Crossing the line - 25. The Bakery – Endings and Beginnings

We were sitting in a cosy restaurant in North London run by mates of Len’s. A former pub, full of mismatched old furniture, the food was imaginative and received Dan’s seal of approval. I have to confess that the menu appealed to me too; you’ve got to love somewhere that does posh fish fingers! The meal was Greg and Len’s idea, and they insisted that it was their treat. Even if Len got mates’ rates, it would still cost a bit. Things had moved fast, evidently.

“Well, here’s to the bakery.”

Greg rolled his eyes as if he couldn’t quite believe it, “We’re all properly set up.” Greg seemed somewhat less on edge, more communicative than previously, or perhaps it was simply because Donald Mitchell and his paintings were not the main concern.

“Joe was dead keen, and we did the paperwork in double quick time, thanks to me sister.” Len’s sister was a solicitor evidently.

“What about money?”

“’Len’s moved into my gaff. His is on the market.” Greg looked as if he couldn’t quite believe it. Was he pleased? Difficult to tell.

“But Martin Potter, at the big house, was really supportive. He came to see me, and we had a long chat. He’s lending me the money, to tide me over till the cash from the sale of my flat comes through. Interest free.”

“Blimey, that is support.”

“Aye, and he wants to be involved. He’s taking a few shares, so it’s split between me, Greg, and him. I’m the majority, we didn’t really need him to, but it shows his support.”

“That’s a big step.”

Greg looked a bit bashful, “Yeah. Taking it slow. Not changing things.”

“Yet”, Len smiled, “I’ve got big ideas, and he keeps asking how we’ll pay for them. So, I reckon we made a decent team.”

Greg produced a rather battered looking envelope. At first, I wondered if it was another present, embarrassingly. But he drew a piece of paper out of the envelope, an A4 photocopy of something that looked like a page torn out of an exercise book. He handed it to me; I recognised the handwriting. So much for the old git not making an appearance. I’d seen that spidery scrawl plenty of times before. Donald Mitchell.

I peered at it, but the copy was pretty good and in colour, too. It was some sort of letter, dated some 12 years ago, and Mitchell’s signature was clear at the bottom. In the letter, Mitchell states that in token of Greg’s intimate collaboration on the Greg sequence of pictures, he was entitled to 10% of the price when Mitchell sold them. My mind went into overdrive, trying to work out how much the pictures had gone for, and was that 10% of the price paid to Amanda or 10% of the price paid to Mitchell. I’d no doubt that Mitchell was probably drunk when he wrote it, but there was no sign of that in the letter.

“My sister is a solicitor and she helped us with the business. She reckons Greg’s got a good case. She’s written to Mitchell’s agent and his lawyer. So, we’ll see, but there seems a chance.”

Greg snorted, “The money’d come in useful.”

“Or at the bakery.”

They smiled at each other. Perhaps this was the source of Greg being less on edge. I couldn’t say more contented, just not so grimly monosyllabic. He had the possibility of getting one over on ‘the old git’, Donald Mitchell.

“It’s Len’s fault that I found it. Completely forgotten about it.”

Len smiled, “After your visit, I was on at him about whether he had anything from that time.”

Greg shook his head, “I’ve no memory of him writing it. I know he said summat, but it must’ve been more than that. Perhaps it was a sweetener, to get me to go all the way.” He shrugged, “It’s all disappeared behind a wall of drink and depression.”

“Well, that’s great news.”

Len looked thoughtful, “Makes you wonder how many other bits of paper like this, there are floatin’ around. I don’t think this Mitchell bloke sounds a particularly nice character, great artist or no.”

“He’s old and ill now, and very much playing up the elder statesman image, rather than the bad boy. I’ll be interested to see how it goes, do let us know.”

The two grinned, “Don’t worry we will.” Greg looked at me apprehensively, “If he’s no help, would you write about it?”

I was surprised, “Your story?”

“I’m not that interesting, but all this stuff with Mitchell…”

“Would certainly be of interest, surely.”

“There’s stuff as well, papers, and notes.”

Len continued, “Nothing revelatory, like, but it’s Greg’s story, and there’s also this.”

