‘Lucky for you we Christians don’t do fatwas,’ he growled as he flexed his Sacred Heart. ‘You can’t leave this here in pieces. Put it together and park it somewhere.’
‘“But whereunto shall I liken this generation?’” said his colleague. ‘Matthew 11.16.’
‘The One for the Many, your number is seven six one,’ said the woman behind the desk with a barely perceptible shake of her head as she stamped my card and handed me the stub.
‘You’ve got to hand in your entry card for that,’ said the Hibernian one as he pointed to Sarah’s dolly.
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ she said. ‘I’ve decided not to enter it after all.’
‘“The kingdom of heaven is like unto leaven, which a woman took, and hid in three measures of meal, till the whole was leavened,” said he of the gospel. ‘Keep it moving, luv. Matthew 13.33.’
Sarah and I restacked the parts of my crucifixion on the dolly; then she pushed it and I carried my cross and other lumber through the already-entered entries until we found enough space to put everything together. I set up the easel to support the figure on its cross. Then I quickly assembled the figure, pegged it to the cross, and pegged the cross to the easel.
There it was then, reared up for the world to see, and I could feel people staring at it — it was impossible not to stare. The enormity of what I had done hit me like a ton of bricks, and I half expected my crash-test-dummy-saviour to yell, ‘Get me out of here!’ but it said nothing. ‘Well,’ I said to Sarah, ‘are you happy now?’
‘Are you?’
‘I don’t know what I am: crazed, I think.’
‘Crazed is better than chicken.’
‘It’s like that, is it?’
‘It’s all kinds of things, and that’s one of them.’
‘Righty-o. Well, we’ve done this. They don’t seem to be handing out T-shirts, so we might as well go home now.’
‘You’re pissed off with me, aren’t you?’
‘I’m pissed off with myself.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know, really. I’m a little short of answers today.’
‘So it seems.’
At that moment I was reflecting on how strangers become intimate but at any moment intimates can become strangers again. I’d wrapped the dolly in our discarded brown paper so we could get into a taxi with it, and we walked down to Old Street and found one fairly soon. There we were then, just the two of us in a private space that seemed to be closing in on us.
‘It’s been a long day,’ said Sarah.
‘And a hard one. It was one thing to see that piece in my studio, but seeing it in that museum really spooked me.’
‘And now you wish you hadn’t entered it?’
‘I agree with what you said about not walking away from it but I haven’t yet been able to get comfortable with the whole thing.’
‘Comfort isn’t always possible.’
‘Maybe I should’ve had that tattooed on my shoulder instead of a bat.’
‘Maybe you should have.’ Her voice had an edge to it. We both sank into our thoughts then, and by the time I looked out into the world again we’d come through the City and were on the Embankment. As Westminster Bridge and Boadicea approached we looked up together and looked away again. The Houses of Parliament came and went, the bridges one after the other, the Battersea Power Station with its legs in the air as always. When we were nearing Fulham Sarah said, ‘I think you could use an evening to yourself. Could you drop me at my place, please?’
‘Certainly.’ There was a long silence from there to Doria Road. When we got there I said, ‘Can I phone you tomorrow?’
‘Please do,’ she said. We kissed in a small way and she went into her house. So ended the day in which we entered The One for the Many in the R. Albert Streeter Competition.
28 Sarah Varley
I didn’t realise how lonely I’d been until I stopped being lonely. Not being lonely feels good, as if I’m augmented, more substantial, casting a longer shadow. It also means that I have another person to think of. How’s he feeling today, the day after the R. Albert Streeter Museum? What’s he thinking, about me in particular? Was I wrong in urging him to enter that competition? How much do I care if I was wrong? A lot. This is someone I want to stay with then, is it? Yes. Why do I go for men who, in my opinion, need work? Because they seem capable of change, of becoming, with me, someone they haven’t been before. But love changes everyone, doesn’t it? Even those who don’t need work? Yes, but a man like Roswell has a kind of charm that comes from not being altogether sure of himself and not taking me for granted. When we made love the other night I could feel his happiness and I loved him for it.
How many men have there been between Giles and Roswell? Three that lasted a month or so; two one-nighters. And this …? Looks pretty good to me, OK? OK.
I wish I knew more about him though. We’ve exchanged histories in a rudimentary way but I’ve no idea where he is in himself at the moment. There’s something bothering him, I know that much.
29 R. Albert Streeter
I have left the selection of the judges to Folsom Bray and he has chosen Thurston Fort of the Royal Academy, George Rubcek the art collector, Harvey Stern the sculptor, and Georgiana Crupper the painter. No critics were included and this surprised me. Bray tells me that Fort is open to everything. Rubcek I know about: he has acquired many pieces of rubbish which are now overvalued by many millions. Harvey Stern’s sculptures are mostly done by quarry crews who from stone shape huge blocks in which he drills little holes. Georgiana Crupper does horse portraits. Well, Bray is the chair. As Director of the Post-Modern Gallery he was a figure of controversy, and so adroit was he at justifying his actions that it was said of him that he could easily move into politics. The sooner the better, said some. Here I have limited my contribution to money; my opinions I contain in myself.
Fifty works will be accepted for the exhibition. From these will be made a shortlist of ten, one of which will be the winner. The competition is already much talked of and I expect good coverage from the press when the exhibition opens, when the shortlist appears, and when the winner is announced.
From Roswell Clark I have heard nothing since my letter of encouragement in which I wondered what his talent dreams of. Does it dream of something more than crash-dummies?
30 Roswell Clark
With the entering of the competition one day behind me I felt much better. Sarah made dinner for us at her place and we became comfortable again. The house was full of bright colours, the bookshelves were well stocked, and there was a print of Caspar David Friedrichs’s Chalk Cliffs on Rugen with the sheer drop of its white cliffs to the blue sea. In the foreground, seen from behind, are a woman in a red dress pointing down and a man on his hands and knees looking over the edge.
‘He’s afraid of heights, afraid of falling,’ I said, ‘and she’s pointing down into the drop. What does she want him to do?’
‘She’s pointing at those little red flowers just on the edge,’ said Sarah.
‘Ah, yes,’ I said, ‘and he’ll get some for her, too, if the edge doesn’t give way.’
‘That’s what I call a real gentleman,’ she said, and we had a quick cuddle. We were in the kitchen, drinking a Minervois, while good smells came from the oven where the lamb was cooking. Boxes and bags of her merchandise stood on the floor, some ready to move out, others in reserve. There was an Egberto Gismonti guitar track going, a warm sound for a winter evening.