Painting in the Shadows Read online

  For Mum

  Great art can make even the most powerful person seem insignificant – and I’m not important, by any means. Except, perhaps, to my dog, my mother and, occasionally, my clients. And to my best friend, John. Maybe that’s why I feel so small as I approach the low, semi-circular portal, punched in the side of the bluestone fortress that is the Melbourne International Museum of Art. The fact that MIMA’s trade entrance is known as the mousehole probably doesn’t help. Luckily, John is already there when I come round the corner and I lengthen my stride, trying for cool and confident.

  ‘You’d better have a picnic basket stashed around here some­where.’ I stop a few metres away. ‘We are doing lunch, right?’

  He squints and shields his face. ‘We are. Once your mind has been completely blown. We’re going inside for half an hour tops and then I’ll wine and dine you in the finest, tax-deductible style.’ John buffs his nails on the front of his vintage red and cream bowling shirt.

  I roll my eyes behind my dark Ray-Bans. ‘Lucky me. I think I might wait here.’

  ‘Sure. Meanwhile I’m off for a private view of an amazing, yet-to-be-opened exhibition. See you in a bit.’

  ‘Masterpieces of Victorian Britain?’

  ‘There’s some great stuff, according to Giles. Millais’ Mariana and something Arthurian by Burne-Jones spring to mind.’ John is doing his version of a discreet happy dance. It involves a lot of shoulder action while his feet are firmly rooted to the spot. Fortunately, we’re alone.

  ‘John.’ I realise my hand is squeezing the strap of my bag, and I force myself to take a breath and let it go. ‘I can’t.’ I look over his shoulder at the Museum and feel my stomach drop.

  ‘It’s only Giles. You like him, right? And did you hear me mention Burne-Jones? Besides, you come here all the time.’

  ‘Only through the public entrance and not when there’s a chance I’ll run into anyone.’

  ‘Your angst is totally misplaced, and anyway, this will be worth it. Trust me.’

  ‘After your false promises of lunch? It’s been ages since we caught up – so pleased you could squeeze me in, by the way – but I think I’ll leave the exhibition until it opens next week.’

  ‘Nuh-uh! You know this is your thing, and besides, you’ve got me to look out for you.’

  I snort, but I can already feel the pull of that Burne-Jones. There’s a whole exhibition waiting for me, no crowds, and from the sound of it, some paintings I’ve only ever sighed over in books. I’ve been in the art business for more than a decade now and handled probably thousands of paintings, some good, some brilliant, and some truly abysmal. But each time I see a new work I feel something deep in my gut, almost on a cellular level. Emotions quickly follow, their trajectory depending on what mood the artist has tried to create and how well he or she has pulled it off, but it’s that initial frisson that keeps me chasing art. It’s like a drug, and right now, it’s quelling my anxiety. I step forward, closing the gap between John and me.

  ‘Let’s go.’ He moves to the door and reaches for the bell, but the guard sitting inside has already clocked our approach. The door lock buzzes and we push our way in, the sudden cool chilling my nervous sweat. No art here, just an expanse of polished concrete leading to the museum beyond. A reception desk is built into the wall on our right, the guard installed in the cubbyhole behind it. He watches as we approach.

  ‘John Porter and Alex Clayton to see Giles Westerman. We’re expected …’ John leans forward and reads the guard’s name tag, ‘Ray.’

  The guard gives John a bit of a smirk and I wonder if he witnessed the awkward boogaloo moment.

  ‘Porter and Clayton?’ He runs a meaty finger down the brief list in front of him, then stabs the page. ‘Righto.’

  I blink. I’m on the list. No one has objected or tried to kick me out.

  We sign in and Ray slides two visitor tags across the desk to us. ‘Pop those on and I’ll let Mr Westerman know you’re here.’

  John and I retreat a few steps and hang the lanyards around our necks as Ray gets busy on the phone.

  ‘He’ll be along directly.’

  Nodding our thanks, we’re silent, occupying ourselves by pulling faces at each other. Thrilled that his strategy has worked and I’m here, inside, John’s faces are all smug, wide-eyed, what-a-great-surprise. A small part of me is still wondering how I let myself be suckered into this, so mine tend toward you’re-pathetic-grow-up sort of expressions. It passes the time quite satisfactorily.

