The Art School Dance Read online

  ‘He left that unlocked in case I need anything. You won’t find any booze in there, though, not unless you’re into varnish stripper or neat alcohol.’

  Okay.

  Feigning an interest in the various works in progress, Principal Teacher strolled nonchalantly around the studio, puffing on his cigarette, running his fingers over the polished buttocks of a wood carving, pricking them on the pointed breast of a metal torso, taking a roundabout route to the storeroom. Rose returned to her work, but was soon distracted by the hammering of a heavy duty drill, looked up to see the Principal on his knees, drilling holes in the door to Jim Heap’s room.

  ‘Teach! What the fuck-!’

  ‘Shut up and keep a watch out!’ he told her.

  Wavering in the centre of the studio, between Teacher in one corner and the main door opposite, wondering whether to intervene or not, Rose’s hesitancy allowed Teacher time to pepper the wood around the lock with holes.

  ‘Easy,’ he grinned, setting down the drill and picking up a hammer. ‘Now, all we need do is-’

  With one blow he sent the lock, along with a sizeable chunk of wood, crashing into the office. As soon as the door fell open, however, alarm bells start ringing, so loud that they would have to be heard throughout the five floors of the building.

  ‘Oh shit!’ said Rose.

  Quite, thought Teacher, of much the same opinion, but being older and wiser he remained calm enough to dart into the office, upturn the furniture and come out with a bottle of vodka.

  ‘It isn’t the water of life but it’ll have to do,’ he said, striding briskly across the studio.

  ‘Hey! Where the fuck do you think you’re going?’ Rose demanded, grabbing him by the arm

  ‘Out.’

  ‘And leave me to take the blame? Oh no you’re not! You’re staying here to explain!’

  ‘Get off!’ said Teacher, trying to shake the girl away, but she held fast, fixed herself to him like a limpet. He had never known a woman to be so clinging, not since his brief dalliance with Pam, so he picked her up and carried her to the door. Hearing shouts and footsteps coming towards them, he then turned on his heels and went back across the room, bruising his shins and ankles on the creative debris which litters the floor. He reached the huge sliding doors which offered the only other escape, dropped Rose to the floor and tugged at the handles.

  ‘Oh my goodness! Oh!’ he heard Ron crying, from the other side.

  ‘Oh merde! Not him!’ Teacher turned away, eyes darting anxiously, wondering, ‘Where now?’

  ‘In here,’ said Rose, spinning him and pushing him, nudging him forwards so that everything was suddenly dark, soft, quiet.

  Teacher picked himself up -he felt sure that he did!- and put his feet down -’my feet are down’, he told himself- but there was no sensation, he felt nothing. He reached out his hands before him but there was nothing to touch, he stamped his feet both left and right but felt nothing underfoot. Nothing could be heard and no matter how many times he blinked his eyes the world became no brighter.

  ‘Where the fuck are we?’ he asked.

  ‘In my black box,’ Rose told him with a breathless enthusiasm, a heavy exhalation, as of a last breath. ‘It’s padded, soundproof, lightproof. It’s all about sensory deprivation. Should I tell you about it? It’s like being in the afterlife, like living in a dream.’

  ‘I think I already am,’ said Teacher. And then, more softly, ‘I bloody well hope I am. Give me dreams any day. I’ve had enough of reality.’

  Chapter One

  Mother was dead but I shed no tears. Rather I was angry because she had left me, deprived me of this pivotal moment in my life. In her absence I had to imagine it, picture how it should have been.

  ‘Well, Virginia, good luck,’ she would have -should have- said, as we faced each other like bookends with nothing between us, awkwardly silent until that moment. Nose to nose in the small room which was to be my student accommodation, the gap which separated us would seem greater than generations, cardboard boxes littering the floor crowding us closer together, giving us no room to manoeuvre, making it difficult for each to avoid the other’s gaze. The sense of confrontation would be made more pronounced by our similar height and build, as alike as mother and daughter could be, age our only difference, thinning and greying the hair of one while the other’s was still luxuriant, giving one face a creased experience while the other was still brightly hopeful.

