Crossing the line - 12. Pictures at The Manor

When Archie, Francis Heyward’s PA, sidekick or whatever, emailed to invite me over to The Manor to look at Francis’ other paintings, I was more than a little surprised. Oh, I know that Heyward had mentioned the idea, but I’d been uncertain where politeness began, and the real Francis Heyward ended. I was also rather wary.

Did he, indeed, value my opinion or was this another of his little games? I discussed it with Dan, and we agreed that I should go. It would seem churlish not to, and I have to admit that I was profoundly curious. I wanted to see those pictures, to find out what indeed was in the collection.

So, on the appointed day I drove to The Manor, was duly greeted at the gate by Dan, broad grin on his face, and once parked I was met by Archie. We did indeed enter the grand way, up the staircase and through the portico into the chilly glories of the Marble Hall.

It was much as I had envisioned, stylish with crisp lines and a simplicity that had a 1930s neo-classical look to it. There was none of the fussy detail of the 18th century model, here was all clean lines and cool surfaces. It was a show room to be admired, perhaps as the backdrop for a party, rather than something more warmly engaging. There was a fireplace, but I doubted whether anyone would ever dare have a fire in it, instead it formed a focal point with heavy marble fire surround and a marble relief above that may well have been echt 1930s.

I had just finished registering that nothing had changed, the nude we had looked at was nowhere in evidence, when Francis Heyward appeared. He looked dapper as ever, perhaps wearing his idea of dressing down, well-cut beige chinos and light pink cotton shirt, plus loafers; he made me feel somewhat underdressed in my cords. He thanked me for coming and then gestured to over the mantel, ruefully commenting that the Norman James was going to be an expensive long time being restored.

From the Marble Hall we went into a central staircase hall, three stories high and impressive in its own right. The elegant yet severe columns and balustrades echoed the Marble Hall, though here the plain walls had a warmer pastel tint to the white. Despite the stair, there was plenty of wall space including the whole wall adjoining the Marble Hall, but it wasn’t the room that you noticed. Spread around the walls were Donald Mitchell’s paintings of Greg, each a powerful statement in its own right, but seeing them together as a sequence, from initial wariness to full tumescent excitement to post-coital resignation, created an entirely new narrative. And whoever (or whatever) had paid for them, they were undoubtedly here as a sequence.

The accumulation of these images gave the room an unsettling, uneasy atmosphere. It felt as if Greg was everywhere that you looked. As images they were superb, as portraits they left you with a nagging worry about Greg.

Francis looked at me, “Impressive, eh?”

I nodded, “Together they make a powerful sequence.”

“But unsettling too, I think that’s why I picked them.” He stared at me, “I’m drawn to images that make you think, make you uncomfortable.”

I laughed, “They sure as hell unsettle me. You worry about the Greg of the pictures.”

Francis nodded, “If we take the pictures as ‘real’ then we should worry about the ‘real’ Greg. For all the explicitness, they’re not just about sex.”

“Is that what you want your pictures to do, disturb?”

He gave wry smile, “Come with me and I’ll explain. You’d like coffee.” It was a statement, not a question.

From the hall we continued through to the drawing room that overlooked the garden. This was a long, rectangular room, and again the décor had that sense of stripped-down country house. There was a substantial cornice here, but the effect was all plain surfaces and crisp, curved lines whilst the walls were a rich ochre coloured plaster rather than the more traditional silk. The whole was a setting for the pictures, but these were standard decorator modern. Large abstracts, effective enough and entirely forgettable daubs of vivid colour. From here we turned right, another gallery-like room running along the garden with large glass windows down to the floor, and deep green walls this time But what dominated, running along the other long wall, was the most hideous mural that I’ve ever seen. It was painted by someone who admired Oskar Kokoschka, think of his monumental mythological triptych. The paint was laid on thickly, it felt as if the artist could even have used a trowel. Texture was allied to strong colour, so strong it burned the eyes. However, this artist certainly wasn’t Kokoschka. At. All.

Francis Heyward stared at me, amused, assessing my reaction. What the fuck to say? Very nice? Hardly. The worst painting I’ve ever seen? True, but harsh. The silence extended; he wasn’t going to help me out.

“Someone who admired Oskar Kokoschka but didn’t have his genius. Technically competent, but entirely forgettable. It’s not bad enough to be funny, and looking at it my first thought is why the hell is it hanging here?”

Francis Heyward led me to the far corner where, written with a great flourish, was the artist’s signature. Duncan Heyward fecit, 1999.

“It was my Father’s Millennium Project, a modern mythology for the new millennium.”

I suddenly realised, that wasn’t Francis Heyward’s description of the work, A Modern Mythology for the New Millennium was the title. “For fuck’s sake”, it escaped before I could prevent it.