Greg pulled out another A4 envelope, the sort that was reinforced. He was silent, watching us carefully, but Len nervously filled the silence, “We’d like it framed only... Well, you’ll see, it’s not the sort of thing we could take into the framers in Worksop.”

Thus intrigued, I took the envelope from him. Someone had carefully wrapped the contents in tissue paper, but when I unfolded everything there was a drawing. A beautifully executed drawing, powerful, dynamic lines, strong details, all done in pencil. The subject matter was completely and utterly pornographic. It captured the moment when one guy’s (veiny and not very attractive) dick withdrew from the other’s (smooth, rather attractively firm) arse, both men sated. It was a detail, close in, so no identities but it caught the movement and feel of sexual gratification.

It was signed, “Donald Mitchell, for Greg.” And dated. I looked up at Greg.

He took a deep breath, as if to steady himself, “It’s him, just finishing doing me.”

“Did he do it at the time?”

“Aye. I remember him sketching it, done from memory like, but it’s as real as life. Just looking at it, I can feel him, smell him.” He shuddered and shook himself. “I’d forgotten he’d give it me.”

“He must have really liked something in you. Mitchell doesn’t draw and never gives stuff away, unlike some artists.”

Greg looked puzzled, “He can’t draw?”

“Not can’t, doesn’t. he sketches in paint, straight onto the canvas, there are no preparatory drawings. It’s the sheer act of working the paint that’s important. This is incredible. I’ve only ever seen one or two of his early drawings from his college days, this is completely different. Mature Mitchell.” I looked at the two of them, as Dan took the picture and examined it, then carefully wrapped it up again, before the other diners became aware of it.

“You know it would be worth a bomb.”

Greg looked fierce, but it was Len who answered, “And it’s not for sale, it’s a link to Greg’s past, an important part.”

“Besides that’s my arse there, I’m not selling that.”

Dan looked at him, “You might change your mind when you find out what it’s worth.”

Greg pulled a face, “Lots of folk would say it’s pornographic and ought to be burned. I don’t want to risk that, or it being locked up.”

Len continued, “But you can see why we can’t take it to be framed in Worksop!”

I smiled, “Thanks for trusting me with this. I’m friends with the woman who runs the Tramshed Gallery where the Mitchells were exhibited. She’s bound to know a suitable, discreet framer, and I’ll be in contact when I’ve found someone.”

Just before they left, Greg went to the loo and Len leaned over towards Dan and I,

“I love him to bits, but Greg’s what my Mum calls a restless soul. I don’t think he’s sorted all this stuff out in his head yet”, he gave an expressive shrug, “mebbe he won’t ever. But I sure as hell hope all this getting stuff into the open helps. I want him to stay something rotten, I really do.”

There wasn’t much we could contribute, beyond reassuring noises (me) and suitably supportive platitudes (Dan) and saying that we were happy to chat at any time. Were we? What had we let ourselves in for? I don’t know how Dan felt but certainly I wasn’t qualified as a relationship counsellor.

--oOo—oOo—

“So, what is it that you’ve brought to show us? You were very tantalising on the phone.”

Amanda, Mae, Bill, and I were sitting over a glass of wine in the Tramshed. I wanted their advice on the framing of Greg’s drawing, but more I wanted to share the story and get their opinions. It was Greg’s story really, but I knew it would not go any further. We moved over to a clean table, and I pulled out the drawing and put it down,

“Cor blimey, guv.”

“Good Lord, it’s a Mitchell. May I?” Mae picked it up. She and Amanda pored over it.

“Where did this come from?” Amanda’s gallery instincts came to the fore.

“I pointed to the dedication. From Greg, he’s the guy in Mitchell’s Greg pictures that Francis Heyward bought.”

“Oh wow, it must be worth something.” Amanda looked at Mae.

“Mitchell never draws, it’s the sense of the paint he wants. There are some oil sketches, a few. But this. And the subject matter. It’s as if he’s done a quick sketch, like a photograph, to record a moment.”

“It’s positively pornographic”, Amanda was gleeful, “in the way he’s captured the movement.”

