Chapter 20: Everyone a Mozart
‘It’s just like the MacHenry awards.’ Daniel took the chair next to mine, looking around the large, well-lit dining room of the Shelbourne Hotel. ‘Except that this is the upper middle class, not the lower.’ Once more he was wearing his thrown-together tux and once more, since I had no choice in the matter, I was wearing my deep green dress. Fortunately, I hadn’t stained it. Not that I could recall the MacHenries very well, my memories of that event were like a dream; I said so to Daniel.
‘You were being Celine,’ he answered, somewhat carelessly in my opinion. Deep within, I felt Celine beckon me but I brushed her away.
A dozen, large round tables held tall glasses and bottles of champagne that glistened under the lights of six chandeliers. Auction brochures lay on the white cloth of the tables. Contemporary Irish Artists. A copy in his hand, Daniel showed me the page with We Will Meet Again. The picture of me underneath it was about five years old and was the one I had issued for use by my galleries. It had been taken by Jackie about a week before she left for Australia. My hair was longer then, past my shoulders, curling at the ends, a slight breeze lifting the locks; my eyes were bright green in the sunlight and if you looked carefully enough past the smile, you could see the impending loss in them.
‘Cyn Sweetwater is the pen name of Susie Heggarty, an artist based in Dublin,’ Daniel read in a posh D4 accent. ‘A graduate of NCAD, Cyn Sweetwater’s early career focused on murals and ephemeral art. Many of her works from that time were designed to disappear within a few months and they have only survived as photographs of the originals. Often these murals had a subtle, subversive message – akin to Bansky but in the style of Leonora Carrington – most notoriously, Woman in Yellow which briefly appeared on the wall of Phibsboro shopping centre and made Cyn Sweetwater a figure of national media interest.
‘Yet throughout her career, Cyn Sweetwater has also sustained an interest in portraiture. The intimate and melancholy depictions of the human face on display at her NCAD graduate show obtained critical acclaim from CIRCA magazine. Her latest work, We Will Meet Again, attracted large crowds while on display in Dublin and is already being hailed as a contemporary Irish masterpiece.’
Eyebrows raised, Daniel stopped reading said, ‘estimate, one hundred thousand to a hundred-and-twenty thousand. Supposing it sells for that. How much will you get?’
‘After commissions and tax, about forty-five. Just enough to pay my fine.’
‘And people complain about poets getting Arts Council funding.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Artists, musicians, dramatists, even novelists and dancers can all make a living from their art. Poets get nothing from the market. Hardly anyone buys poetry. So if the Arts Council disproportionately support poets, that’s nothing to moan about.’
‘I see. Although, there’s only a few who go viral in any of the arts, so to speak. The rest of us – well perhaps not me after today – need that support too.’
After pouring us more champagne, Daniel leaned back in the padded, gold-painted chair, surveyed the room, and the conspiratorial look he gave me made me feel like I was a Bond companion infiltrating an event run by an evil genius who we intended to thwart. Scorn was in the eyes that regarded the art collectors of Ireland.
‘There’s a lot of designer dresses on display,’ he whispered.
‘Fancy any of the women wearing them?’
‘Not that again.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You spent the entire of the MacHenries trying to set me up with a woman who wanted to send everyone to the guillotine.’
I laughed, although I also felt uneasy about how little I remembered of this.
‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘bourgeoise women are…’
Whatever interesting but no-doubt-exaggerated generalisation Daniel was about to make about bourgeoise women was lost with the arrival of Julien, who took the chair to my left.
‘Good afternoon Cyn; good afternoon Mr O’Sullivan. A momentous few hours ahead.’
‘I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you sound so nervous,’ I observed.
Rubbing his sideburns, Julien blinked then focused on the large green bottle in front of him and poured himself a drink. Neatly managed, with his flute at the perfect angle to avoid froth filling the glass, I felt that Julien ought to be in his element here. Yet his hand shook.
‘That’s better.’ He sat back. ‘Ireland’s great and good all around us and another forty-seven bidders online, I’m told. No wonder I’m nervous. I’m surprised that you are not.’
‘Me too,’ said Daniel looking at me. ‘How come you’re so chill?’
