Chapter Six #2
My lips curve up. “When would suit you?”
“I can fit around your schedule. Part of the prize is to come to my studio and experience my sacred space.”
It’s inevitable that the statement evokes an intimate image in my mind. I open my mouth to reply, momentarily lose the power of speech, meet her eyes, and then we both just laugh. It breaks the tension, and we relax and let out long breaths.
“My parents are going away on Tuesday,” she says. “Dad’s speaking at a conference in Christchurch. Mum’s going with him, and they’re spending a few days down there. It means it’ll be nice and quiet at home.”
I’d much prefer it if Rangi wasn’t there. In fact I’m hoping he doesn’t get to hear about my bid at all. “I can move a few things around to free up the afternoon,” I say. “How does two p.m. sound?”
“Perfect. I’ll see you then.”
I’m unable to suppress the thrill that rises inside me at the thought of spending more time in her company. But this is just professional. I have to keep it firmly in my mind. I made the decision at Midnight to make it clear that nothing would happen between us, and that hasn’t changed.
“Goodnight,” I say.
“Night.” She hesitates. “And… thank you.” Her words are sincere. Maybe she saw the type of men who were bidding on her, and she is genuinely relieved that I won.
I meet her eyes again. “You’re welcome.” Then I turn and walk away.
*
Marama
I watch Spencer go, my heart banging away. I don’t know what it is about him, but when he looks at me I feel as if everyone else in the room fades away, and it’s just the two of us, caught up in our own world.
I’m still angry with him for rejecting me.
But equally, I can’t help but be flattered by the amount he bid for me tonight.
His insistence that he did it for my father doesn’t ring true at all.
When I said, ‘You’re angry because you want me.
.. so you don’t want anyone else to have me either,’ his eyes flared, and I knew then that I was right.
He does want me; it’s just that he’s convinced himself he’s too old for me, and that it would be wrong because he knows my father.
He’s probably right. Doesn’t stop me wanting him, though.
I turn back to the lobby, and spot Genevieve standing not far from the door, talking to Hariata Pere, the Managing Director of Te Whaihanga Toi Foundation.
I saw Genevieve's exchange with Spencer. His contempt for her, and her dislike of him, was palpable. It’s clear that something has happened between them in the past. Maybe I’ll ask him about it when he’s sitting for me.
Something happens between a sitter and the artist during the painting of a portrait.
An intimacy forms that’s impossible to ignore.
Thank God he won the auction, and the bald, florid octogenarian didn’t.
I decide to head for the meeting room, but as I go to pass her, Genevieve glances my way and beckons me over.
“Hello again,” I say to Hariata as I approach.
“Hello,” Hariata says, looking at me with renewed interest. “Well, well, well, this is a turn up for the books. Spencer Cavendish bidding one million dollars for a female artist?”
I’m guessing that’s going to be the headline everywhere for the next week or two. “I’m a little embarrassed to say I think he did it out of a misguided sense of loyalty to my father,” I admit.
But Hariata shakes her head. “I saw the look on his face just now,” she says softly. “He has feelings for you.”
Her voice is gentle, but I can feel Genevieve’s hard gaze on me, and I shift from foot to foot, a little uncomfortable.
“I think you’re mistaken,” I say. “He’s been very clear that our age difference and the fact that my father is his business associate makes me out of bounds.
” As I say it, and their eyebrows rise, I realize I’m admitting that Spencer and I have a conversation about a possible relationship.
I flush and lift my chin. “Anyway, I’m not interested.
I can do better than Spencer Cavendish.”
Genevieve smiles. “Definitely. But… it has given us an idea.”
“Oh?”
Hariata nods. “Te Whaihanga Toi Foundation would like to offer you a commission for a solo exhibition of a series of paintings.”
My pulse races. “Really?”
“Yes. To be displayed here.” She gestures at the area to the side of the lobby at Lumen’s gallery, where a large group of guests is gathered, viewing the art on show. It’s prime real estate, the perfect opportunity to get noticed.
“When we spoke before,” Hariata goes on, “you mentioned being interested in doing portraits of important women in our community, and portraying them as modern-day atua wāhine .” Female goddesses.
“We’d like to build on that idea,” Genevieve says. “We could call it Maramataka.” She sweeps her hand in front of her as if showing me the word as a title. It’s the name for the Māori lunar calendar, literally meaning ‘the turning of the moon,’ and of course it includes my name.
“The moon is rising,” Hariata says. “The sun has had his day. Men have had the galleries and the money long enough, don’t you think?”
“Um… yes, I suppose they have.”
“Your work deserves a platform,” she continues. “It can be more than decorative. It can be revolutionary. It can be a statement of female ascendance.”
“Women rising, claiming power, and outshining men.” Genevieve’s eyes are alight with zeal. “We want you to be bold and confrontational in your art. We’d like to see themes of female power and sexual agency. It can feature cyclical, feminine, and ancestral aspects.”
“Yes,” I say, excitement rising inside me as I think about the possibilities, “and things like renewal, growth, time, and spiritual rhythm.”
Hariata nods. “The paintings should feature modern goddesses taming beasts and overturning male power.”
“And the first one can be about Spencer Cavendish.” Genevieve’s eyes gleam. “A man who is all about the patriarchy and control over women.”
“See if he’ll model naked,” Hariata teases. “I’ve heard he’s an impressive man.”
“Me too,” Genevieve says with a grin.
Hariata leans forward conspiratorially. “I knew Eleanor quite well. Once, at a party, she’d had a few too many glasses of champagne, and she was being quite loud.
He came over to tell her it was time to go and went off to get their coats.
She was embarrassed and said, ‘He probably wants to get me in bed. The guy’s insatiable. All he thinks about is sex.’”
Genevieve laughs, but I shift uncomfortably. We complain when men objectify women this way. What makes it right for us to do it?
Genevieve’s eyes flash. “I want you to find out and paint his weaknesses. Strip him of that smug confidence and expose the vulnerable man inside. Show us the Wolf of Waiheke, brought to his knees.”
My excitement dims a little. Is this some kind of revenge ploy? As much as Spencer pissed me off when he turned me down, I don’t want to be caught up in Genevieve’s thirst for vengeance, or Hariata’s obvious agenda.
Equally, this is one hell of an opportunity.
To have an exhibit in the lobby of the most prestigious and up-and-coming female-oriented business club in the city, if not the country?
Partially funded by Te Whaihanga Toi Foundation?
I can only imagine the publicity and support I would receive.
It’s my opportunity to shine. How can I pass up on that?
Whatever Genevieve and Hariata’s motives are, the paintings will be mine. I’m sure I can fulfil their criteria without being cruel or humiliating. I can still present women in the ascendence: Marama rising, shining down her light on the men below her.
Spencer can put that in his pipe and smoke it.