He grinned, “Precisely. Father has been dead these five years, so I can safely remove it, I think to go into storage with all the rest.”

I raised my eyebrows, “The rest?”

“My Father’s hobby was painting, and as he handed the business over to me, he devoted more time to it. He admired artists like Feliks Topolski, and Oskar Kokoschka, without ever achieving their”, he hesitated, “acuity.” A shrug. “Come, coffee first, then I will explain further.”

At the end of the gallery the door, painted to tone with the walls as were the other doors, led into an attractive, more intimate space. Rather than painted, the walls were hung with slubbed silk, a warm golden brown, the doors were an attractive walnut veneer, and the plasterwork cornice was simple and elegant. The pictures were on a similar intimate scale, smaller, far, far older, and completely enviable.

It was hung like a cabinet, small pictures in groupings, I spotted what I presumed to be the Pontormo drawing along with others, largely of naked men. That was something of a theme, from satyrs and such mythological creatures to elegant young men and some impressive academic studies. My eye was caught by a larger, very finished drawing of an impressively well-endowed young man, and Francis smiled, amused and I think pleased at my interest.

In a bay window overlooking the gardens there was a circular table, modern yet elegant with the wood grain strikingly emphasised and two matching chairs. There was laid out coffee and biscuits. The cups and plates were fine China, yet with modern graphic designs on them. All very stylish. The house seemed a mass of contradictions. There was no visible staff, Frances Heyward poured the coffee, dark and strong.

“I grew up surrounded by three things, the business, my Father’s mistresses, and his paintings. The first I enjoyed and was good at. The second I could”, he hesitated, “live with. The teenage Francis learned how to get on with the woman of the moment, whilst hiding himself, never revealing that his tastes lay in another direction. The third, I hated, and as I grew older, I came to despise.

“My Father was an unscrupulous businessman, we will not go there and whatever you think about him, I might agree with you.”

He stared at me, and I nodded, “OK.”

“He was also a misogynist, a bigot, and a homophobe.” He paused, but I wasn’t really sure what to comment. “He regarded himself as an authority on modern art. So, I retreated to Old Masters, where the drawings of nude young men were, at least, acceptable. Hence this room. There will be time for you to explore, but I would like to introduce my project.”

It was the old story of intergenerational tension, and the problems of being young with an unsympathetic parent yet writ large. The house had been planned under the influence of his Father, or rather Francis Heyward’s refusal to be influenced, so the ‘public’ rooms were decorator chosen, with his Father’s collection of polite 18th century landscapes in the dining room. Only the private rooms had ‘his’ pictures.

We were in the anterooms to his bedroom, study and such, his private domain. He admitted that in his bedroom and dressing rooms (plural!) the pictures were still profoundly risqué, but period. I wouldn’t be seeing those, and frankly, didn’t need to, I could imagine, elegant 18th century French porn, Indian miniatures, some Japanese prints and so-on.

Since his Father’s death, Francis Heyward had shaken off the man’s influence completely, and grown confident in his own taste in more contemporary art. He had been on a number of buying sprees, it was all now downstairs. I hardly imagined he meant a basement, but he did not elucidate. The public rooms formed a T shape, the staircase and drawing room as the vertical, the gallery as one horizontal, a smaller drawing room and dining room as the other. All were to be re-hung.

We walked back through the rooms, and I viewed the spaces with a different eye. The gallery without the décor, the smaller room (once called the music room) and finally the dining room. All were decorated in a similar taste, almost museum-like in the way the walls were designed specifically to tone with the pictures. The dining room and former music room featured classic country house landscapes, Heyward’s Father’s collection, some were quite interesting, and I could imagine using them in a different hang. Francis Heyward had been largely silent, except for answering questions.

“You want me to advise on hanging the new collection? Why not get a curator?”

A wry smile, “The collection is too new, too personal. I want to be close to it. So, a curator perhaps later. I need someone to talk to.” He made a strange, abbreviated noise, not quite a snort “The significant person in my life is not really interested in art, and I enjoyed your comments on the Winstons and the Norman James, so I want to hear what you say about the pictures so far.”

I realised what the noise had been; he’d stopped himself from saying the significant other’s name. Who, I wondered, and how significant, a 20-year-old toy boy was very different from a 40-year-old professional? These thoughts kept me occupied as we walked down the backstairs to the basement. Fuck me, to use a phrase beloved of Dan, the place really was huge. The basement included a swimming pool and a gym, plus another pair of rooms whose purpose seemed unclear. These were all designed in a cool modern style, probably intended to set off whatever flashy furniture was chosen to fit them. Presumably, they were intended as entertaining spaces for less formal events but now they were devoid of furnishing, instead they were devoted to art storage, both on the walls and leaning against them (tut, tut), and temporary partitions had been thrown up to expand the wall space. I made no notes, that could come later, I simply looked at the pictures as if in a gallery.