  I hear the measured thump of footsteps moments before Giles Westerman rounds the corner. He heaves into view like a ship under full sail, scudding before the wind: large yet graceful at the same time. Giles smiles and raises a hand as he spots us, but even from here I can see lines etched deep in his forehead. I’m sure they weren’t there last time I saw him, only a couple of years ago. Being head conservator at the most prestigious art museum in the country is clearly not all rainbows and unicorns. He’s wearing corduroy pants and paint-splattered loafers, and his shirt is rumpled and coming untucked. Under his arm is a veritable accordion of clipboards. It’s a far cry from his normal fastidious turnout.

  He shakes hands with us both but gives my hand an extra pat before releasing it. My throat feels very dry.

  ‘Good. Excellent. Great you could both come. Alex, lovely to see you – it’s been far too long. We’re receiving as we speak, unpacking everything in the exhibition space. Good in theory, but it means I’m dashing about like a madman – exhibition galleries to conservation department and back again – condition reports to cross-check, documentation to file in triplicate. Glasses! Where are my glasses?’ He thrusts the clipboards into my arms and pats down his pockets.

  ‘They’re on your head,’ John says.

  Giles reaches one hand up. ‘So they are.’

  ‘Giles,’ I say, ‘surely your staff could handle it?’

  ‘Oh, of course! The registrars are more than capable, but I do like to keep an eye on these things myself. Around fifty million dollars’ worth of irreplaceable masterpieces, no pressure. My doctor told me I needed to either slow down or become a martyr to art.’ Giles takes a deep breath before extending both hands out sideways, wrists angled skyward. ‘So here we are! It seemed like an opportune time to lure you in for a bit of shop talk, John.’ Giles converts his crucifixion into a sweeping gesture, sending John and me ahead of him toward the main galleries of MIMA, collecting his clipboards as I pass. ‘The hang is well underway and it’s due to open next week, so there’s plenty to see.’

  All that great art is only a short walk away. Just the thought of getting my nose right in front of some of the best paintings of the nineteenth century has completely overridden my trepidation.

  Giles is still talking. ‘If you’ve got time we can also pop down to the conservation labs and you can see what we’re working on.’

  ‘This is going to be amazing,’ I say to John.

  ‘When is great art not amazing?’

  Fair point.

  Giles takes us through the gift shop (‘Easier to come in the back way when the place is full of people,’ he says) raising a hand to a black-clad girl with a walkie-talkie who is presumably policing new arrivals to the exhibition rooms. She barely glances at us as we breeze past.

  We turn sharp left to navigate a newly installed temporary wall and enter what will be the last room of the Museum’s latest blockbuster exhibition. Despite Giles’ assertion that the hang is well underway, only a few paintings are in place, but a number of closed crates are dotted about, allowing the paintings within to slowly acclimatise to the
museum environment. In here, the walls are a deep burgundy, the sort of colour you’d expect to find in an upper-class Victorian parlour, and the smell of paint is still heavy in the air. Pairs of museum-grade picture hooks are studded across the walls, and in a couple of places I spot L brackets, additional support for heavier paintings. The distribution of hooks suggests they’re going for a couple of salon-style clusters of smaller paintings, but mostly the works will hang alone, probably at a standard height of 147 centimetres on centre. Around the room people are working to fix placards low on the walls, full of detail about each painting: title, artist, medium and owner.

  ‘Nothing to worry about. Never missed a gala opening yet. Things are a bit further along in the other galleries.’ Giles sets off toward a portal that has been adorned with faux Victorian plasterwork to resemble a vaulted arch atop acanthus-leaf corbels.

  John follows Giles, but I stop. My attention is caught by two packers who have a huge crate laid out on the floor. There’s nothing remarkable about the crate except for its size: it must be at least three metres long and it bristles with stickers proclaiming the fragility of its contents. The two men in their yellowy-brown dustcoats kneel at opposite corners of the travelling crate, almost as though they’re paying homage to the gods of art or involved in a primitive ritual to invoke colour. They murmur to each other and I catch the name ‘Tommo’. One of the packers raises an eyebrow at his colleague and receives a nod in response. Each man picks up a drill.

