‘I would like you to know that the artist has given us the authority to reject the material if it seems to us in any way not to meet certain quality standards.' ‘I don't understand.' Friedman's lopsided face showed his impatience.
'You should listen more carefully.' 'Sorry.' ‘I’ll say it again, in simpler terms you can understand.' 'Thank you.'
Clara did not get upset. She knew it was typical of a man in his position to treat her with scorn: priming companies did not regard canvases as human beings, but as mere objects with holes and shapes they had to work with.
The priming process is going to be tough. If you don't come up to our standards, we'll reject you.'
'OK.'
'Think about it.' Friedman's expressionless gaze took in Clara's thin arms. 'You don't seem very strong. Your complexion is too delicate. So why waste your time and ours?'
'I've been through very hard priming sessions. Last year with Brentano…'
Friedman cut her short with a twist of his lips.
'This has nothing to do with the Venetian school, extimacy or 'dirty' canvases… we're not talking about leather hoods, whips or bondage. This is a professional priming company.' He seemed offended. 'We only accept first-class material. Even if you sign this document now, we can reject you tomorrow, the next day, or five minutes from now. We can reject you whenever we like, without any explanation. Or we might put you through the whole priming process and then turn you down.'
'I understand,' Clara said calmly.
In fact she did not feel calm at all. She was shaking deep down in her bones. But it was not fear or anger she felt, it was the desire to take on the challenge Friedman was offering. That excited her. So much, she was sure Friedman was bound to notice.
There was a moment's silence. 'You'd better not sign,' Friedman said. 'Take my advice.' Clara looked down at the sheet of paper. The pen traced a flourish.
Friedman's asymetrical face twisted in a strange gesture – was he pleased? put out?. He was one of the ugliest men Clara had ever seen, but at that moment she found him imbued with a mysterious kind of attraction.
'Don't say later that we didn't warn you.' 'I won't.' 'Sit down.'
Clara sat down on the chair with no back, and Friedman settled behind the desk. His Spanish accent sounded neutral, as if he were neither Spanish nor a foreigner, as if he were from nowhere in particular or from everywhere. He spoke Spanish as precisely as a computer. Although he never smiled, he never seemed completely serious.
'It's a quarter past nine,' he said, without looking at his watch. 'You have eight hours to organise your life as you see fit. At a quarter past five you should be back here again. You may shower, but don't put on any make-up or use any creams or perfume. Come dressed however you like, but I must warn you that whatever you are wearing or carrying will be destroyed.'
'Destroyed?'
'It's one of our rules. We do not want to take responsibility for any of your belongings, because that could lead to claims later on. F amp;W will not pay any compensation for the clothing or any other objects you lose, so do not bring anything of value. Or rather: bring only things you do not mind losing. Is all that clear?'
'Yes.'
'The remainder, in other words you, will be photographed and filmed so we can draw up an insurance policy. Once that is done, your body will become the property of F amp;W until the priming is finished. You won't be able to go home, to go anywhere else, or to get in touch with anyone. If all goes well, the process will be completed within three days. After that, providing we consider you top-class material, we will hand you over to the artist. If we don't, we'll get rid of the priming and send you home.'
'Fine.'
'If you break the rules, express your opinions or your own desires, if you put any obstacles in the way of the priming, or act on your own initiative, we will consider the contract null and void.'
'You mean I'm not allowed to speak at all?'
'I mean,' Friedman replied with a self-satisfied smirk, 'that if you carry on asking questions, I'll tear up the contract.' Clara said nothing.
'We will not accept any questions, opinions, wishes or reservations from you. You are the canvas. In order to create a lasting work, an artist needs to start from zero with a canvas. Here at F amp;W we specialise in converting canvases to that zero. I hope I make myself clear.' 'Perfectly.'
'We usually work in stages,' Friedman went on. 'There are four of them: the cutaneous, the muscular, the insides, and the mental. Each of these is carried out by the corresponding specialist. I will be in charge of the first stage. I will check the state of the different levels of your skin, the existence of any natural or incidental blemishes, any hard patches or peeling. I will observe whether you can be painted inside as well. Have you ever been?' Clara nodded.
'The back of my retinas with optic pencil and the inside of my mouth,' she said. 'And of course, my navel, vulva and anus.' 'Under your nails?' 'No.'
'Your ears? By that I mean inside, in the hearing canal?' 'No.' 'Your nostrils?' 'No.' 'The underside of your eyelids?' 'No.'
'Why the smile?'
Tm sorry, but I can't imagine why it's necessary to paint the hearing canal or inside a nostril…'
'That shows how inexperienced you are,' said Friedman. 'I'll give you an example. A nocturnal outdoor piece, painted black but with drops of extra-intense phosphorescent red in the eardrums, nostrils, the underside of the eyelids and the urethra to produce the effect of the work burning inside.' It was true, and Clara was angry at having shown her ignorance.
The vagina, urethra, rectum, tear ducts, retinas, follicles, sweat glands,' Friedman reeled off the list. 'Every part of the body of a canvas can be painted. And the latest laser techniques permit us to drill into teeth, paint the roots and then, when the work is substituted, to repair any damage. A body can become a collage. Sometimes, in the most violent art-shocks, the veins and blood may be painted so that if there is an amputation, they will produce a striking effect. And in the final stages of a dirty canvas, the viscera can be painted after they've been taken out, or even while they are being removed: the brain, liver, lungs, heart, breasts, testicles, the uterus and the foetus it may contain. Were you aware of that?'
'Yes,' Clara whispered, trying not to shudder. 'But I've never done anything like that.'
"Yes, but we cannot know what this artist is going to do with you. We have to prepare you for everything, to expect everything, offer everything. Is that clear?' 'Yes.'
Clara found it hard to breathe. Her mouth was half-open, and her cheeks were flushed. The possibilities Friedman had mentioned seemed to her no worse than her own decision to accept them, to submit herself to whatever the artist wanted to do with her. The key thing was the genius of the artist. Someone had once told her that Picasso was such a genius he could do anything. Clara was sure that in the hands of a Picasso she would allow anything to be done to her. She thought about it for a moment. Absolutely anything? Yes. Without reservation.
But the artist would perhaps have to be a bit better than Picasso.
'Are you regretting having signed?' asked Friedman, misconstruing her expression. 'No.' The two of them looked at each other for a moment. 'If you have any questions, ask them now.' 'Which artist is going to paint me?' 'I'm not permitted to tell you. Any other questions?' 'No.'