It took time to go round them, and with each picture he could tell me where it was bought, and often why. I got the impression that some of the artists had been boyfriends, or hook-ups, or something. I realised that he wasn’t being entirely candid, despite the frank manner, but it didn’t really matter. Where the art came from was immaterial, what it looked like and whether it was any good mattered.

After a good few hours, he suggested lunch. This was back in the ante-room with the Pontormo. This time there was staff serving, two young women in discreet black. The food was good, simple, elegant, and probably very nourishing. After the meal he got up and thanked me, asking me to write to Archie, his PA with my ideas. He had a meeting, but I could stay for a couple of hours. The pictures in the ante-room were all mine, just ring if I needed anything, and he showed me the call button.

And there I was. Two hours of heaven; the pictures were not all masterpieces, but they each repaid attention. I wouldn’t be able to write about it, but the simple chance to explore was wonderful. The time flew, and just before the two hours were up the door to the gallery opened and in walked Tim. The historian, writer, poet. He smiled at my surprise.

“Francis asked me to check up on you and make sure you had everything you needed, but I was delayed. I hope you have everything you want?”

We chatted for a bit, but the spell had been broken, besides I was keen to get home and write about the collection. I might not be able to publish, but I still wanted to capture my thoughts. You never knew. So, I had a last longing look, particularly at the Pontormo, then we left.

--oOo—oOo—

“So, how were the pictures?”

Dan grinned at me across the table, aware that I was bursting to tell him about my afternoon. I’d been good, though, and got all the social preliminaries over first. We were at a new Lebanese restaurant that had opened up in the market. Eating out with Dan was a challenge, as the range of food that we both regarded as a treat was rather narrow. There were a couple of local Italians that he rated, but they needed the car or a draughty bus journey, and tonight we had wanted just a short walk.

It was Wednesday, so the restaurants in the market weren’t heaving, thank goodness and nothing happened to make the policeman in Dan start tutting. He was generally quite relaxed, but he did rather notice things, untoward events and that could disturb the general mood.

Not tonight. The restaurant was plain with one wall entirely taken up by the window onto the street. In fact, it could just as easily have been a shop. The character came from posters on the walls and colourful curtains for effect. The waiter was cute, and knew it, but what the hell. He might even have been Lebanese, but from his dress, no discreet black here, he was clearly an accustomed young Brixtonite.

There was complimentary bread, hummus and olives, and we drank Lebanese wine, and considered the menu. Dan’s response to the freebies was to raise an eyebrow and comment that we would pay for them in the long run. But our mood stayed buoyant.

We put in the order, then I told him about the visit and the collection. The highlight for me had been the Pontormos; yes, there were two drawings, one a highly finished self-portrait of him wearing nothing but a garment that looked for all the world like a pair of trendy boxer-briefs, and the other just the merest sketch, a study of what could be a satyr for a mythological painting. There were other pictures that were arguably as important and perhaps more so, but the pictures I’d love to have put in my bag and take home were these two. The surprise of the collection, coming a close second in the ‘I want to take it home stakes’, was the group of John Singer Sargent male nudes. Some were academic studies pure and simple, but others had a real erotic thrill to them. There’s no concrete evidence for Sargent’s sexuality either way, but these had something of that same sense that Donald Mitchell drew out of his male nudes, that what we were looking at was a sexual moment in some way.

“Are you going to help him?”

I shrugged, “I’ve written up the visit, made notes about all the pictures and have some ideas. I’ll put them together, email Archie and see what happens?”

“What’s in it for you?”

I smiled and stared into his eyes, “Not sure. Keeping your boss sweet, perhaps?”

“You mean, he’s bargaining on you being helpful ‘cause of me?”

“May be, but the chance to look at the real collection was clearly some sort of thank-you.”

“The real collection?”

“Oh, the new stuff is interesting, and there are one or two names, but it’ll take time to mature. He’s bought canny rather than lavish, and”, I shrugged, “naked men, homo-erotic themes and LGBT politics aren’t exactly top of the market’s list at the moment.”

“So, no sexy big names?”

“Well, Donald Mitchell. A couple of other tasty nudes, if you see what I mean, but none of the names that hit headlines.”

“What about the real collection?”

“Ah, that’s different. Plenty of naked men, lots are mythological pieces or academic studies, but there are some very collectable drawings.”

“The Pontormos?”