  A small group of people, curatorial staff I guess, hovers nearby. I move closer to stand behind them, wanting to know what’s in the box. It could be something from the Royal Collection, and on the off chance it is something from Her Majesty’s private stash, I definitely want to be the first commoner to clap eyes on it. Of course, it’s just as likely to be the star piece from some small, regional gallery, which is even more thrilling. Everyone knows what HRH has – there are multiple volumes on the subject. But obscure collections founded on the largesse of wealthy graziers are frequently dusty repositories for long-forgotten masterpieces.

  I look at the packers again. I’m jealous. Jealous of their uncomplicated working lives, but especially envious of their privilege: to be the first to behold what treasures lie within these crates, even before the curators or the most officious and overbearing director. To slide back the lid to reveal … What? Magic.

  I’ve felt this way about art since I was four years old and ran away from Mum in the Fitzroy Gardens. She says she was frantic, looking everywhere and imagining me squashed on Wellington Parade, but all I remember is where she found me: in front of Fairies Tree. Ola Cohn’s beautiful carving was my first experience of art. Of course, it took me a couple of years to realise it was art, but that feeling of wonder, of being swept away by colour and beauty and imagination, has stayed with me ever since.

  Their drills start with a whir and they work their way carefully around the edge of the crate, extracting screws and dropping each one into a small container. When the last screw is out, the drills are set aside. One of the men, the younger looking of the two, pauses and pats his chest, taking a few deep breaths. He has a black stubble beard and scalp to match, both contrasting sharply with his pale skin. Even from here I can see beads of sweat shining on his forehead.

  ‘Alright Tommo?’ asks the other guy. He’s all grizzled chops, swept-back leonine mane, and the sort of half-moon glasses favoured by jewellers and watchmakers. An artisan in his own right. He has one hand on the lid of the crate, his attention on his partner.

  ‘Yeah Wayne. Just feeling a bit crook. She’ll be right.’ He grasps the lid and opposite him, the other packer, Wayne, adjusts his grip, eyeballs his mate, then nods. The two of them lift the lid smoothly, straight up and away. As one, my little coterie of bystanders cranes forward, then settles back with a sigh. The painting is tandem riding so all we can see is a box within a box, held snugly in place by the foam bracers and corners of the outer shell. In front of me, a short guy with a grubby collar and a receding hairline makes a note on his clipboard.

  The two packers carefully ease the inner box from its surroundings and lift it onto a low, wide table.

  ‘What is it?’ John asks as he and Giles come up behind me.

  ‘Just about to find out.’ I turn and smile at the two of them, then quickly turn back. I don’t want to miss the big reveal.

  Tommo passes a chisel to Wayne, who adjusts his glasses and then begins to work his way around the edge of the box, carefully inserting the tip of the chisel and easing the lid from the base. The way he leans in as he works makes it seem like he’s listening to the sound of the wood, interpreting its creaks and groans so he knows when to apply pressure and when to relent. It’s delicate. Finally, with more of a pop than a crack, the lid is free and the two men smoothly lift it clear, this time carrying it a few steps from the table and placing it back with the other packing material. One of the curators steps forward but is halted in his tracks by a look from over the top of those half-moon specs.

  ‘Hold your horses,’ Wayne says. ‘Let me and my blokes finish, then she’s all yours.’ He turns and beckons to two more dust-coat clad men, who step up to the table. All of them pull on white cotton gloves.

  I can now see a tantalising glimpse of the canvas between the packers’ shoulders. Nestled in the bottom half of the enormous box and surrounded by an ornate gilt frame, its proportions suggest it’s some sort of landscape, but we’re too far away and the table is too high to make out more than a small splash of red, patches of cream and vast swathes of white, grey, and inky black. Even that is enough to send a thrill of adrenaline through me, making my stomach flip. There were probably hundreds of snowy landscapes and more than a few Arctic scenes painted during the Victorian era, but something I’ve glimpsed has triggered an alarm in my mental library of paintings. I’m almost certain this is Man Proposes, God Disposes.

