Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Whatever I was expecting, a large room with a wall of built-in bookshelves around the fireplace, full of small art objects and a whole lot of books, isn’t quite it.
Especially given Florian’s stance on art from our night at Sotheby’s.
At one end, there are two sofas facing each other, flanking the hearth, along with a couple of chairs.
At the other end is a dining table with eight chairs and room for two more at the ends.
Opposite the long wall with the built-ins is a wall with tall windows, flooding the room with light.
The views are out over the leafy street and the redbrick terraces opposite.
Needless to say, it’s stunning. The exact opposite of my digs.
Florian looks sheepish at my reaction. “I occasionally host events here for work and needed space.”
“Wow.” Who has space in London?
He leads the way over to the table, smiling. I hesitate. It’s beautiful, sleek contemporary oak, with black, minimalist wooden chairs. “I don’t know, Florian, this is too nice.”
“The table’s meant to be used. Don’t worry, we’ve spilled wine on this table before.”
It just tumbles out, the “we.” And of course, my mind races instantly to Billy. Did they have this table? Did Florian take it when their relationship ended? Also, why do I care? Get it together.
Florian doesn’t notice my internal flail, thankfully. He pulls out a couple of chairs for us, facing the windows for the view. I missed it somehow, but he has a grand piano in here. I wonder if it’s for aesthetics or if he actually knows how to play.
We sit down with our drinks.
“Well, where should we begin?” Florian asks, studying me. His expression is open, his attention fully focused on me. There’s a lightness in his gaze. “I hope to not embarrass myself, but I make no guarantees.”
“Let’s start with a little art history. I brought a couple of books, actually.”
Florian’s intrigued, which is a promising start. I brighten. I reach into my rucksack and pull out two art books. He’s already leaning in, curious to see the covers.
“One’s a condensed history of art with lots of examples, in color.
The other’s a book on David Hockney because I love Hockney’s work and couldn’t resist. His colors and narrative are incredible.
Plus, his sketches are really great,” I explain, showing him the covers of both books.
“I can leave them with you after to go through them more if you like.”
I reach for the history of art, opening it up to the beginning, with Florian peering down.
“Okay. Here we go, starting with art in archaeology. Like cave paintings of aurochs in red ochre and sculpted stone Venus figurines and Egyptian art and all kinds.” I turn the pages slowly as Florian takes in the images.
“And here’s some classical art of ancient Greece and Rome, with marble sculptures and painted pottery and architecture.
” I pause and give him a sidelong glance. “What do you think so far?”
“Very interesting.” And he sounds like he means it, his gaze flicking up from the page, his chair pulled close to mine.
I swear he’s near enough I can feel the heat radiating from him.
I tell myself to refocus, because that’s neither here nor there nor part of my art lesson plan.
So, I continue, showing him artwork: Byzantine art, the Renaissance painters and sculptors.
“Like the ancient Greeks and Romans, realism was important to them. Compare that to later times and the French Impressionists, who were more expressive. They were more about how art feels. They weren’t shy also to push paint around, to show their brush marks.
” I flip ahead in the book to show Florian an example.
“Also beautiful. Which do you prefer?” he asks curiously.
“I love both, but if I had to choose, I would pick the Impressionists over realists. Manet, Renoir, totally amazing. Which leads to iconic Post-Impressionism like Gauguin. Other artists, like Matisse, straddled both movements.”
I show him more examples, and we lose track of time in our conversation about the artwork, his questions about art styles and time periods.
Our heads are close together as the sunlight falls through the window in the evening, casting deep shadows.
Through the window, the sunlight flickers on the trees stirred by the breeze.
We have a good discussion about modernist painting.
By the time we reach the mid-twentieth century, I’m more than ready to show Florian the second book with Hockney’s vivid paintings, his vibrant use of color.
“I love his blues, the way he captures interiors and exteriors and how his subjects are placed within those spaces. You look at the figures, and you can just imagine the conversations between them.”
Florian smiles at me. “I wish I had your imagination,” he confesses. “And the way you see things.”
I shrug, turning pages in the Hockney book. “I don’t think I’m that unique.”
“You are to me.”
Lifting my head, I give him a sidelong glance. “That’s some serious talk from my fake boyfriend,” I say lightly. “This is an art history lesson. Focus.”
He laughs and shrugs, as if what he said a moment ago hadn’t been mad. “I call it like I see it.”
