silence, just Heyward pointing out important or salient images, Amanda and Mae in particular paying great attention. We made our way through the Drawing Room, where the style was largely realism then Ante-Room, where the smaller pictures were densely hung, and Dining Room, where I’d mixed in a few of his Father’s pictures, and finally back to the Long Gallery where the big hitters were.

When he left us, at the end of the Long Gallery, there was a moment of quiet then Amanda exclaimed, “Thank fuck for that. Oh. Vaughan, the show’s terrific. It’s such a relief”, and she grinned and hugged me.

I realised she’d been just as worried that she’d have to say nice things about a crap show. Greg came over and gave me a hug too, Len was more restrained but shook my hand repeatedly and offered his congratulations. Dan stood back, but he beamed, pleased as punch and I could hear his voice in my head, ‘now you can relax’.

Martin came over to me, “It’s amazing, I never thought I’d see so many naked guys in one place, and the way you’ve hung them is very effective”, he grinned, “And I think you are giving Bart ideas for our next house.” He looked over at Bart who was staring intently at the pictures, taking each one in, in detail.

We then wandered back round, but this time with a lively discussion about the pictures, the subjects, the effect of one next to the other, texture, timbre, rhythms, the lot. It was funny having Greg, Len, Martin and particularly Bart’s comments about the physicality of the nude images alongside Amanda and Mae’s artistic curatorial responses. Dan was more measured, but I knew that he would tell me about it in detail later.

--oOo—oOo—

“Will you do it again?”

Dan and I were sitting in the garden after an eventful day. I still had the press launch (tomorrow morning) and the official party (on Friday) but having leaped over the hurdle of showing to friends, then I was far less inclined to panic.

“Well, I’ve got the show at the Tramshed coming up”, I smiled. “But no. I don’t think so. I only did The Manor because Francis Heyward asked me. Oh, I have had ideas before but never strong enough to warrant doing anything. You can look at a hang, at an exhibition and think that you’d do it differently”, I tailed off.

“And now?”

“I’ve discovered it’s fucking hard, and there are so many extraneous considerations to get in the way.”

Dan was quiet for a bit, we sat in a companionable silence.

“Dudley, Cecily, and some of the senior house staff have got their finishing notices. Once the party’s over, things wind down pretty quickly.”

“Shit, that’s soon.”

“Yeah, he and Tim bugger off leaving just a skeleton staff.”

“Isn’t it a bit risky?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you rely on people like Dudley and Cecily to do a good job. If they were minded, they could really screw up the launch and the party.”

Dan shrugged, “Arrogance, I expect. Doesn’t occur to Mr H, or he thinks money can solve it. Besides, I don’t think that either Dudley or Cecily would risk their careers by messing up such high-profile events.”

“Hmm. Still depressing.”

“Anyway, dinner”, Dan smiled and stood up, ready to go into the kitchen.

“One thought.”

“Yeah”, he turned and stopped.

“I reckon you should contact your landlord, find out what’s possible on the flat. Time to sublet it or let it go and move in here.”

“You sure?”

“Yep. I feel it in my water” He smiled at the old-fashioned expression. “These notices are only the tip, I’ll be bound. More to come.”

“Including me?”

I shrugged, “We need to be prepared.”

“OK”

--oOo—oOo—

The press launch was a funny old affair. Here was I on the other side of the floor, except of course it was a joint effort. Francis Heyward made clear in his remarks that he had started buying then let me run with it, but it was very definitely me curating his pictures. It was nicely done, and very complimentary yet his speech neatly put me in my place.

The presentation took place in the Marble Hall, with the single nude there making its presence felt. Dudley had handled the details, including producing informative press packs with lists of pictures and background. But still, the Norman James caused comment. A couple of mates even came up to me to ask, quietly, if we were sure that it wasn’t a fake. But I could assure them that the conservators had confirmed it was the right period, all to do with pigments, chemicals, and such. And an expert from The Courtauld had confirmed that the style was right for Norman James, they just had to do a hell of a lot more research to try to work out how it fitted into his known life and career. The expert, a London-based Dutch academic, had evidently grinned gleefully, saying that this was the sort of discovery that would keep academics busy for years, reworking and rethinking Norman James in the light of the discovery. And, of course, as one of the assembled crowd pointedly said, if he’d painted one, then there were probably more pretty boys out there.

The morning was full of such moments. Few of the press crew had ever seen quite so many naked men in one place before. Afterwards, over drinks, this was the main subject for discussion. The various male nude exhibitions there’d been (one at the Musée d’Orsay, another in Vienna and such), their different approaches and ideas. There was no mention of what anyone thought of the present hang, of course. But plenty said goodbye with a smirk, a back-handed compliment such as they’d not expected it of me, or a crack about looking forward to the next one.

The sheer novelty of being invited into Francis Heyward’s very private showcase meant that we got far more coverage than might normally be expected. And as a result, of course, the articles that trickled out of the subsequent weeks (and months) were more general features on The Manor and its collections than specific reviews of the current hang. Frankly, most people chose to write about the venue, the number of willies and their various states of tumescence, and contemporary artists’ treatment of them. My activities as curator and creative hanger came well down the list, and comments were largely innocuous – one damn with faint praise, a couple of Oks and the rest tepidly complementary. As Dan commented, with a smile, don’t give up the day job.

I would live. And I would have some interesting pages for that non-existent scrap book.