— You. . you what. .?
As he repeats his explanation, Melanie Francis thinks of those assholes, with their arrogant, bullying threats, and considers how they would react to seeing their vehicle destroyed. She looks at her husband and starts to laugh, throwing her arms around his neck. Jim smiles, looking over her shoulder, through the window and out to the yard, where Grace is making Eve a daisy chain.
4. THE WORKSHOP
Guns n’ Roses’ Chinese Democracy blasts out from a large sound system at a volume that almost pushes Martin Crosby right back out of the heavy reinforced door he’d slid open in order to enter the small studio. A traditional stack stereo system and its huge dominant speakers are crammed into a window- and sky-lit space that’s barely big enough to contain a kiln and an easel, with some paints and building materials stacked on the floor. He can’t see Jim Francis at his workbench but the heads of the Hollywood actors and pop stars lined up on shelving are recognisable to Martin, in spite of the implausibly creative mutilations the artist has subjected them to. A blockbuster star has his razored face crudely stitched back together. A cable-series icon has been cursed by a massive tumour growing out the side of his head. A pop princess has cruelly lost an eye.
Then, suddenly, the music stops and Francis is at his shoulder holding a remote, making Martin jump. The artist says nothing to his agent, as is generally his way. Martin Crosby, himself a calm, taciturn man, who prefers to listen as he peers out from over silver-framed spectacles, has plenty of ungrateful clients, some who see his role, at best, as a necessary evil. Yet he’s never had one as — hostile wasn’t the right word, that would almost be an improvement — as unmoved as Francis. He’s just driven two and a half hours on the choked interstate to offer support for his artist and his forthcoming exhibition, and all he gets from Jim Francis is, — So what you brings you up here, then?
As Martin explains, rubbing at a beard shaved to the same bristle-length as his hair, Jim Francis merely says, — All going okay. I’d best be getting back to it, and he points to a small fridge. — Help yourself to a bottle of water, as he picks up the handset and what to Martin is charmless, overproduced rock music fills the air and assails his eardrums. He goes to speak but realises the futility of doing so as Francis walks to his sculpture in the corner, hunching over another head, moulding it violently with his big calloused hands, and ripping at it with a selection of knives.
Yet it is almost worth coming up, just to see Jim Francis at work. It really is a sight to behold. Most sculptors are heavily orientated towards the physical, but it seems to Martin that Francis’s controlled rage is scored by the music’s chopping, ripping guitar work and raw vocals, to the extent that he actually lets the sound guide him across the clay. It is as if the band is composing this head, and they are using Francis as a conduit. Attached to the wall at his side are magnetic strips, which hold all types of knives. Most are the traditional thin stainless-steel blades he’s seen other artists use for clay sculpting, but there are some larger ones that look like hunting knives, while others appear to be a surgeon’s operating instruments. He recalls Francis once said in an interview that he likes to use utensils not traditionally associated with sculpting.
Jim Francis is a strange one, no doubt about that, Martin considers, though this quality is hardly unique among his client base. Artists are artists. Martin had wanted to talk about next month’s opening, to make sure all the pieces would be ready for exhibition, and how best to set it up. This wasn’t easy. Francis has an email account but never responds to Martin’s overtures, nor does he return his texts. The phone conversations, when he deigns to pick up, are an exercise in gruff minimalism. The last time they’d spoken, Jim Francis had just said, in that gravelly accent of his, — Remember to invite Rod Stewart to the opening, before hanging up.
So Martin has come up from Los Angeles, and so far it is odds-on that it will prove to be a waste of a day. This really isn’t acceptable. In his mounting frustration, Martin shouts at the artist’s back, but the music is too loud and something makes him shy about physically touching Jim Francis, even the minimal contact to indicate that a conversation would be welcome. He sees his chance when the track changes and Axl Rose’s scream briefly fades. — JIM!. .
The artist swivels round and grabs the handset, switching off the music. He looks calmly at Martin.
— I appreciate that you’re very busy and I greatly admire your work ethic, but we have some major decisions to make about the exhibition. I really need some undivided time with you. I’ve driven up from LA –
— Okay, Francis snaps in agitation, then seems to thaw a little, — give me an hour and we’ll go and grab a late lunch. Go through to the house and Mel will get you a coffee or a beer or something, and he slams the music back on at a volume that makes Martin Crosby keen to comply. Closing the door behind him, Martin moves into a small anteroom, then the main house itself. The studio was probably an old garage, in some way part of things here, but not in others. A bit like Francis himself, he speculates.
Martin has only met Jim Francis’s wife, Melanie, once before, at the opening of a show. Again, she is as friendly and engaging as his client is brusque and distant. Her blonde hair is held back by a red band, and she wears grey sweatpants and a red tanktop. An exercise mat had been placed on the floor in front of a giant flat-screen TV, and weights and elasticated resistance cords attested, along with a thin layer of sweat on her brow, to her recent exertions.
Melanie gets some cold bottles of water for them both, and sits Martin down on the couch. She lowers herself into a padded armchair opposite, folding her legs into a lotus position. — Jim can be pretty intense when he’s working. I admire his single-mindedness, I get too easily distracted, but it isn’t always fun to be around. She shakes her head in cheerful affection, letting Martin know that this observation isn’t intended as a slight to her husband.
It is closer to an hour and a half when Jim Francis emerges, by which time Martin has grown hungry, although Melanie’s agreeable company has distracted him. Francis nods at his wife. — Won’t be long, he says, then turns to Martin and briefly raises his eyebrows. To end up with a woman so outgoing, vivacous and good-looking, and far younger than her husband, Jim Francis must possess some kind of charm, but Martin Crosby has always struggled to find it.
They get into Francis’s station wagon and journey in silence to downtown Santa Barbara, stopping at a beachside cafe called the Shoreline. They head for a table in a tent-covered al fresco area looking out onto the Pacific, and Martin notes that Jim Francis seems more relaxed. He spies a couple with a big, wrinkled oriental dog, greeting them by shaking the man’s hand, kissing the woman’s cheek, then aggressively petting the enthusiastic animal. — Neighbours, he explains to Martin, as they take their seats. Francis smiles easily at the approaching young waitress. — How’s things, Candy?
— I’m good, Jim, she sings, dispensing a flashbulb smile.
Martin joins his client in ordering an egg-white omelette with spinach and feta cheese, and a side of fresh fruit. He fires up his Mac, displaying representations of layouts, and different floor-plan options where paintings could be hung and sculptures mounted. Martin starts to explain the natural and placed lighting and the different effects they would have on the various pieces. — I thought if you could spare an afternoon or morning to drive down and see the space, he begins, before Francis silences him with a firm tap on the first set of configurations on the screen. — This one’s fine, he says.