  ‘Sorry?’ I would say, after my mother had broken that uncomfortable silence, speaking slowly, as if only after careful consideration.

  ‘With your studies, Virginia! Good luck!’

  ‘Oh. Yes.’

  A hand would then be extended, which I would shake without knowing why. It would only be after my mother had left, wrapped in that reconstituted silence which seemed the one natural thing after so many years together, only once I was alone that I would consider the gesture, recalling that the hand in mine had seemed so much smaller than in the past, when it had been used mainly to scold and rarely to pet. I would feel that there had to be some reason for it, that quick thrust forward and the embarrassed contraction of the fingers, but would be able to recall no clues in my mother’s expression, only the permanent wrinkles around the eyes and the furrows across the brow which had been drawn out by nineteen years of motherhood. So what might have been the reason? Could it have been pride in a daughter, or envy of her? Sadness, perhaps, at seeing the only child finally leave home?

  I would never know.

  Mother was dead.

  All I could do was shrug and set aside the problem, empty the cardboard boxes around me of books and music, stack the tiny dressing table with cosmetics and creams, then go outside to see what life away from home might have to offer, determined that I would sleep with the first clean man I met.

  *

  The first clean man I happened upon wore a shirt which was shredded at the waist and cuffs, as though he wanted buckskin but found it beyond his budget. He also wore a string of small beads around his neck, and across the room, through the smoke which was like a summer haze, blurring colours and making shadows of every shape, I was pushed to decide if they were wood or plastic or ceramic.

  They might even have been tiny cowrie shells.

  ‘Lemon pips,’ he told me, crossing the room to stand beside me.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I saw you looking at these.’ He smiled as he rattled the beads in front of my face. ‘They’re varnished lemon pips.’

  ‘Unusual,’ I acknowledged, taking the beads between my fingers and shaking them as he had done.

  ‘They suit my nature,’ he laughed. ‘I’m bitter, acidic.’

  I took a sip from my drink, then held up the glass. It was beer, but darkened with a splash of blackcurrant cordial. ‘Look how it melts in with the walls,’ I observed, pointing at the wood panelling of the bar through the brown liquid. ‘You can hardly see the beer for the wood. Or the wood for the trees.’

  I was thinking in colour and tone, which gave the young man his clue. ‘You’re at the art school, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Or at least I will be from tomorrow.’ I flattered him with a smile, complementing him on his insight. ‘How clever of you. How did you guess?’

  He shrugged, as though the answer was obvious and my flattery had been wasted. ‘I’ve not seen you in here before, so you’re not local. The only other people who come down here are from the art school. It’s that sort of place.’

  Loud and extravagant. Or moody and soulful. Faded denim and second-hand frills. That sort of place. A dive of a bar in a sprawling basement, the ceiling low as if the weight of the office block above it was bearing down too heavily.

  We moved from the bar to sit down and I noticed a particular fragrance as he shook his long hair from his eyes, fruity again, limes or lemons. It might have been his shampoo.

  ‘So?’ he asked. ‘What do you want to do at art school?’

  ‘Things that will make people cr
y,’ I answered, and he laughed his cheerfulness laudable but maybe a little ill-timed.

  I must have look hurt, for he placed his hand on mine, still laughing as he said, ‘But that’s good. That’s great. I can appreciate that. Now don’t you go away, there’s someone over there I have to see.’

  I watched him as he crossed the room, tight trousers adding a certain effeminate elegance to his stride, his eyes sparkling, smiling greetings at people as he went. Back at the bar he stopped to speak with a young couple, both about my age, the girl dressed all in black, her partner with long curls which danced about his shoulders as he speaks, shiny dark knots which twist tightly and dance ever more wildly as he nodded his head enthusiastically, responding to whatever was being said.

  Then the smell of fruit and the faint sound of lemon pips was before me again.

  ‘There’s a party,’ he told me. ‘Want to come?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Not far. You’ll enjoy it.’

  I didn't even know his name yet, was about to ask but then decided that perhaps this was for the best.

