hersdown to the quick, but she liked to have the ragged ends painted over in bright glossy colours.
Her favourite colour back then was gold. I used to watch, magpie-like, her nails’ glittering dance in the light of the kitchen as she talked and flirted with Dad in the evenings. I liked to repair the cracks and chips in the paint after a hard day’s work in the pond, her finger-pads still crinkled from the water. The polish would slide over the gaps, but it was impossible to make them smooth again. The wounds still showed, scarred dips puckering the smooth surface.
Maggie was foolish to worry about my heart. That is safely stowed with Alice. There is nothing to fear in that regard. The main thing is, Sarah came back, and I must find a way of making her come again.
There are the paintings, of course. They are still gathering dust up in the studio. I don’t even know if Sarah has seen them yet. Still, something about them makes me want her never to see them. After all, this time, I only have to put things right. Not make things worse.
Daniel
30th January
The Studio
Dear Mab –
I wonder, sometimes, how much of my life is scripted by you, Mab.
Since your letter, I’ve been considering Dad’s portraits more seriously. I have followed instructions, you needn’tworry: I contacted Dad’s agency in London and told them about the new work. They were predictably thrilled, even though I made clear the state of the canvases. Portraits are big business, it seems. Even bigger business than naked girls. I suppose there is a certain type of rich person who prefers to have a stranger’s face on their wall, rather than a stranger’s arse. And that type of rich person likes to buy. I may have shared this choice wisdom with the agency; all I got in response was some drivel about the lurking sexual drives in all the Laird work. They haven’t even sniffed the oil paint and already they’re harking on about hidden depths!
It was quite fun talking to the agency. I’d forgotten – as you never do – just how much we can trade on the Laird name to behave however we want. As if the eccentricity of artists is hereditary. I insisted on talking to a man in the end – all the well-meaning, earnest girls with degrees were getting on my nerves – and I have to say he was charming. Peter assured me of their full co-operation and discretion and insisted on detailing the long history of services they had provided to Dad and his eminent peers. I could tell he was excited.
Then I found this piece in the paper this morning.
Laird Portraits Discovered
Rumours abound concerning a cache of new portraits found at the home of artist Michael Laird (1937–).
Laird, most famous for his Submerged Nude series (completed 1996), notoriously removed theheads of his subjects when committing them to canvas, claiming ‘it is in the sinew and flesh of the body, not of the face, where the true vulnerability of the human condition is expressed’.
The notoriously private artist has received criticism from feminist groups for his ‘floating corpses’. However, this present discovery coincides with a resurgence in the popularity of Laird’s work. Submerged Nude #6 sold for an undisclosed sum to a private buyer last month. A family source insists this is not an attempt to ‘cash in’ on an apparently buoyant market, but rather a chance to reflect upon Laird’s change of artistic direction in the years following his mysterious departure from public life.
No examples have yet been released for examination, but the art world is buzzing with speculation about the possibility of a new collection. Clement Jones, curator of the National Gallery, stated:
‘Michael Laird is one of our greatest living artists. Any new work should, therefore, be eagerly anticipated by both the public and the nation.’
So, national treasure or passing fad? Either way, the expectation is high for a private showing later this year.
I’ve been fielding calls all day.
Her favourite colour back then was gold. I used to watch, magpie-like, her nails’ glittering dance in the light of the kitchen as she talked and flirted with Dad in the evenings. I liked to repair the cracks and chips in the paint after a hard day’s work in the pond, her finger-pads still crinkled from the water. The polish would slide over the gaps, but it was impossible to make them smooth again. The wounds still showed, scarred dips puckering the smooth surface.
Maggie was foolish to worry about my heart. That is safely stowed with Alice. There is nothing to fear in that regard. The main thing is, Sarah came back, and I must find a way of making her come again.
There are the paintings, of course. They are still gathering dust up in the studio. I don’t even know if Sarah has seen them yet. Still, something about them makes me want her never to see them. After all, this time, I only have to put things right. Not make things worse.
Daniel
30th January
The Studio
Dear Mab –
I wonder, sometimes, how much of my life is scripted by you, Mab.
Since your letter, I’ve been considering Dad’s portraits more seriously. I have followed instructions, you needn’tworry: I contacted Dad’s agency in London and told them about the new work. They were predictably thrilled, even though I made clear the state of the canvases. Portraits are big business, it seems. Even bigger business than naked girls. I suppose there is a certain type of rich person who prefers to have a stranger’s face on their wall, rather than a stranger’s arse. And that type of rich person likes to buy. I may have shared this choice wisdom with the agency; all I got in response was some drivel about the lurking sexual drives in all the Laird work. They haven’t even sniffed the oil paint and already they’re harking on about hidden depths!
It was quite fun talking to the agency. I’d forgotten – as you never do – just how much we can trade on the Laird name to behave however we want. As if the eccentricity of artists is hereditary. I insisted on talking to a man in the end – all the well-meaning, earnest girls with degrees were getting on my nerves – and I have to say he was charming. Peter assured me of their full co-operation and discretion and insisted on detailing the long history of services they had provided to Dad and his eminent peers. I could tell he was excited.
Then I found this piece in the paper this morning.
Laird Portraits Discovered
Rumours abound concerning a cache of new portraits found at the home of artist Michael Laird (1937–).
Laird, most famous for his Submerged Nude series (completed 1996), notoriously removed theheads of his subjects when committing them to canvas, claiming ‘it is in the sinew and flesh of the body, not of the face, where the true vulnerability of the human condition is expressed’.
The notoriously private artist has received criticism from feminist groups for his ‘floating corpses’. However, this present discovery coincides with a resurgence in the popularity of Laird’s work. Submerged Nude #6 sold for an undisclosed sum to a private buyer last month. A family source insists this is not an attempt to ‘cash in’ on an apparently buoyant market, but rather a chance to reflect upon Laird’s change of artistic direction in the years following his mysterious departure from public life.
No examples have yet been released for examination, but the art world is buzzing with speculation about the possibility of a new collection. Clement Jones, curator of the National Gallery, stated:
‘Michael Laird is one of our greatest living artists. Any new work should, therefore, be eagerly anticipated by both the public and the nation.’
So, national treasure or passing fad? Either way, the expectation is high for a private showing later this year.
I’ve been fielding calls all day.
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