The Drawing Lesson: The First in the Trilogy of Remembrance - Softcover

Martin, Mary E.

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1450229360 ISBN 13: 9781450229364

Publisher: iUniverse, 2010

Synopsis

Magical light creates stunning visions in Alexander Wainwright's landscape paintings. His most recent painting, The Hay Wagon, is a marvelous, moonlit scene, with an old-fashioned hay wagon dominating the foreground, with a beautiful, unearthly glow. Yet, at the pinnacle of his career, he is about to lose his muse. Not everyone appreciates his work. Rinaldo, a conceptual artist, mocks Alexander's bourgeois love of beauty, believing Alexander's success proves that the universe is chaotic and absurd. Determined to undermine, humiliate and ultimately destroy his rival, he defaces Alex's painting. Alexander brushes off the attack, but soon he has a frightening vision of misshapen, human-like creatures. These trolls start appearing in his art, and he is beset by questions. Who are these ugly beings? Has he lost both his light and his art? The creatures lead Alexander to journey from London to Venice and from Toronto to New York as he seeks to understand their meaning. He meets many people, each with a story to tell. Meanwhile, Rinaldo waits in New York City, intent on settling a score in The Drawing Lesson.

About this title

About the Author

Murder and fraud, love and forgiveness in the world of the law. 

Inspired by years of law practice, Mary E. Martin has written the legal suspense novels of The Osgoode Trilogy--Conduct in Question, Final Paradox and A Trial of One with Toronto lawyer Harry Jenkins as the protagonist.

Set in the glitter and shadows of the art world.

Now she has completed The Trilogy of Remembrance-- The Drawing Lesson, The Fate of Pryde and now, coming soon, Night Crossing. Britain's finest landscape artist, Alexander Wainwright is the star of this trilogy. 

She and her husband live in Toronto and have three children and two grandchildren.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

The Drawing Lesson

The First in the Trilogy of RemembranceBy Mary E. Martin

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2010 Mary E. Martin
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-2936-4

Chapter One

At the Tate Modern Gallery, women swirling about in their elegant cocktail dresses and men in their tails congregated before Alexander's most recent painting, The Hay Wagon. Each one of them was arrested by his vision: a huge moon hung low in the sky, illuminating the scene with an unearthly glow. A hay wagon stood before a barn door, which hung on its hinges. Beyond that, an old horse shambled about in the meadow.

"Look at the way the light shimmers," whispered one woman, pointing upward with her face aglow. "It's like seeing the beyond."

"It almost seems alive and pulsing with life," breathed another. Other guests were silenced, unable to articulate the complexity of emotion that Alexander's painting evoked.

Along with the luminaries of the art world, my wife, Renee, and I had gathered to raise a glass to the five finalists for the Turner Prize in contemporary art. The high glass ceilings of the immense Turbine Room had darkened in the twilight, and the flickering lights along the riverbank created a dream-like, festive atmosphere.

Renee tugged on my sleeve. "Don't you think there's something quite odd about Alex's painting?"

"What do you mean?"

"Look! There's the faintest shadow just to the left of the wagon, and there's another one near the barn door."

I peered closely at the painting. "Yes, I do see what you mean. Strange! They look like shadows cast by very oddly shaped-almost stunted-people, but there's no one in sight." Puzzled, I shrugged and stepped back.

From across the rotunda, I heard someone calling my name. Geoffrey Yorkton, holding two champagne glasses aloft, shouldered his way from the bar and descended upon me.

"James!" he nearly shouted in my ear. "ArtNews just hit the stands. Alex's Hay Wagon is on the cover." Geoffrey was the editor-in-chief of that glossy art magazine.

"Yes. I've seen it and read the article. Why was the interviewer so hostile?"

Geoffrey's eyebrows shot up. "You do know Maxwell's a conceptual art man. He's pulling for Rinaldo."

"Then why have him do the interview?"

Yorkton grinned. "Controversy always sells magazines, Jamie. That's my job!" He patted my arm and winked. "Besides, the buzz is good for Alex." Then drawing me aside, he spoke more seriously. "I know Alex is the front-runner, but if he gets too cocksure, the committee won't like it. And the entire conceptual art crowd is furious that he's even in the running for their prize."