  *

  The house I was taken to must have been the strangest I had ever known, unlike any I had visited before. In the room where the two of us sat -on the floor with our backs against the wall, drinking cheap red wine from paper cups- my eye was first caught by an ashtray next to the fireplace, a child-size mannequin sawn in half at the waist and filled with grey ash and cigarette stubs, a strip of emery paper strategically glued between the legs and darkened by the striking of many matches. Then I saw the upper torso of the dummy on the other side of the room, in the bay of the window, a noose about its neck and the body scarred by a bread knife, this still buried to the hilt where the jugular might be. Dark shadows to either side were a result of the wall being painted in matt black emulsion, this then leaking onto a second wall only to stop abruptly, replaced by a vivid Day-Glo orange. The wall against which I leant was similarly decorated, but with one quarter black and the remainder green.

  ‘They ran out of paint?’ I supposed.

  ‘Maybe. Or maybe it was intentional. They come from the art school, the people who live here. Perhaps you’ve met them.’

  I shook my head, reminding him that I didn't start my studies until the next day. ‘I’ve met no one yet,’ I told him, still a stranger to this world.

  ‘Apart from me.’ Fingers clasped mine and urged me to my feet. ‘Come on.’

  I was about to ask where again, but instead said, ‘To?’

  ‘Just come,’ he said impatiently, and dragged me between the bodies which were now crowding the room.

  I found the route harder to negotiate than he did, and he must have mistaken my slow progress for a reluctance to follow. Stopping, he turned to me and explained that we were going to Fraser’s bedroom-

  Whose?

  -to Fraser’s rather than to any of the others because he had the largest bed. This said, I was hurried on, up the stairs and along the landing. Faced with a door, a hand in the small of the back ushered me through and led me to the bed

  The kisses I was subjected to were obviously passionate, for I almost choked on them. For my own part I was able to demonstrate a little more finesse, though, calming the hands which pawed me before leading them to the buttons of my blouse. There was some fumbling, the first button was managed but the second proved a little more awkward, and perhaps it was embarrassment or frustration which brought the return of the enthusiastic kisses. Impatient with my suitor’s clumsiness I sat upright and shrugged myself free of blouse and bra and skirt, then settled back against the pillows, sliding my arm beneath my partner’s shoulder blades.

  A caressing word, this was obviously what he thought was needed now, and he softly whispered my name. ‘Virginia.’

  ‘Yes?’ I said, my movements coming to a sudden halt, and his expression told me that this wasn’t the response he had hoped for. I should have moaned with pleasure, maybe, or murmured his name in return, but I would still rather not know his name so I pulled his embarrassed face to my body, where it could burrow a space between my breasts to bury its reddening cheeks.

  ‘Come on sweetheart, please try,’ I said in encouragement, wanting to get it over with, for I had more important things to do.

  *

  The one thing foremost in my mind was the desire to be an artist, to communicate, to move people, and the attempt at making love had been nothing more than a gesture, something expected of an eighteen year old who has finally escaped the confines of home. By the following morning I had dismissed the episode from my mind, much as I would any other obligation fulfilled, and all my thoughts were of the college before me and what it held in store.

  The steel and glass of the building shone like a Bauhaus blossom, its windows tilted at various angles to break the September sun into so many mosaic pieces. I walked up the two flights of steps and into the entrance hall, where a notice directed all new fine art students to the fifth floor. A lift took me there, where I found the first year students assembled in the studio. They seemed to be an affable bunch, but for the moment I chose to sit alone.

  Be different and make an impression, I reminded myself, sitting apart and staring ahead.

  Through the narrow window which ran the length of the studio I could see the city, the dull grey rooftops and foggy lines of perspective which led from one diminishing plane to another, to the suburbs and then to the distant countryside where a paler greenery predominated. For a moment I wondered if I was in the right place, if lack of interest in anything else and dreams of being another Gwen John would be enough to see me through the next three years.

