photograph.
‘Obviously it’s much larger than that. Pretty much life-size, actually. But you get the idea.’
‘Yes,’ Grace says, not really sure she does. Linden clicks on to another warped portrait. A figure (a man?) in a photo-real blue sequinned suit and black spiky hair, with a melted face dripping down over his collar and blue bowtie. ‘Is Luke a painter too?’ Grace asks, keento learn something about him. To turn the conversation towards her quarry.
‘He’s a brilliant painter,’ says Linden, putting the camera away. ‘But he doesn’t paint any more, which is a real shame. He does performance art.’
‘What’s that?’
‘He uses his body to make art. He performs live actions.’
‘Like theatre?’ Grace says.
‘No, not really; there isn’t usually much speech or a recognisable storyline.’
‘Like those living statues in Covent Garden, then?’
‘Not exactly. It’s hard to explain. He makes a series of images by moving the body through time. His background is fine art, not theatre. And he likes to get naked in public.’
‘I see,’ Grace says, thinking,
Who
are
these people?
‘In our final year at uni,’ Linden is saying, ‘he did this piece where he shaved his legs in a claw-footed bath in the town square in Nottingham on a Saturday afternoon. Lying there covered in bubbles wearing nothing but a shower cap, surrounded by bemused shoppers.’
‘I see,’ says Grace again, taking a sip of wine and trying to think of a way to respond. She isn’t sure what she’d expected Luke to be; hasn’t speculated for a minute on what his life might look like.
‘He’s performing at Given’s private view this Thursday. That’s the guy who owns the boat. Come along if you’re free.’ Grace nearly makes an excuse,never having been to a private view before, and unsure how she might cope right now in an unfamiliar social situation. But, she decides, it’s about time she did something new.
‘Well, I’ve nothing planned.’
‘Great. Come here around five and we’ll have a drink before heading over. Bring Gordon if he’s back.’
‘He won’t be back till Sunday.’
She looks across the water, following the sound of a moorhen. Turning back to Linden, she says, ‘Given’s an unusual name,’ not wanting to dwell on Gordon’s return
‘He’s an unusual man. He’s from Bristol. Black Jamaican father, white Welsh mother; both junkies. He never knew either of them. He grew up in care homes. He’s six foot three and so handsome it should be outlawed.’ She gives a laugh before continuing, ‘His last work just won a major prize. He cast a fighter jet in butter and exhibited it in a room where the temperature was regularly alternated between hot and cold, so that the butter would melt and then reset, melt and reset till after a fortnight it was nothing but a yellow mound in the centre of the room. His work is starting to sell and he’s making good money. He just bought a flat near Highgate.’
Grace wonders if it’s the man she saw with Luke at the ponds, and considers mentioning it but doesn’t, too ashamed of the memory of how she’d ghosted them. Linden goes inside to fetch another bottle, and Gracechecks her watch, willing Luke to arrive. A flock of Canada geese honks overhead and, looking up, she sees that the mottled underside of the moon has appeared faintly in the stillblue sky like a sleepy eye.
As she refills their glasses Linden explains that Given has only recently bought the boat, but had been too busy to collect it himself. She and Luke picked it up in Hertfordshire about a month ago. She names some of the places they stopped at on the way, some of which Grace knows.
Grace says, ‘How long have you and Luke been together?’
‘He’s not my boyfriend! He’s gay.’
Grace looks at Linden’s delicate, slender hand, laid out against her denim-clad thigh, and quells a sudden urge to crush her cigarette out on the smooth white back of it. Linden leans over and
‘Obviously it’s much larger than that. Pretty much life-size, actually. But you get the idea.’
‘Yes,’ Grace says, not really sure she does. Linden clicks on to another warped portrait. A figure (a man?) in a photo-real blue sequinned suit and black spiky hair, with a melted face dripping down over his collar and blue bowtie. ‘Is Luke a painter too?’ Grace asks, keento learn something about him. To turn the conversation towards her quarry.
‘He’s a brilliant painter,’ says Linden, putting the camera away. ‘But he doesn’t paint any more, which is a real shame. He does performance art.’
‘What’s that?’
‘He uses his body to make art. He performs live actions.’
‘Like theatre?’ Grace says.
‘No, not really; there isn’t usually much speech or a recognisable storyline.’
‘Like those living statues in Covent Garden, then?’
‘Not exactly. It’s hard to explain. He makes a series of images by moving the body through time. His background is fine art, not theatre. And he likes to get naked in public.’
‘I see,’ Grace says, thinking,
Who
are
these people?
‘In our final year at uni,’ Linden is saying, ‘he did this piece where he shaved his legs in a claw-footed bath in the town square in Nottingham on a Saturday afternoon. Lying there covered in bubbles wearing nothing but a shower cap, surrounded by bemused shoppers.’
‘I see,’ says Grace again, taking a sip of wine and trying to think of a way to respond. She isn’t sure what she’d expected Luke to be; hasn’t speculated for a minute on what his life might look like.
‘He’s performing at Given’s private view this Thursday. That’s the guy who owns the boat. Come along if you’re free.’ Grace nearly makes an excuse,never having been to a private view before, and unsure how she might cope right now in an unfamiliar social situation. But, she decides, it’s about time she did something new.
‘Well, I’ve nothing planned.’
‘Great. Come here around five and we’ll have a drink before heading over. Bring Gordon if he’s back.’
‘He won’t be back till Sunday.’
She looks across the water, following the sound of a moorhen. Turning back to Linden, she says, ‘Given’s an unusual name,’ not wanting to dwell on Gordon’s return
‘He’s an unusual man. He’s from Bristol. Black Jamaican father, white Welsh mother; both junkies. He never knew either of them. He grew up in care homes. He’s six foot three and so handsome it should be outlawed.’ She gives a laugh before continuing, ‘His last work just won a major prize. He cast a fighter jet in butter and exhibited it in a room where the temperature was regularly alternated between hot and cold, so that the butter would melt and then reset, melt and reset till after a fortnight it was nothing but a yellow mound in the centre of the room. His work is starting to sell and he’s making good money. He just bought a flat near Highgate.’
Grace wonders if it’s the man she saw with Luke at the ponds, and considers mentioning it but doesn’t, too ashamed of the memory of how she’d ghosted them. Linden goes inside to fetch another bottle, and Gracechecks her watch, willing Luke to arrive. A flock of Canada geese honks overhead and, looking up, she sees that the mottled underside of the moon has appeared faintly in the stillblue sky like a sleepy eye.
As she refills their glasses Linden explains that Given has only recently bought the boat, but had been too busy to collect it himself. She and Luke picked it up in Hertfordshire about a month ago. She names some of the places they stopped at on the way, some of which Grace knows.
Grace says, ‘How long have you and Luke been together?’
‘He’s not my boyfriend! He’s gay.’
Grace looks at Linden’s delicate, slender hand, laid out against her denim-clad thigh, and quells a sudden urge to crush her cigarette out on the smooth white back of it. Linden leans over and
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