"Why? The prize is for contemporary-not conceptual-art. "

Yorkton just winked and was off into the crowd. Briefly, I glanced heavenward and went to find Alex.

The crowd began to part and murmurs rippled through the gallery. There stood Alex, tall and handsome in formal attire, thoughtfully caressing his neat goatee. Sauntering in, he stood in the center of the room. Within a moment, someone presented him with a glass of champagne, and people gathered around.

From behind, a hand fluttered on Alex's shoulder. He turned to see the scarred, pinched face of Rinaldo gleaming up at him. Rinaldo never seemed to blink, and his laser-like gaze sought to pin Alex, his latest victim, like a butterfly under glass.

Alexander set his champagne down on a passing tray. "Ah! There you are, Rinaldo!" Alex held out his hand, which the little man ignored.

Waiters lit tall candles in the corners of the room. Light danced upon the fluted columns and made the stone floor gleam, giving the room the appearance of an ancient, medieval castle.

Smirking, Rinaldo stuffed his fists into his crimson cummerbund and bowed deeply to the smattering of dignitaries now drifting closer. "I am honored to be shortlisted with an artist of such renown. But Alex, haven't you thought of expanding your work beyond the representation of bucolic scenes?"

Alexander frowned and turned away. Grasping Alex's sleeve, Rinaldo continued in lilting tones, "It must be a heavy burden for one artist." He shook his head and sighed deeply. "To maintain such certainty of vision in a world of constant change." Then his eyes glittered with mirth. "Perhaps we should collaborate someday!"

A few nervous titters arose from the group now congregating about them. Wainwright swung around. "Your art installation greatly intrigues me. The ditch or trench-whatever you call it-in the main hall perfectly captures the state of art in the present day."

The little man twirled his moustache between his fingers. "And what state is that, sir?"

"Irreparable division!" Alexander was referring to the bulging, heaving crack constructed by Rinaldo and laid over-top the length of the Turbine Room floor. A barbwire fence ran down the center of his creation, with implements of war heaped on either side. Alexander retrieved another glass of champagne from a waiter. "You've outdone yourself, this time, Rinaldo." Struggling to suppress a small smile, he continued, "Your work fairly teams with complex, intellectual concepts."

"I must say, your painting is very pretty."

Anger flashed in Alex's eyes. He snorted. "It is a sincere effort to create the warmth of the human spirit. Agreed, it is not clever enough for your cerebral contortions."

By now, most of the committee had gathered about the men. The chairman, Gus Grosvenor, sought to intervene. "Gentleman, please, lively controversy about art is wonderful, but this is a party. Please ..." Neither artist paid the man any heed.

Like a cat upon a mouse, Rinaldo pounced. "Your art was revolutionary two centuries ago. But how is it relevant today? We see an old cart, some bales of hay, and a dilapidated barn in the background. In a distant field, we see an old, broken-down horse." He nibbled his lip reflectively and then gave a dismissive wave. "Does such a scene even exist in this twenty-first century-anywhere on this earth-except in the sentimental, bourgeois imagination?"

Standing apart from the group, Alexander leaned against a wall and stared at The Hay Wagon. I witnessed a fleeting expression on his face that I had never seen before. He was not in retreat, but his pale blue eyes seemed to contain a certain hesitancy-even doubt-the depths of which I could not judge. I frowned, wondering if I had seen the tiniest splintering in the faade of a great artist.

With a fawning smile, Rinaldo turned to a young, female docent and said, "Tell me, my dear, what do you see?"

The docent, who was very pretty herself said, "It has a certain quality, sir, rarely seen in landscapes. It has the numinous light suffusing it, as if God were everywhere in the landscape and the world."

"That's it exactly!" someone in the crowd said. Others murmured their agreement.

Rinaldo's lip curled. "God or just a trick of light, young lady?"

Gus Grosvenor stepped forward and, drawing Rinaldo aside, whispered in his ear. "This is a social event to be enjoyed by all. The committee frowns on such grandstanding. The final vote is this Tuesday." He glanced significantly at the little man. "I'm sure you get my drift, sir."

The artist clicked his heels together sharply and bowed. "Certainly, my good man! The last thing we want is controversy at a party."