I grinned, “So you have been listening to my wittering?” He smiled and inclined his head graciously, “A few others I think might be passion pieces.”

“Eh?”

“Things he’s fallen in love with, Italian Baroque sketches and drawings, lovely stuff that’s not quite on theme.”

“You mean not nudes.”

“Yep, but they fit well with the others. It all hangs together nicely.”

“And you reckon that was a thank-you?”

“Pretty sure. He said as much.”

“What about the Tim bloke turning up?”

“Might have been politeness but…”

Dan grinned, “He was really there to check you didn’t nick the silver.”

“Fat chance of that, I suspect.”

“Dead right. Top end security there.” We both smiled.

“Heyward said his significant other wasn’t very interested in the Old Master collection and Tim referred to the pictures as Francis playing with his toys.”

“You reckon the two of them?”

I shrugged, “It’s possible.”

“Tim does keep popping up.”

“Any gossip at work?”

“None. But I reckon the guys are hardly likely to talk about the boss’s boyfriend unless he was a real whack-job.”

“Whereas Tim seems to have a knack of blending in.”

“Precisely.”

Meal over, Dan returned to Heyward’s pictures. “If you could steal one, which would it be?”

I’d introduced Dan to the game we used to play as students, and it had become a regular with us at exhibitions, the selection of a single picture to go on my walls.

“The Pontormo self-portrait I reckon, a lovely drawing and it’s such a great image of him in his underpants.”

“Did they wear them then? I thought they did without?”

“I think aristocratic men sometimes used extra-long shirt tails as a sort of nappy effect, but yeah, usually guys wore something. Ordinary folks like us, they’d be quite coarse material that scratched like hell!”

“Nice.”

--oOo—oOo—

It is strange how serendipity works, or perhaps it’s the Universe ordering things. Anyhow, at the same time as I was writing my report for Francis Heyward, considering approaches to displaying his contemporary art collection in the main rooms of The Manor, I got an email from Ron.

Now, these were rare. You could quite easily imagine that Ron didn’t use or didn’t know how to use a computer, but the opposite was true. It was just that as a communication tool he preferred the telephone, where he could happily natter for hours. This time, he was on the back foot; he wanted to cancel meeting for drinks that we had planned. The excuse sounded pretty feeble, I suspected an amour or an infatuation, something he definitely did not want to talk about. Whatever. We’d find another time.

Almost as a sweetener, he had some gossip for me. He met a few old cronies for drinks, guys who he had trained with and who were now scattered across the applied arts, mainly earning tons of money by doing things like heading up the decorative arts section of Christie’s. That sort of thing; Ron had some amazing friends, or rather former friends. Old mates he kept up with, after a fashion. And, as Ron would tell it, the name of Francis Heyward cropped up unbidden, though I suspected a gentle nudging from Ron, after all he would love to come back to me with tasty piece of gossip or worse. See, I told you so, the guy’s poison.

This wasn’t poison though it was intriguing. Evidently the talk was that Francis Heyward had fallen out with the people who he bought his pictures through, the folk who had fixed those Pontormos and some of the more well-known contemporary nudes. Rumours were swirling, that there’d been a falling out over the latest direction of the collection (could this refer to the recent Donald Mitchells, I wondered), Heyward had accused someone of dodgy dealing (always a problem in the business), they’d fallen out more generally over money, or even that Heyward was feeling the pinch and drawing in his horns a bit, could no longer afford things but was spreading other rumours as a smoke-screen. Wheels within wheels indeed.

It was all gossip, Ron hastened to add, though the issue of smoke and fire should be raised. But the clear-cut answer wasn’t something he’d find out when having a gossip with mates, but he thought it was interesting.

It was indeed. Dan thought Ron, as usual, was making something out of very little. I wondered. Certainly, we’d never know for definite, but Heyward’s decision to involve me might have a variety of benefits. Yes, it kept his head of security sweet. Yes, I offered a different and untrained point of view which might be the opposite of advice he’d received from professionals, but I would probably also be a hell of a lot cheaper than a real professional. And if he didn’t like what I did, then when the markets recovered, or whatever it was, he could employ someone else and do it again.

Dan thought I was doing myself down. I’d give the task my best shot and looked forward to that distant possibility of seeing my ideas for a hang put into practice. But I wasn’t going to kid myself that Heyward didn’t have a selection of motives for employing me.

What else intrigued, but I didn’t mention this to Dan, was the way that Heyward having some sort of financial issues kept popping up. The whole thing might simply be envy, wanting the rich guy to fail, or it might be true. Was Heyward all smoke and mirrors, or something more sinister?

In case anyone was interested, this is the Pontormo drawing I was thinking of. It's actually in the British Museum.