Orchard , livre ebook

Andrews UK - Tony Veale

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140 pages

English

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Written in the form of a novel, this work offers a satirical critique of modern life. The art scene is where it all begins but Tony Veale's story soon reaches out to embrace the madness of media, politics and celebrity-inspired hysteria.The book chronicles the rise and fall of Matt Flight, an idealistic young artist who believes he can change the world. With a cast of characters like a page from the Theatre of the Absurd, The Orchard rattles along at an unremitting pace. Here you may read of the pitifully washed-out nostalgist Cyril Pout; the camp and outrageous couturier Willie Fitz; the sex-crazed janitor Gittins; the devious art-market-fixers Bernie Feltz and Sylvester Rich; the singing Police Chief Buller and his agony-aunt friend Dame Bridget Bradstock; the American tycoon Hiram Grouper and his English butler Sir Harvey Haugh. Only Matt's girlfriend Holly Tree is with him for more than the ride. Knowing and worldly-wise, she believes she can steer him through the madness he has unleashed.

Sujets

Humour

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Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	10 mars 2017
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781845405748
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0374€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

The Orchard
Tony Veale
imprint arts

Copyright © Tony Veale 2004, 2006, 2017
The rights of the author have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author
This novel is a work of fiction. With the exception of contextual references to actual British and American news organizations, the names of all the remaining public bodies, institutions and groups of people are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance of the characters to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
First published in the UK by snowballpress, 2004
Paperback edition (2006) published by imprint arts
Imprint Academic, PO Box 200, Exeter EX5 5YX
2017 digital version converted and published by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com