“You can smell the… “, she went a bit pink, but we knew what Mae meant.

The two discussed it further and then I explained the background.

“Poor boy, you say he’s doing OK now.” Mae always seemed to have a fund of sympathy.

“He seems to be, though his boyfriend is worried that Greg will do a runner, that there’s still a lot of shit.”

“Can’t he talk to someone.”

“Well, I gather sitting for Donna McKee rather helped sort him out; he talked to her a lot.”

They both burst into laughter.

“Donna! She’s an unlikely therapist.”

“Scare the shit out of them first.”

“Well, she and Greg got on. Bonded over the fact that they’d both moved over to the dark-side from conventional relationships.”

“Ah, yeah. But still.” Amanda smiled.

“When you put that together with this”, Mae gestured to the picture. “There’s a story there.”

I smiled, “There’s more.” And told them about the letter.

“What’s he doing with it?” Eager eyes stared at me.

“Len’s sister is a solicitor. I don’t know whether she just does wills and conveyancing, or something else. But she’s looked at it and has written a letter. That’s a start.”

“Good, maybe the old bugger will have to pay for his behaviour.”

Amanda frowned, “Perhaps. He’ll probably wriggle, and it’s hardly a contract, is it? At best, they’ll settle out of court. 10% you say.” She did a quick calculation. “Even if they get less, still a nice little nest egg.”

Mae looked at me, “There’s a nice little story there.”

I shrugged, “Don’t ask me, it’s Greg’s story, not mine.”

Amanda looked sly, “It would be a good exhibition too.”

Mae smiled, “Mitchell will never allow it, he’d forbid this to be shown. The thing is, there must be others. Greg can’t be unique, surely.”

“Other pictures, other letters?” Amanda looked thoughtful.

“Was there something special about Greg, or did he do something similar to the others?”

“Well, Greg felt special till the sixth picture was finished.”

“Mitchell never finishes, but we know what you mean.”

“So, what happened?”

“Goodbye, and thanks for all the fish.”

“Ooh, that’s nasty.”

“Mitchell was Greg’s first guy. That is mean.”

I raised my eyebrows, “Got some good pictures though, didn’t it. An artist’s right to transmute life into art. But there’s something else.”

“Something else!”

I laughed, “Nothing as sexy. Something practical”, I gestured to the drawing. “Greg would like this framed and is understandably worried about turning up at the framers in Worksop with it.” At this image, the two women started giggling.

Bill, who had been relatively quiet but, as was his wont, paying great attention, leaned over and looked at the drawing and frowned, “I could do it, easily. If you don’t mind something fairly plain.”

“That’d be fine, I hardly imagine their flat is large or fancy.”

Bill wasn’t strictly a framer, but it was one of his talents that he brought out, usually to help fellow artists and friends. He pulled a face (what Amanda called his thinking face) and nodded, “OK. You’ll want UV glass and an acid free mount, all that stuff”, then he gave a wry smile. “I’ve never framed anything like it.”

There was a story there, Amanda and Mae were right. I wrote up some notes then havered. I started to sketch out an article but realised that I’d need to chat to Greg again. So, I havered some more. Dan got rather fed up, pointing out Greg had suggested an article as a possibility, and he insisted that I should approach Greg and Len. Finally, I dropped Len an email. He’d warned me that he didn’t do email often, but I felt better putting it at one remove.

To my surprise, I got a phone call from Len’s sister. We had a chat about the letter, Greg’s relationship with Mitchell and more. Then she explained that she was collaborating with a lawyer more experienced in these matters, they’d discussed it and an article, a positive, truthful article about the background might help. Would I be willing to collaborate on that basis?

Would I? OK, fair enough if it gave me access.

But where to put the article? It would have more impact if they were willing to print images of the Greg sequence and the drawing. It was Dan who said, did it have to be print, could it be online, and need it be an arts mag?

Thoughts.

--oOo—oOo—

I then had a major wobble, all sort of ‘what ifs’ coming to the fore, as well as my worries about doing anything other than my writing. Finally, it all came to a head when we were out for a walk.

