‘But what do you think?’
Jude shrugged. ‘If you can say something’s a work of art, and get people to hand over money to possess it as a work of art . . . then I guess it’s a work of art.’
‘Huh. The day you catch me frittering my money away on something like that, Jude, you have my full permission to have me certified.’
‘If that moment ever comes, I can assure you I will,’ said Jude with a twinkle. She looked round at the other exhibits, most of which were actually in frames and hanging from the gallery’s walls. ‘Maybe you could see some of these fitting in better in High Tor . . .?’
She had expected this would prompt another ‘Huh’, and she wasn’t disappointed. The actual frames were the only parts of Denzil Willoughby’s smaller works that Fethering residents would have recognized as art. The contents of those frames were startling and ugly. In keeping with the GUN CULTURE theme, the images were composed of weaponry parts; a rifle bolt here, a trigger there, the butt of a pistol, a sawn-off shotgun barrel. Mixed with these oddments of metal were more photographs, whose highly coloured violence was too graphic ever to have appeared in newspapers. And the components within the frames were set on misshapen blocks of shiny blood red, a brain-like porridgy white and a brown that reminded Carole of things she didn’t want to think about too deeply.
Needless to say, these creations all had titles like Butt-Naked #3, Chamber Pot-Shot #12 and Telescopic Site-Specific #9. And the prices on the printed sheet were no less ridiculous than the one quoted for Bullet-In #7.
Yet, in his welcome to the Cornelian Gallery Private View, Giles Green kept harping on about the works’ ‘investment value’. Carole Seddon was beginning to think that she had somehow stepped into a parallel universe.
When Giles finished his introduction, the applause he received was surprisingly warm. Though the denizens of Fethering had resented his disparagement of their village, they were basically all well-brought-up middle-class people. And Bonita Green was, after all, one of their own. It wouldn’t do to appear stand-offish towards her son. Also, the wine and very good nibbles catered by the Crown and Anchor were free. Common politeness in Fethering dictated that the mouths of gift horses were never to be examined too closely.
Giles Green raised his hands to quell the applause. ‘Anyway, you haven’t come here this evening to listen to me. I know you’d much rather hear from the creative genius whose stimulating and challenging work is all around us here at the Cornelian Gallery – Denzil Willoughby!’
Though Giles was smartly dressed in one of his City suits, the artist looked, to Carole Seddon’s eyes, extremely scruffy. Maybe it went against the creed of his calling, but she thought he could have made a bit of an effort.
Denzil Willoughby was probably fortyish, the same kind of age as Giles Green, though it was hard to tell. He wore a large knitted woollen hat, which even Carole knew would be described as Rastafarian. From the back of it hung down some strands of beige dreadlocks, looking like greasy string from an abandoned parcel. Now, Carole Seddon had never been a great fan of dreadlocks, but if the style was worn by people of Afro-Caribbean background, then fine, that was part of their cultural heritage. Dreadlocks, however, on white Englishmen looked to her ridiculous, ugly and unhygienic. She thanked the Lord that her son had never gone through a rebellious phase during which he had sported dreadlocks. Though when she came to think about it, she realized that Stephen had never gone through a rebellious phase sporting anything.
Completing his ‘artist look’, Denzil Willoughby wore a plaid work shirt over a sludge-coloured T-shirt, frayed jeans and scuffed cowboy boots whose disproportionately long toes curled upwards. He spoke in a kind of slack drawl, which did not completely disguise his public-school-educated accent.
‘I’m not going to say much,’ he said, ‘because most talk about art is crap, and particularly when the person talking about it is the artist. Any statements that need to be made are made by my work. If you look at my work and get it, that’s cool. If you don’t get it, tough shit. Whatever you do, don’t ask me to explain it to you. The world out there’s a shit-hole, and art can’t duck that. I don’t duck it. I confront it, and my art is the expression of that confrontation. And if people don’t like my work, I’m not bothered. It’s just what I do.’
He paused and reached into the top pocket of his shirt to produce a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a green plastic lighter. Before the horrified eyes of Fethering, he proceeded, in a leisurely fashion, to light up.
‘I’m sorry,’ Bonita Green could not help herself from saying, ‘but I’m afraid this is a non-smoking venue.’
‘Sure,’ said Denzil Willoughby, taking a long drag from his cigarette. ‘Everywhere’s a non-smoking venue these days.’
‘But that means,’ the gallery-owner insisted, ‘that you shouldn’t smoke in here.’
‘No,’ countered the dreadlocked one. ‘It means that ordinary people shouldn’t smoke in here. One of the important things that anyone with any knowledge of the art world will tell you is that there are no rules for artists.’
‘Yes, there are!’ The voice that took issue with him was full of fury and alcohol. ‘Calling yourself an artist doesn’t mean you can evade all human responsibilities.’
The voice was Fennel Whittaker’s. Jude looked across anxiously at the girl as she swayed closer to Denzil Willoughby. Carole saw the quick worried look exchanged between Fennel’s parents, and the expression of pure fury on the face of her sister Chervil.
‘There’s no responsibility in telling someone you love them, is there?’ the drunken girl went on. ‘We’ve all done that in our time, haven’t we? We splash the word “love” around like it was water, don’t we? On tap, easily available, doesn’t cost anything. Doesn’t do anyone any harm. We’ve all told people we loved them when we didn’t, thought we loved people, then found out we were wrong. We’ve all—’
‘Shut up, Fen!’ It was Chervil, who had suddenly interposed herself between her sister and the bemused artist.
‘No, I won’t shut up!’
Like the tongue of a snake, Fennel’s hand leapt out and slapped hard across Chervil’s face. The younger sister recoiled, started to weep hysterically and backed off into the safety of Giles Green’s arms.
This was the signal for Ned and Sheena Whittaker, no longer able to pretend they had nothing to do with her, to move towards their daughter. Jude also went to offer comfort, but Fennel burst free of their restraining hands to continue her tirade. And, though she was undoubtedly very drunk, there was nothing maudlin or pathetic about her. She was in fact magnificent in her anger.
‘You used me, Denzil! Pretended you cared about me, pretended you rated my painting, when the only thing that mattered to you was my money. And when I stopped handing that out, you dumped me. By text!
‘Well, don’t worry. I’ll get my revenge on you! The sensitive bloody artist, too caught up in his own creativity to get involved in real life . . . that’s how you’ve always presented yourself, haven’t you? Avoid emotional entanglements, so that you can concentrate on your art – huh? Well, you can’t avoid everything. People are real! Life’s real! Death’s real! And anyone who causes the death of another person is responsible for that death. Guilt doesn’t go away. Oh, sometimes the guilty person doesn’t get branded as guilty in a court of law, but they still know what they’ve done. And the guilt for causing someone’s death will never be forgotten. It will eat away at the perpetrator.’ She looked round the gallery dramatically, as if challenging everyone present. ‘You may think you have a secret and it’s safe inside you. But no, that secret is corrosive and ultimately it will destroy you. The person who has destroyed someone’s life will have to live with that fact forever. He or she will never get away with it, never get off scot-free. As they have ruined a life, so will their own life be ruined!’