Crossing the line - 36. An Exhibition and an epilogue

Early on in planning the exhibition at the Tramshed, I’d had a complete blue funk and decided I couldn’t cope. Amanda had taken me for a drink talked some sense into me and found Richard. He wasn’t a co-curator, something I’d wanted or thought I did, he was a picture researcher. He had a near miraculous ability to find pictures, make connections between them, and he and Amanda had managed to get some great images for the show.

And, I did have a co-curator though not named as such; Amanda took a detailed interest in the show and helped nurse it through. One of her key ideas, which in fact followed on from concerns with her wearing her gallery proprietor’s hat, was to concentrate on the stories of the various sitters and less on the artists. This way, we avoided the worst of the libel actions that might be possible as Donald Mitchell was still alive. He had, in fact, provided a vague quote which suggested that memories of Greg were lost in the mists of time, but the fact that Donna McKee had been willing to go on record with some trenchant comments about Greg’s state of mind when he first started sitting for her, seemed to provide balance.

What this did, of course, was send me into a panic about the article, which was the subject of much re-writing, though the editors at the on-line magazine had been very supportive and seemed to be less worried about legal issues than Amanda. The article caused something of a stir in artistic circles, and I received plenty of positive support and comment, but it didn’t make a greater splash. Thanks to all the political craziness going on (including in the arts), there was little space for some navel gazing by artists, at least that was my perception. Jaundiced? Me?

Plenty of people I admired made an effort to comment and support, and Greg admitted that he was a bit relieved. He was blessedly undisturbed by press intrusion or anything else for that matter. However, the article came as a conclusion to what we half-jokingly had called reminiscence therapy. It had proved useful to Greg, I think, helping him put his thoughts into order. I gather he and Len had had some long conversations too, of course. And it helped that things seemed on course of some sort of settlement from Donald Mitchell and his agent. If the old git really did pay up, then one of the original sources of Greg’s frustrations disappeared. That and the article seemed to help him start to draw a line under that period. At least, so we hoped.

But that was just an article, an important one and a very personal one, but simply the latest of many. It was completely overshadowed by my nerves about the exhibition. If revealing the hang at The Manor to the people had been bad enough, showing the exhibition off was in a league of its own. Dan thought it mad that the thing I was worried most about wasn’t the exhibition or anything, but what I’d wear. Of course, this was purely displacement worry, but still annoying for him as I would go over and over possible outfits.

And then, suddenly, we were there. Amanda, Bill, Mae, Greg, Len, Dan, Richard, and I were all there in the Tramshed’s first room, toasting with a glass of bubbly. Amanda had some of the decent stuff for us, commenting that the least she could do was launch it with real champagne. I had opted for comfort and familiarity, my cords with a new silk scarf that Dan had bought me. It was perfect; I suspected he might have had a bit of help choosing it, probably from Amanda, but I had to admit that his eye was getting good. And he had been a bit outrageous too, he was wearing a pair of his work trousers which, of course, showed his assets off to perfection and he had on a white shirt that he rarely wore because it was too small. Now he had it unbuttoned rather lower than usual, showing off a remarkable amount of chest. He had grinned when I had seen it, and I had kissed him and said that I would show him how sexy the outfit was later.

And, I have to admit, I was rather pleased with the exhibition.

The first room was the most dramatic, there we had placed just two of the Donald Mitchells of Greg, both with him impressively erect. The second room provided the background, there was a photo of Greg in his Police uniform, the Donna McKee drawing and her picture, of course, and the Donald Mitchell drawing, plus quotations both from Greg and from Donna. We had had to pull the letter from Mitchell to Greg as its presence might have interfered with the negotiations. A bugger, but the room still told a strong story. And there was a selection of other drawings and paintings of Greg from his modelling days. Here, Richard had pulled a blinder and managed to find all sorts of images, not many were prime examples of visual art, but the story they told was terrific.

The following two rooms then looked at other artist/model relationships, we had managed to get a Camille Claudel but had to make do with a Rodin cast, there was a Simeon Solomon with details of the arrest and convictions (for sodomy) which blighted his career. I won’t bore you with all the details, but I thought it hung together well. And to finish, a group of photographs in a room on their own. Two of Mirko’s photographs of Greg and Len, and one of me and Dan, the curator curated.

--oOo—oOo—

It didn’t change my career overnight, but there was plenty of interest. Amanda was very happy, it was just the Tramshed’s sort of show, one that created lots of discussion and dialogue. My colleagues were amused and, I think, impressed in as much as I’d managed not to fall flat on my face. Again. Amongst the familiar visitors to the opening had been Paola and Tony. Ercole sent his apologies, but they had with them Giulietta Vanesi, the deputy director in Verona. There was talk of the exhibition travelling, at least in some form or other. The idea of getting the exhibition in at the Castelvecchio and Giulietta fixing us up with some juicy visits to private projects by Scarpa was simply too tasty for words. The only fly in that particular ointment being that if we stayed at the Villa Torronia again, which seemed likely, we would feel obliged to ask Gran to accompany us and, well, imagination simply failed at that point.

Suki came with Valentina, and they seemed to spend the minimum amount of time possible looking at the pictures. She was briskly polite me, merely congratulating me on a fine effort, whilst Valentina had just nodded and disappeared. Afterwards, I learned that Suki unfortunately had feet of clay. Amanda said that there had been quite a bit of vituperation, the exhibition was clearly an excuse to show naked men off again, and simply took the shine of Frances’ collection, that Greg had clearly been disturbed or knew exactly what he was doing, and as for the final photos, to make such an exhibition of yourself. To say that she had entirely missed the point of the exhibition, was to put it mildly. I thought, perhaps, that I was unlikely to see Suki again, which was a shame.

Francis Heyward came, with Tim and Archie. He was charm itself and very complimentary.

We never saw him again.

Epilogue: And after, there was silence

The reopening of The Manor never happened, and if Francis Heyward came to the UK at all, the visits were fleeting and discreet, and he was never in contact. His collections disappeared. The inevitable happened; The Manor was sold off to become a corporate headquarters, a use to which it seemed far more suited. Dan and the remaining staff were paid off, handsomely. After a bit of digging, we managed to discover that Heyward’s Scottish estate was out on a long-term let, prime fishing or shooting territory evidently.

We never did move. Dan settled into my little house and well, we grew used to it, each other, and everything. He had no trouble finding further work, and this time there were no hidden extras, thank goodness.

Donna McKee’s painting of Greg seemed set to disappear along with the rest of Heyward’s collection. Except we hadn’t reckoned on Donna, herself. ‘No way was going to sell to that merchant, duck. No, it was purely a loan, done for you and Greg, not him’. As I said, if Donna was on your side, then she was bloody on your side.

Then suddenly there was a new show at the little gallery on the Norton Priory Estate, a mixture of pictures from the family collection and new works from artists associated with the studios on the Estate. Plus, Donna’s painting of Greg, which had been bought for the Estate’s collection, a fine contemporary portrait of a familiar face from the Estate ‘family’. Martin Potter looked pleased as punch; goodness knows how much he paid for it, but Donna came to the unveiling and had a whale of a time. She and Martin Potter were chalk and cheese, but it seemed to work.

At the end of the year, the remainder of Francis Heyward’s old master collection came up for auction. I went along and recognised a few faces, but he was entirely absent. As were the Pontormo drawings; had he held on to them or had they been sold under the counter?

As for Francis Heyward’s male nudes and his Father’s pictures, I never saw any of them ever again. We liked to picture Francis Heyward and Tim in a Caribbean exile, entirely surrounded by the nudes Heyward had collected, but perhaps that was entirely false.