  After an awkward period, during which other people tried to become acquainted, a lecturer entered, ambled around the studio with a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other, checking off names on his list. His trousers were inches too short and flashed white socks at the ankles, he had a shambling gait and greasy black hair which made him look more like a fifties teddy-boy than an academic. Making his tour of the studio, he eventually stopped before me.

  ‘And who are you?’ he asked, looking down the column of names rather than directly at me. It wasn’t until he looked up, thinking that I might not have heard, or he might have missed the answer, that I replied.

  ‘There’s Schopenhauer, see, and he’s walking along the street, wondering what it’s all about as philosophers often do, when he bumps into this bloke. ‘Who do you think you are, barging into me like that?’ the bloke rants. Now me, I’d’ve poked him in the eye or kneed him in the nuts, but Schopenhauer just looks up and smiles, kind of sad, asks the very same question: ‘Who am I?’’

  The lecturer walked away, to check the rest of his list, returned to me when there was only one name left. ‘I take it you’re Virginia-’

  ‘Just Virginia, plain Virginia,’ I cut him off with a smile, agreeing; yes, I was Virginia, and everyone in the studio knew it.

  ‘Right, Virginia plain,’ said the lecturer with a brief peevish scowl, sitting on a stool with everyone gathered around him in a semi- circle. ‘And the rest of you. My name is Mr Goode. Barney, if we get on well together, since we’re generally on first name terms here, though some of you might think of other things to call me once you get to know me better.’ He offered a weak smile, which did little to make anyone feel at ease. ‘Now I’m the senior lecturer in fine art, I know why I’m here. But what about you lot? You, for example. What do you intend to do now that you're here?’

  The one he singled out, a young man with long hair and an earnest expression, hunched his shoulders and clasped his hands. ‘What I’d like to do are paintings that are accessible to people, paintings like pop songs-’ he began.

  ‘Then you’re one naïve fucking nerd,’ Mr Goode interrupted. ‘Paintings for the people, is it? Well balls to the people ‘cause it’s wasted on them. You aren’t here to do stuff to hang over your Mum’s mantelpiece and just you remember that.’ He looked from face to face while the message sank in, then s
ettled on another student, a girl. ‘You. What about you?’

  This girl was plump, like a marshmallow or something more fattening, and her cheeks reddened as if she was toasting, her eyes darted across the steel-vaulted roof of the studio as she looked for an answer, stammering, ‘I.... I.... I.…’

  ‘Yes?’

  The girl lowered her head to look at the tortuous trickles of dried paint which covered the floor, intricate arabesques which broke up the monotony of the grey tiles. Here and there was a more expressive outburst, probably the work of some frustrated soul or other.

  ‘Well, I...,’ she tried again, but her voice tapered away to a sigh.

  ‘Well I... what, for Christ’s sake?’

  Her eyes grew moist and her face flushed brighter still.

  Forget the things that make people cry, I decided; this bastard harassing us was more capable of doing that than mere paint and canvas.

  ‘It’s just as I expected,’ says the lecturer, with a sad shake of the head, though he was too triumphant to be wholly disappointed with his new students. ‘You’ve all either got such infantile notions that they aren’t worth considering, or you’ve simply got no idea what you’re about.’ He paused, then smiled as if to suggest that our collective silence signalled agreement. ‘It might be rumoured elsewhere that actions speak louder than words, but that doesn’t hold here. In this studio, in my studio, it’s the thought that counts. Know what you want to paint, why you want to paint, what is good in a painting and how the painter ought to behave. I don’t want just any long-haired pillocks in here, smoking hash and flinging paint about the place, not unless you can justify your actions. The next time you see me you must have reasons, motives, ideas of what a good painting is. If you must do, you can put your ideas down on paper or canvas, but that isn’t necessary, it’s not important. What is important is the idea.’

  *

  There was more, much more, and at lunchtime people departed the studio in a daze, angry or near to tears. Thinking it time that I socialise, now that I had made my impression on the group, I joined others in the canteen, over lunch made the acquaintance of some of my fellow students. One girl named Rose, a long thin creature dressed all in black, grinned at me.