After I’d once again talked about stepping back, Dan stared at me, walked right up and put his arm on my shoulders, “Look, you’re clever, funny, and full of great ideas; the way you make revealing and unexpected comments about thing. You ought to be doing more of this, put yourself out there. And I love you to bits!”

And he kissed me. We were having a walk; we’d taken to exploring the local green spaces, working our way around the local area. So, the other park goers were a mixed bunch, and no-one really thought twice about two blokes kissing.

“Perhaps you’re right, and OK. I’ll try to be a bit pro-active.”

I emailed Greg, to make an appointment to talk about the article and discuss ideas. Then I put together some thoughts, a prospectus almost and got emailing.

--oOo—oOo—

“Hello, sweetie, this is an unexpected pleasure”, Amanda sounded amused and relaxed.

“I’ve been thinking about Greg and the drawing.”

“Hmm”

“I was thinking we might be being a bit conservative; I am seeing Greg soon and I’d like to suggest an exhibition about him, or about the idea of sitting and looking. Just a small one.”

I explained my ideas and she was intrigued. The first thing would be to contact Donald Mitchell about using the drawing. She would do that, and I’d get Mae involved, see if she could use her contacts.

--oOo—oOo—

“Bugger me, you’re serious.”

“Yes. It wouldn’t be so much a show about you, Greg, as about the idea of the models and the artists, and how their relationships have changed. My initial idea was for it to be about you, but Amanda and Mae convinced me that pulling the focus back would make it more likely to get Donald Mitchell’s collaboration.”

“And is he?”

“It seems so; a couple of other drawings are promised, and it seems we’d be able to use your Donna McKee as well, if you were OK with that?”

Greg nodded, thoughtful. We were sitting in a coffee shop in Soho. Fab coffee and interesting cakes, lively atmosphere with a mix of people but mainly of an artistic and media bent. The wooden bench seats, however, might look good but they were bloody uncomfortable. Greg was in town to buy Len a birthday present, from a shop in Old Compton Street. He’d gone a bit embarrassed when explaining, so I gathered it was something sexual. Good on them.

He looked at me. He was still inclined to be monosyllabic, and I understood Len’s comments about him doing a runner. He seemed about to shy away at any point. He stared for a long time.

“Pictures of me. Naked. Having sex.”

“But there would be context. The process of making art from life, other artists and models, other nudes. How the artist exploits the model, transmutes life into art.”

“I’m just an ordinary bloke, no-one wants to see me.”

“That’s the point. Those Mitchells of you. Donna’s drawing, they change you.”

Greg snorted, “Fuck.”

“Look, you could say no, walk away. That’s fine. This is only an idea. But think, you might get some money from Mitchell.”

Greg snorted again, “Believe that when I see it.”

“This would be a way of making all that shit turn into something else.”

“OK. One thing tho’. There’s a couple of pictures of me by others. Not just Donna McKee, but other ordinary folk. Caught me just right. OK?”

The rest of our meeting was reminiscence therapy. Greg was incapable of giving a coherent narrative, and it probably did not now exist, but he’d brought his folder of papers from the time, and each would bring forth a different reminiscence, a particular memory, and these might lead further. I recorded everything and made notes, it was all adding up to a story. And in the back of my mind was the minimising of potential problems; everything needed to be documented and referenced. It was still like pulling teeth, but beneath the reluctance there was a sense that Greg was struggling with the idea that all this might be acceptable. That he didn’t have to hide. Perhaps.

It was not a remarkable story; two men, one experienced, the other naïve and inexperienced. For one it was a pleasant diversion and a means to an end; Donald Mitchell seems to have been what Mother calls a serial monogamist. True to the current person, but liable to change. Greg, however, was the focus of Mitchell’s intense artistic scrutiny as well. This created expectations that Mitchell had neither ability nor intention to fulfil. The result was some fine art and one fucked-up kid.

We made an appointment for further therapy. Greg had looked embarrassed when I used that word and I’d kicked myself, but then he had grinned, “Perhaps it is therapy. Len says I ought to talk about all that stuff more”, he gave an expressive half-shrug, “but it’s difficult.”