For my wife Sue, family and friends

One
You can’t say that! Come back! Stop!’
Matt Flight woke up, sweating and terrified. God! A person could die this way, heart bursting, overwhelmed by an event conceived in a dreaming brain. He drew a deep breath and counted one to five. Emptying his lungs, he felt the fear recede.
His recollection of the dream was vivid. Running from the gallery exhibiting his work, he’d headed down Cork Street in the heart of London’s West End, pursued by an angry mob. Trying to escape he’d run faster and faster until, on the point of collapse, he’d woken up.
Motionless in his studio bed, he clutched his duvet. The darkness was close: physical, like the ear of a priest. ‘What have I done?’ he whispered. But there was no going back. The exhibition had pitched his life into immediate controversy. And all because of one canvas!
Central to the show, The Orchard was a painting of doves gorging on flesh bursting from the fruit of pomegranate trees. The trees were rooted in bodies - in the dead of human conflict. To Matt, this symbolized peace drawing its strength from war, the one giving meaning to the other.
All I did was paint the truth, he reflected. And what happens? I cause an outrage!
‘How can you paint such a horrible scene?’ a woman had cried, tears in her eyes. ‘Have you no faith?’
‘Yes, it’s obscene!’ another had said. ‘You’re a heartless beast!’
He told himself he should have known the image would insult. After all, wasn’t it his intention to push the glory train of false hopes off the rails?
Couldn’t they see? he thought. The point is to make clear something we’ve forgotten. Human nature doesn’t change! We are what we are - creatures of habit, good and bad.’
He wished he could turn back the clock - remove the picture from the show - anything to reverse the public’s indignation.
But Bernie Feltz, the gallery’s owner, couldn’t have been happier. The private view had been packed and the consternation of his guests gave him reason to feel his latest protégé was a winner.
Lagoon Art had a reputation for notoriety. Regular attacks in the press accused it of using shock to attract attention and of debasing art. By playing on the cognoscenti’s flirtation with ‘underground’ thinking, Feltz had built a good business. His customers were hungry for a place at the high table of metropolitan cool and Matt’s work was his latest offering - another plat-du-jour of delectable controversy.
Feltz knew artists backwards - or so he thought. Weaving his way through their layers of conceit and insecurity, he counselled and cajoled them with promises of recognition. It was a matter of mutual trust, he assured them: if they put their careers in his hands, he would lead them to the gilded rostrum of their dreams and the plaudits of an admiring public.
Unable to get back to sleep, Matt turned restlessly. He closed his eyes, re-living the events of the private view which for him had been a baptism of fire.
* * *
‘Matt, you’re on your way,’ Feltz was assuring him, as he eased him through the throng on a slow meander round the gallery floor.
‘But they hate me!’ Matt despaired.
‘Hate, love - it doesn’t matter a toss!’ Feltz insisted. ‘With everybody fired up like this, the show’ll be talked about all over town.’
‘Yeah, and with me dubbed a pariah!’ grumbled Matt. His name was already a talking point, leaping from head to head in the gallery in a brushfire of opprobrium. Yet - all he wanted was the love and respect of his fellow men. And the recognition that he had something of value to say, something which might save society from what it had become. For hadn’t it gone soft?
Sparring with strangers at the private view, one after another, Matt’s discomfort had grown. And Feltz hadn’t helped, passing diplomatic asides, careful not to become embroiled. But that was Feltz’s party trick of course - get everybody wound up, step back, then referee the action.
‘Whatever’s going on in your head, to make you want to paint something like this?’ someone had shrilly demanded.
‘Peel morality away and this is what you’re left with,’ Matt tried feebly to explain.
‘The nitty gritty,’ said a voice to his side.
He turned to find a girl engaging him with a wry smile. ‘You’re a bit of a party pooper!’ she said.
‘Party pooper?’ said Matt, troubled by a feeling that she might not be taking him seriously - or even worse, that she might be mocking him.
‘Hey, but don’t get me wrong,’ she continued. ‘It’s great work, even if nobody else thinks so.’
People in the vicinity were blinking at each other in dismay.
‘Thank you!’ said Matt. He wanted to read the girl’s eyes, but they were hidden behind dark glasses. He felt awkward, like a suspect stood before a one-way screen.
‘How long’s your show on for?’ she asked.
‘Three weeks - if I survive tonight,’ he said, sensing she was eyeing him up and down.
The girl laughed, sweeping a hand through her hair. ‘OK, I’ll come in again. Maybe tomorrow.’
And like a dragonfly she was gone, but her support gave Matt strength to battle on. And the torture lessened as he got into his stride, repeating and refining his patter of justification.
Then, just as he thought it couldn’t get any better, he had found himself standing alone. The gallery was beginning to empty. Strains of hostility were giving way to crescendos of merriment, seesawing like a radio fiddled with by a meddlesome child. His ordeal was over: the evening was moving on, the party breaking up into little groups for whom thoughts of dinner were paramount. Mentions of booked tables fell from people’s lips in tones of loud subservience to this or that celebrity chef. ‘God, we were so lucky! Managed to squeeze in at Mario’s! Table for 9.30 - must dash or we’ll lose it.’
Back to trivia, he gloomily reflected. Watching the guests file out of the gallery he felt as if they were living in a bubble. The discord of the age, so real to him, was for them no more than a disturbance in the endless round of gossip.
Matt put his hands in his pockets and ambled into Feltz’s office. Feltz sidled in after him: ‘Hey, hey! Why the long face? You were brilliant!’
On nights like these, the word ‘brilliant’ would pop from Feltz’s mouth again and again, rounding off each remark with overflowing exuberance.
Matt succumbed to his scented hug. ‘Thanks. But I could have done without the flak.’
‘Comes with the job,’ Feltz laughed, slapping Matt on the back. He had good news. None other than Sylvester Rich had attended the private view. That was significant - an endorsement from a great collector, whose own gallery was full of art at the cutting-edge.
‘Sylvester admired your work,’ beamed Feltz. ‘ The Orchard in particular. Says it brings to mind Kiefer and Nigredo .’ For all Feltz all knew, this might have been some kind of double-act, like a man with a dog that did tricks. He kept his ignorance about the great painter and his oeuvre to himself.’
Matt was visibly cheered. ‘Great! But has he seen the price?’
‘Twenty-grand? That kind of money’s nothing to Sylvester. His gallery’s open to a paying public. Think of the money he could take with The Orchard ! Look at the stir it caused tonight. All it needs is a hammering in the press and the punters’ll flock to see it. You’ll be made!’
Matt frowned. ‘A hammering in the press? I need that like a hole in the head.’
‘It’s what the Rich Gallery gets off on,’ said Feltz. ‘Their show’s the wackiest in town. Really freaky, man! And it makes a great day out for Joe Public. They lap it up.’
‘Freaky?’ said Matt, the word sticking in his craw.
‘Just a figure of speech,’ said Feltz. ‘Trust me, most artists would kill for a break like this.’
Matt felt insulted. I’m not like most artists, he thought to himself.
‘Of course, Sylvester’ll need his usual sweetener,’ Feltz added, smarting at the discount he would have to offer.
‘How much will that be?’ Matt asked anxiously. ‘I mean, I spent an age on that picture.’
Feltz tapped his nose knowingly. ‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist,’ he said. ‘It’s built into the price.’
Slippery sod! thought Matt.
Thumbing his lapels, Feltz gave Matt his version of the evening’s events. He eulogized the celebrities who had attended. Soap stars, fashion models and a celebrated footballer had all helped give the occasion that showbizzy buzz he adored. A nice turn out, he said, marred only by a drunk swinging a punch at a man in a lime-green seersucker suit, creation of the fashionable couturier Willie Fitz. And strangely, the bottle count was favourable - on budget, give or take a crate.
‘They were all talking their heads off,’ Feltz happily observed. And tomorrow would be better