A Hallowed Place by Caro Fraser Page A

point Melissa Angelicos arrived in a fluster of scarves, bags and papers, and the meeting ground to a temporary halt. There was certainly something impressive about the woman, thought Leo, as he watched her murmur effusive apologies, darting smiles at each of them while introductions were made, settling herself into her chair with an exuberant flash of her long legs. Leo studied her covertly as Chay ran over the items which they had already discussed and Anthony produced the trust documents for her to sign. She was older than she appeared on television. Leo put her somewhere in her mid-forties. She possessed fine-boned, dramatic features, slightly coarsened by age, and a mane of ash-blonde hair which she wore carelessly pinned up. The slenderness of youth was toughening into wiry angularity in middle age,but Leo could see why men considered her attractive. Her movements were nervy and self-conscious, but her smile and general manner were charismatic, if a little hard.
    No sooner had Chay explained that they were discussing the museum’s collection policy than she launched into an enthusiastic endorsement of the work of a handful of young British artists recently exhibited at the Royal Academy and the Saatchi Gallery. ‘There are some absolutely wonderful pieces we could obtain - sado-kitsch, you might call them. Totally transgressive. After all, any new museum of this kind must show generosity towards native young talent, and some of the work that’s been shown is terribly exciting. Gayford’s
Dwarf in Bondage
, for instance—’
    Derek Harvey, who was sitting hunched over the table, still in his raincoat, interrupted her with a sigh. ‘Melissa, the core collection can’t concern itself with that kind of rubbish. If we’re going to convince the powers-that-be to give us public funding to acquire new works, the museum has to demonstrate a collections policy that is sound, that is looking for established, serious work by well-known artists. It’s not an exercise in promoting the kind of promiscuous, talentless work which your YBAs constantly produce, and which your television programme works so hard to sell. This museum is, I hope, about serious art.’
    There was a brief, embarrassed silence. Leo was bemused. Clearly a certain hostility already existed between Ms Angelicos and Harvey. He wondered if Chay had been aware of it.
    Chay scratched his designer stubble. ‘There’s something in what Derek says. I think for the core collection at least,we have to set our sights on well-established artists. People like Patrick Heron, Bill Woodrow, Warhol … Works that the general public can feel safe with.’
    Melissa laughed. It was a bright, scornful laugh with an icy edge. ‘If safety is what this project is all about—’
    Chay raised a hand. ‘Safety isn’t what it’s all about. Perhaps I used the wrong word. What I mean is that we need established names to convince people that this is fundamentally a museum with a really prestigious collection of twentieth-century art. That way we can get funding to acquire more - more -’ Chay groped in the air with thin fingers for the right word ‘—innovative, exciting work.’
    ‘But, basically, what you’re saying is that we have to take a philistine approach.’
    Chay sighed. Leo smiled to himself, intrigued, and glanced across at Anthony, who was doodling on a piece of paper and looking bored.
    ‘I don’t think you can call my plans for the video installation philistine,’ retorted Chay. ‘I’m planning on bringing in some of the most ground-breaking work in years. Anyway, if you want to be confrontational, perhaps you can turn your attention to the open-space area. That really does need something … transgressive to bring it alive.’
    At this, Melissa looked interested. ‘Open space? I didn’t know we had one.’
    ‘It’s at the back, where the brewery lorries used to park to load up. Come on, I’ll show you all before it gets dark.’
    Chay led them all