The Modigliani Scandal by Ken Follett Read Free Book Online

tell you about me. I was somewhat exceptional—my work started to sell well during my lifetime. I took out a mortgage and fathered a child on the strength of it. I was England′s up-and-coming painter. But things went wrong. I was ′overpriced,′ they say. I went out of fashion. My manners don′t quite fit in with polite society. Suddenly, I′m desperately poor. I′m on the scrap heap. Oh, I′ve still got enormous talent, they say. In ten years′ time I′ll be at the top. But meanwhile, I can starve, or dig ditches, or rob banks. They don′t care—you see—″ He paused, and realized for the first time how long he had been speaking, and how engrossed he had been in his own words. The classroom was completely silent in the presence of such fury, such passion, and such a naked confession.
    ″You see,″ he said finally, ″the last thing they care about is the man who actually uses his God-given gift to produce the miracle of a painting—the artist.″
    He sat down on the stool then, and looked at the desk in front of him. It was an old school desk with initials carved in the woodwork, and ancient ink stains soaked into its wood. He looked at the grain, noticing how it flowed like an op-art painting.
    The pupils seemed to realize that the class was over. One by one they got up, put their things together, and left. In five minutes the room was empty but for Peter, who laid his head on the desk and closed his eyes.
     
    It was dark when he got home to the small terraced house in Clapham. It had been difficult to get a mortgage on the place, cheap as it was, because of its age. But they had managed it.
    Peter had turned handyman and created a studio out of the upper floor, knocking down internal walls and making a skylight. The three of them slept in the bedroom downstairs, leaving one living room and the kitchen, bathroom and toilet in an extension at the back.
    He went into the kitchen and kissed Anne. ″I relieved my feelings by shouting at the kids, I′m afraid,″ he said.
    ″Never mind,″ she smiled. ″Mad Mitch has come to cheer you up. He′s in the studio. I′m just making some sandwiches for us.″
    Peter went up the stairs. Mad Mitch was Arthur Mitchell, who had studied with Peter at the Slade. He had become a teacher, refusing to go into the risky, commercial business of being a full-time artist. He shared Peter′s utter contempt for the art world and its pretensions.
    He was looking at a recently finished canvas when Peter walked in.
    ″What do you think of it?″ Peter said.
    ″Bad question,″ Mitch replied. ″It invites me to pour out a load of bullshit about movement, brush-work, design, and emotion. Better to ask whether I would hang it on my wall.″
    ″Would you hang it on your wall?″
    ″No. It would clash with the three-piece suite.″
    Peter laughed. ″Are you going to open that bottle of scotch you brought with you?″
    ″Sure. Let′s have a wake.″
    ″Anne told you?″
    ″She did. You′ve discovered for yourself what I warned you of years ago. Still, there′s nothing like finding out on your own account.″
    ″I′ll say.″ Peter fetched two grubby glasses from a shelf, and Mitch poured whisky. They put on a Hendrix record, and listened to the fireworks from the guitar in silence for a while. Anne brought cheese sandwiches, and the three of them proceeded to get drunk.
    ″The worst of it,″ Mitch was saying, ″the kernel, as it were, of the shit, as it is—″
    Peter and Anne laughed at the mixed metaphor. ″Go on,″ Peter said.
    ″The fundamental piece of godawful bollocks, is the uniqueness of a work. Very few paintings are unique in any meaningful sense. Unless there′s something very tricky about it—like the Mona Lisa smile, to take the outstanding example—then it can be repeated.″
    ″Not exactly,″ Peter put in.
    ″Exactly where it matters. A few millimeters of space, a difference in color which is only just noticeable—these things don′t matter