Wainwright's voice boomed from the far side of the rotunda. "Ladies and gentlemen, let's go back to the main hall and view my friend's work. I'm sure he'd like to explain it to us." Without waiting, he sauntered back to the Turbine Room. He turned to face the group.

As a conceptual artist, Rinaldo was fond of creating installations. The guests gazed upon his work entitled The Destiny of War. On both sides of this trench, with its barbwire fence, were flung piles of old clothing and children's toys-guns, model tanks, knives, and swords-all spattered with red paint. No doubt, he intended to create the effect of a bloodbath. I found one dismembered doll to be a particularly tasteless touch. In my opinion, the message of this so-called piece of conceptual art was both obvious and trite. But then I, as a dealer in representational painting, had to admit my bias.

Alexander began. "We know that conceptual art is not judged by the usual aesthetic values. Beauty is but an offensive, bourgeois conceit. Only the originality and validity of the concept itself is significant." Smiling benignly, he turned to Rinaldo. "Sir? Is it fair to say your concept is that hatred divides our world and results in war, death, and devastation?"

The gathering fell silent as Rinaldo squeezed to the front of the crowd. "Yes, that is fair comment, although very limited in scope."

"What else does it say?"

"Unless we change our fundamental attitudes, we are on a hellish course of self-destruction." Rinaldo had difficulty keeping a defensive tone from his voice. "This is a revolutionary concept ..."

"And?"

"By its very nature, mankind is doomed to destroy."

"Ah! So there is no hope. How have you conveyed that? Might we not conclude we can mend our ways because that ability is also part of human nature?"

Grinning, Rinaldo glanced about nervously. "That is the whole point of conceptual art-to stir debate, controversy, different points of view."

Wainwright strolled the whole length of Rinaldo's trench, pausing occasionally to examine a doll or a gun. The room was silent until he returned.

"Ladies and gentleman, if conceptual art places the idea first and foremost, let us judge such a work in its own terms. Is Rinaldo's idea original, novel, controversial, or at least interesting? Who does not know that hatred is part of human nature and leads to the most destructive forms of warfare? Where is the new idea?" The artist bowed deeply and concluded, "Rinaldo should enlighten us. Why is his concept original or thought provoking?" With a flourish of his arm, he stepped aside. "I give my friend the floor."

Rinaldo, now the palest white, hung back for only a moment. "My friend, the great Wainwright, speaks from centuries back." The little man's face twisted into a cartoon of fury. "He fails to see that the world has changed beyond his understanding and he clings to his old verities. Caught in his time warp, he can only paint bucolic scenes from his halcyon days."

Wainwright relaxed against a fluted column. "Ladies and gentlemen!" His softly whispered voice rebounded eerily in the great hall. "Rinaldo has not answered my question."

No one had ever seen Rinaldo at a loss for words. He spun on his heel. With a slight, hitching gait, he marched as rapidly as possible toward the main entrance. Glancing behind only once, he fled through the spinning doors. For a long moment, the group was silent. Then gentle murmurs and occasional soft chuckles filled the hall as everyone drifted back to the bar.

I approached Alex and said, "You certainly won that round, old man."

Wainwright looked at me oddly. "You never win with Rinaldo, Jamie. And he does have some interesting points."

"Such as?"

Anxiety and confusion spread over Alex's face. He stared into my eyes and whispered, "What if he is right that my art is dead?" Then his shoulders slumped, and he muttered, "This is just the beginning. He and I shall never be done." He brightened for a moment. "By the way, did you see Peter Cummings here tonight?"

I shook my head. "I think he's out of town, Alex."

Alexander sighed heavily.

"Did you reach Hugh Robinson?" I asked.

He frowned, as if trying to recollect.

"The ophthalmologist."

"Oh yes. I see him next week."

I said goodnight and stepped outside the main doors. On the opposite side of the Thames, Saint Paul's Cathedral, gloriously lit against the night sky, rose up in an incredible celebration of harmony and beauty. I smiled. What would its architect, Christopher Wren, laboring in the eighteenth century make of the irreparable division in the art world today?

Chapter Two

Despite my telephone messages, all of which remained unanswered, I did not see Alexander for almost a week after the Tate reception. Congratulations were certainly in order, as he did win the Turner Prize, beating out Rinaldo.