  ‘Righto lads,’ Wayne gives the signal.

  The four men settle in to their well-choreographed routine, stationing themselves around the painting and extending their hands. With a swish they lift it clear, shuffle sideways, and deposit it gently on the free end of the packing table.

  I look at the people in front of me, trying to gauge when it’s okay to step forward, then I hear Wayne.

  ‘Tommo? Thomas? Are you right mate?’ Wayne is staring across the table at Tommo, who has gone quite pale. Tommo has removed his gloves, which now lie like melting snow on the floor. One hand is braced on the table, veins popping, the other is clamped around the discarded chisel.

  ‘C’mere. Sit down.’ Wayne barrels around the table and puts an arm around Tommo’s shoulder, tries to ease him away from the table. ‘Bit of bloody help here!’ He shouts the last to the other two packers, who have moved on to another crate. They turn and start to hurry back.

  Tommo straightens and half-turns under Wayne’s guiding arm, but then stops. Wayne must feel something change, because his eyes go wide.

  ‘Hey!’ The other packers start running and a couple of the curators step forward, but Tommo is already pitching forward. His face has gone blank, eyes rolling up. Even as more hands reach to support him he goes down, slumping forward across the newly exposed painting.

  ‘Shit!’ someone yells. It might be Giles.

  Tommo is laid out on the floor, lips blue. Why is no one moving? Without thinking I push my way between the museum staff, who remain riveted in place. I drop down next to Tommo and look at Wayne, who is feeling for a pulse. He shakes his head.

  ‘Ambulance!’ I yell over my shoulder, then look at Wayne. ‘Do you know what to do?’

  He nods. ‘Go!’

  I start compressions, punctuated by mouth-to-mouth from Wayne. The world goes quiet except for our counting. It seems like an eternity before the ambulance arrives and the paramedics take over, but by then, Tommo has a pulse. Faint and thready, but it’s there. They work quickly and effic
iently, setting up an IV, administering meds and finally wheeling Tommo away to bundle him into the back of an ambulance. The entire time, no one speaks. Not the blokes who helped Wayne and Tommo. Not the curators who have retreated into their tight group like a flock of frightened chickens. Not Giles and John who are standing off to one side, faces taut. Not Wayne and I, standing together but too exhausted to do more than give each other a nod.

  I learnt CPR after a visit to the College of Surgeons’ Museum to see Daryl Lindsay’s watercolours. Painted in England between 1917 and 1921 when he was official medical artist at the Queen’s Hospital, Sidcup, Lindsay’s images document horrific war injuries and the hospital’s pioneering but often confronting facial reconstructions. The details were amazing, but the works also made me realise that I never wanted to be in a position where someone was hurt and I didn’t know what to do.

  There is a moment of stillness when the paramedics leave, then Giles steps up to the abandoned painting. ‘Oh my God.’ His hand flies up to cover half his face. He groans. Suddenly the room bursts to life as we all converge on the packing table and stare down at the painting. It has a chisel in it. A chisel, at the end of a long, ragged gash that traces the path of Tommo’s collapse.

  ***

  ‘Well this is a fuck up of monumental proportions.’ Robert Swindon, director of the Melbourne International Museum of Art, stares down at the torn canvas. He’s already loosened his lavender tie and now he clasps his hands tightly behind his back, as though afraid any more contact will cause the painting to explode in a cloud of dust. John and I stand near one of the blank walls while Giles, the gaggle of curators, and Wayne, who I’ve now discovered is head of the packing and handling crew, cluster behind the director in a frozen tableau. The scene reminds me of Rembrandt’s The Anatomy Lesson of Dr Nicolaes Tulp, where a surgeon probes the sinews of a corpse while black-clad devotees look on with varying degrees of horror and fascination. One of the curators even has the right beard and upturned moustache, and in the painting before them, the white-toned Arctic landscape seems to glow with the same otherworldly pallor of Rembrandt’s waxen-skinned cadaver.