boiling water into the pot, covered it, and glanced at his watch.
“It needs four minutes to draw properly . . . unless you are one of those unfortunates who like your tea the color of weak piss.”
“Dark piss will do me fine.”
He tossed me a half-crumpled pack of Gauloises.
“Here, have a proper smoke,” he said.
I caught the pack, helped myself to a Gauloises, lit it up, took a long, deep drag—and had that metallic, exhaust pipe gustatory sensation which always accompanies smoking a Gauloises.
“How much do you think one of these paintings goes for?” Fitzsimons-Ross asked me.
“The art market is something I know nothing about . . . especially the European art market.”
“If this was in the Kirkland Gallery in Belgravia—where I usually exhibit—you’d be paying just under three thousand pounds for the privilege of hanging a Fitzsimons-Ross on one of your walls.”
“That’s serious money.”
“S emi -serious. I’m not in the Francis Bacon or Lucian Freud league. Still David Sylvester did once compare me to Rothko. You know Sylvester?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Possibly the most influential postwar art critic in the UK.”
“Bravo to you. And he’s right. There’s a decided Rothko Goes Greek Island color spectrum to those two paintings.”
“That’s facile.”
“You don’t like being compared to Rothko?”
“Not when I am completely opposed to everything that Rothko stood for.”
“Which was?”
“Geometric gloom. Fucking portals in every corner of his fucking funereal paintings. All those blood-red earth tones shaded downwards into shadow and somber self-pity.”
“I think I was talking about your use of rectangular shapes and color.”
“And that makes me like cut-my-wrists Mark Götterdämmerung Rothko?”
“You’re the first artist I’ve ever met who doesn’t admire him.”
“So you’ve lost your Rothko virginity. Congratulations. I deflowered you.”
“Am I supposed to snicker quietly—or get all offensive—about such a profoundly stupid comment? I mean, I hate to break it to you: your paintings show real talent. Your repartee, on the other hand, is crap.”
Fitzsimons-Ross paused for a moment to stub out his Gauloises and pour the tea. He then opened the small fridge, in which were kept several bottles of wine, several bottles of beer, an open freezer compartment from which protruded a Russian bottle of vodka (or, at least I presumed it vodka, as it had Cyrillic lettering on the label covering its plain glass bottom), and a single bottle of milk. He reached for the milk, pulled out the stopper, and poured such a considerable amount of white liquid into my cup of tea that it suddenly went a particularly pedestrian shade of brown—the color of a street puddle.
“Don’t look horrified,” he said. “This is how tea is meant to be drunk. Sugar?”
I accepted a heaped teaspoon. He pointed to one of the bentwood chairs. I sat down. He fired up another Gauloises, then asked:
“So, let me guess. You write. And you’re here to write the Great American Novel or some such tosh.”
“Yes, I write. But not novels.”
“Oh God, don’t tell me you’re a fucking poet. Met far too many fucking poets in the one year I was at Trinity College Dublin. They all smelled and had bad teeth and sat around pubs like McDaid’s, begrudging the world, telling each other how brilliant they were, berating the editor of some pathetic little magazine for daring to suggest an editorial cut or two, and generally making everyone in earshot never want to read a fucking poem again.”
“Not that you have a strong opinion about such things.”
“Glad you noticed that.”
“Anyway, I’m not a ‘fucking poet.’”
I briefly told him what I did—mentioning the book that was published, and the book that had been commissioned.
“Might I see a copy of this book?” he asked.
“Yes, you might. And you’re from Dublin?”
“Just outside. Wicklow. Ever been there?”
“Once. Powerscourt. Glendalough.
“It needs four minutes to draw properly . . . unless you are one of those unfortunates who like your tea the color of weak piss.”
“Dark piss will do me fine.”
He tossed me a half-crumpled pack of Gauloises.
“Here, have a proper smoke,” he said.
I caught the pack, helped myself to a Gauloises, lit it up, took a long, deep drag—and had that metallic, exhaust pipe gustatory sensation which always accompanies smoking a Gauloises.
“How much do you think one of these paintings goes for?” Fitzsimons-Ross asked me.
“The art market is something I know nothing about . . . especially the European art market.”
“If this was in the Kirkland Gallery in Belgravia—where I usually exhibit—you’d be paying just under three thousand pounds for the privilege of hanging a Fitzsimons-Ross on one of your walls.”
“That’s serious money.”
“S emi -serious. I’m not in the Francis Bacon or Lucian Freud league. Still David Sylvester did once compare me to Rothko. You know Sylvester?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Possibly the most influential postwar art critic in the UK.”
“Bravo to you. And he’s right. There’s a decided Rothko Goes Greek Island color spectrum to those two paintings.”
“That’s facile.”
“You don’t like being compared to Rothko?”
“Not when I am completely opposed to everything that Rothko stood for.”
“Which was?”
“Geometric gloom. Fucking portals in every corner of his fucking funereal paintings. All those blood-red earth tones shaded downwards into shadow and somber self-pity.”
“I think I was talking about your use of rectangular shapes and color.”
“And that makes me like cut-my-wrists Mark Götterdämmerung Rothko?”
“You’re the first artist I’ve ever met who doesn’t admire him.”
“So you’ve lost your Rothko virginity. Congratulations. I deflowered you.”
“Am I supposed to snicker quietly—or get all offensive—about such a profoundly stupid comment? I mean, I hate to break it to you: your paintings show real talent. Your repartee, on the other hand, is crap.”
Fitzsimons-Ross paused for a moment to stub out his Gauloises and pour the tea. He then opened the small fridge, in which were kept several bottles of wine, several bottles of beer, an open freezer compartment from which protruded a Russian bottle of vodka (or, at least I presumed it vodka, as it had Cyrillic lettering on the label covering its plain glass bottom), and a single bottle of milk. He reached for the milk, pulled out the stopper, and poured such a considerable amount of white liquid into my cup of tea that it suddenly went a particularly pedestrian shade of brown—the color of a street puddle.
“Don’t look horrified,” he said. “This is how tea is meant to be drunk. Sugar?”
I accepted a heaped teaspoon. He pointed to one of the bentwood chairs. I sat down. He fired up another Gauloises, then asked:
“So, let me guess. You write. And you’re here to write the Great American Novel or some such tosh.”
“Yes, I write. But not novels.”
“Oh God, don’t tell me you’re a fucking poet. Met far too many fucking poets in the one year I was at Trinity College Dublin. They all smelled and had bad teeth and sat around pubs like McDaid’s, begrudging the world, telling each other how brilliant they were, berating the editor of some pathetic little magazine for daring to suggest an editorial cut or two, and generally making everyone in earshot never want to read a fucking poem again.”
“Not that you have a strong opinion about such things.”
“Glad you noticed that.”
“Anyway, I’m not a ‘fucking poet.’”
I briefly told him what I did—mentioning the book that was published, and the book that had been commissioned.
“Might I see a copy of this book?” he asked.
“Yes, you might. And you’re from Dublin?”
“Just outside. Wicklow. Ever been there?”
“Once. Powerscourt. Glendalough.
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