We look through more Hockney. Florian likes the Mr. and Mrs. Clark Percy painting, with their cat and a view from their interior world to a glimpse of the world beyond their window.
My favorite is the iconic Portrait of an Artist (Pool with Two Figures).
“Which, by the way, sold for over $90 million in 2018.”
He lifts his eyebrows at that. “Who bought it?”
“A Taiwanese tech billionaire and collector.”
Florian continues to look suitably impressed.
“And at the time, it was the most money spent on a living artist’s work.”
“Someone has spent more than that?”
“Oh yes. In a private sale, though this was the most in a public sale. The private sale was for a Jasper Johns piece of the American flag. Which was bought by a hedge fund billionaire.” I shake my head, unable to imagine that kind of wealth.
“Incredible.”
“It’s a bit bleak, to be honest. At least to me.
” I droop a little, glancing over at Florian.
He leans one arm on the table, gazing with great intent at me.
Like every word I say matters to him. Warmth rises in my cheeks.
Pretending not to notice, I continue on gamely.
“I mean, I’d love for all art to be bought by museums and galleries so everyone can go to experience it for themselves rather than a private collector.
But I realize private collectors are what keep the art world going.
I mean, billionaires in hedge funds and tech…
they fund the arts, but I want the art to belong to everyone.
Like they can donate the works to public institutions like the Tate or MOMA and get a tax write-off. Everyone wins.”
He smiles fondly at me. “And some of the very rich are laundering the proceeds of crime.”
I groan, remembering our Sotheby’s conversation. “Don’t remind me. You’re not wrong, but I don’t like it. I want people to be moved by art, that’s all.”
Florian’s quiet for a long moment. He looks down at the page, open to a painting called The Conversation, where two seated men are deep into a discussion.
Like us now. Painted in 1980. I wonder if they were talking about hedge funds and tech billionaires, too, and worried about the future of art to the point it kept them up at night too.
“What about your art?” he asks at last, glancing up.
“What about my art?” I ask carefully. My chest tightens in response, an immediate reaction when anyone asks me about my art these days.
But with Florian and his intense curiosity, it strikes me to my core.
I feel very silly after talking about the record sales in the art world and wonder what I’m even doing.
Not that I’m actually doing anything these days.
At this rate, I’ll become one of those strange people who finish art school and never touch a paintbrush again.
“What kind is it? Like style?”
“Oh.” I tilt my head, feeling relieved. “I’m probably influenced the most by Expressionism.
These are works by artists like Edvard Munch, who painted The Scream, and Henri Matisse and Egon Schiele.
Their works are intended to make you feel, good or bad, and often about social commentary too.
Which is really interesting, to know what was happening in the world as well as in their personal lives when they were painting. ”
Florian smiles. “Okay. I hear you on the art history influences. Would you show me your work?”
Heat immediately returns to my face. “This is a trick question.” I say instantly, sitting back in my chair.
Florian straightens too, lifting his eyebrows at me. “Why not?”
“Because… because I’m not showing anyone my work.
There’s no work to show.” My jaw’s tight.
I know he means well with the question, and I can see how our conversation might lead to this question, but I wasn’t expecting it somehow.
I feel like I’ve been doused by ice water. “It doesn’t compare in any way.”
His expression softens. “Matty… I’m only asking because I’m curious. Not to judge you or your work.”
“It’s not on the curriculum.” I just look at him.
When he reaches out to touch my hand, which evidently grips the edge of the table for dear life, it’s then that I realize I’m trembling.
Of course, I have photos of my paintings from my degree and our final grad show on my phone, but I feel way too vulnerable to show him.
Florian just nods, and his hand pulls away.
Then my heart aches because I realize I want his touch.
And without it, something sits hollow in me, and I feel like I’ve failed again.
Maybe I’m too hard on myself, given the amount of time I’ve been out of uni, two months now, but there’s no sign of any kind of progress aside from getting a room in London and a bar job to pay the bills.
We’re quiet, looking at each other. I fold my arms tight across my chest, forcing down a breath.
Then another. It’s only anxiety, I tell myself, my brain playing tricks.
I wish my brain could go sit in time-out.
Everything had been going really well ’til Florian asked that question.
But revealing my own work feels far too vulnerable.
“How about… I show you some sketching techniques?”
“Okay,” Florian agrees readily, not pushing me, and I’m grateful. My shoulders ease.
At last, I nod, reaching into the bag. I pull out a blank sketchbook and open the cover to an empty page. And I wish Florian would touch me again.