However, in less than a fortnight, we had to mount a retrospective of his work at my gallery, Helmsworth and Son, in London's Chelsea district. I am the son; Father has been gone almost twenty years. Although he was not unkindly, sometimes, in moments of stress, I still hear the rap of Father's cane on his desk and his dismissive growls at any of my proposed innovations.

Although Alex had insisted on choosing each painting for the show, he remained unavailable for any consultation. I must say, I was rather put out by his indifferent attitude, but I have, throughout my career, learned much about working with temperamental artists-Alex in particular.

Mounting any show can be a Herculean task. Movers must be hired and walls need to be painted-to say nothing of arranging for caterers and placing advertisements. Just try to get knowledgeable reviewers from the press out at a moment's notice! But Alex's work is so wondrous that I feel petty admitting to such comparatively trivial frustrations. The business side of art is most certainly mundane, and promoters are really only bystanders looking through a murky glass at the marvelous but dimly perceived process of creation.

And so I found myself at Alex's door pulling on the bell Saturday at noon. Knowing he was a deep sleeper, I waited between rings as patiently as I could. After five minutes, still there was no answer. Across the street, I leaned against the Embankment wall. From there, I saw a shadow cross his window three stories up. Muttering about the nonchalance of artists, I returned to ring the bell again. At last, I saw him through the glass, lumbering downstairs. When he opened the door, he squinted in the noonday sun. Unshaven, he looked worn and haggard.

"Congratulations on your win, Alex!"

He merely grunted and started back up the stairs. I followed, almost bumping into him at the top.

He closed the door. "What do you want?"

Taking a deep breath, I replied, "We have to decide which paintings are going into the show, remember?"

"Show? But I said I don't want to exhibit again, Jamie."

It was worse than I expected. That damned Rinaldo had succeeded in undermining Alex, even though he had won the prize. I settled heavily into his chesterfield and withdrew a cigarette. Where to start?

I spoke patiently. "Alex, the invitations went out last week. I've hired everyone we need, and Walshingham of the Post has agreed to come. He always gives you wonderful reviews."

"Cancel it! Tell them I've come down with ..." He shrugged. "Something serious-maybe deadly-a death of the spirit, if you will."

"Don't be ridiculous!" I did my best to keep panic from my voice.

Alex slumped on a nearby stool. "I can't do it."

"You must!" I saw my hand tremble as I lit my cigarette. "It's that damned Rinaldo, isn't it? How could you let him get under your skin? You certainly showed him up for a fool at the Tate."

Wainwright's eyes were moist. "He's right, though," he said softly.

"What? I can't believe this!" I could not help but jump up and pace. "Look at these canvases. They're your very best work."

Alex chuckled. "Rinaldo drove straight to the heart of the matter. He asked whether the scene of The Hay Wagon exists anywhere on the face of the earth in this twenty-first century."

"Of course it does. Anyway, why should that matter?"

"Pretty scenes," Alex muttered as he gazed out his windows upon the Thames.

I was losing any semblance of composure. "Pretty scenes? Good God, Alex, look at them. You've captured something no one else ever has in landscape."

"And what might that be?"

I stared at him and then at the four or five canvases arranged around the room. I remembered what the docent at the Tate had said. Numinosity did shine through. She was right! In that moment, I had a tiny glimpse of what lay beyond or behind the phenomenal world. Until that moment, I had not really experienced that quality in his work. Somehow, Alex had captured the essence of the world.

Was I too caught up in the details of the business-the mounting of shows, the advertising and caterers-to see how truly wonderful his work was? With a broad grin, I embraced my friend. Then holding him at arm's length, I said, "Alex, God is in your work, just as the docent said."

My friend simply shrugged. "Yes, but the light has gone out, Jamie."

"What on earth do you mean?"

"My muse has gone ... left me in the lurch."

"But that happens with all artists," I began. "Inspiration always returns. Listen! Let me choose the paintings for the show. I'll have them crated up this afternoon. All you need to do is show up on Saturday night."

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Drawing Lessonby Mary E. Martin Copyright © 2010 by Mary E. Martin. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Edition details

• Publisher: iUniverse
• Publication date: 2010
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 1450229360
• ISBN 13: 9781450229364
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 336