Taking a moment to scrutinise my inner feelings, I shrugged. ‘Confidence. Self-belief bordering on egoism. A joy in having drunk from Apollo’s cup. The steadying presence of Celine at my back. And a Rage-Against-the-Machine-like disdain for the clientele here. No offense Julien.’
‘Oh Cyn, what a poetic answer. No wonder I love you so much.’ Daniel kissed me on the cheek and his smile showed genuine delight.
‘None taken, dear Cyn. These people are all first-class types, I’m merely economy class.’
‘If that’s the case, then Cyn and I are not even in the hold,’ said Daniel.
Julien’s smile was thin and wry, ‘And yet they are all here for you. Well, for Cyn.’
Around the room, conversation stilled as the auctioneer took her place at a lectern. Grey hair tied back in a ponytail; black suit; crisp, white blouse. Two men in black uniforms brought in a stand holding the first painting – a fantasy landscape whose overall tone was purple – which was also displayed on a large television screen that was held in a bracket high up on the far wall from me.
‘Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen and welcome to the Shelbourne Hotel for the Contemporary Irish Artists sale, hosted by Eve’s Auctioneers. My name is Barbara Hutch and I’ll be your auctioneer for the afternoon.’ As she went on to explain the fire safety arrangements and the rules for bidding, a murmuring of conversation rose. It only died out when opening bids were invited on Lot One.
Even though the pace of each sale was fairly quick and the auctioneer wasn’t lingering over final bids, more than an hour passed before we reached the half-way point. Then a break was announced. Straight out of his chair, Daniel made for the gents, probably eager for a line of speed. And hardly had he gone when the equally bulky Martin Doherty TD took his place.
‘Martin,’ I said, ‘I didn’t know you were an art collector.’
‘I want you to know I did my best,’ scowling, Martin looked past me to Julien. ‘The committee agreed to seventy-five thousand for the purchase by the National Gallery of We Will Meet Again. Only your man here wouldn’t sell.’
‘It’s going to get double that,’ replied Julien.
Ignoring Julien, Martin kept his dark eyes on mine. ‘I was trying to get hold of you. It’s not too late. Why don’t you withdraw the painting? It’s wasted in a private home, especially if it goes to America.’
‘Thanks for your efforts Martin, I really do appreciate them. What do you think Julien?’
‘I think,’ Julien replied, ‘that whoever does the valuations for the National Gallery, made a mistake here. I’m all for the state owning art and I’ve plenty more pieces in my gallery that deserve collection. This one, however, is not going to be withdrawn. You’ll see why. I’ve never had such interest and so many attempts to buy a work outright.’
Martin put both hands on the table, leaning forward to make eye contact in his appeal to me: ‘Cyn, think about it. Think of all the visitors looking at your painting. Your career. Don’t you want it on the walls of the National Gallery?’
‘I’d love it to be there. Or IMMA. But it’s out of my hands. Julien’s contracts are very clear about that.’
‘Hey Martin, good to see you.’ Daniel was back and shaking hands with the TD, who stood up to return the seat.
‘I was over trying to get Cyn to sell to the state.’
‘That sums up the left, doesn’t it?’ I said.
Martin looked at me blankly.
‘Selling out to the state.’
‘Don’t be mean Cyn, Martin was trying his best for you.’
‘I’m joking. I’ve told Martin I appreciate his efforts.’ It was tempting to add that there had never yet been a politician who acted without also calculating how the people around them would respond. And that in Martin’s case, to be associated with me would do his standing no harm among my anarchist and artist friends. But that really would have been mean-spirited and I was grateful for his attempt to get the painting into the National Gallery. I certainly would have preferred it to be part of a public collection than a private one.
Everyone settled down to the second half of the auction and the auctioneer moved quickly through the lots until We Will Meet Again was brought on stage. As the room stirred like winter wind had blown through it, Daniel took my hand and gave it a squeeze.
‘It’s magnificent, Cyn, really. I’m proud of you.’
Turning her head from side to side – grey ponytail making her head seem like a weathervane – the auctioneer gave some preliminary complimentary remarks and set the first bid at a hundred thousand, which immediately came from a table near the window on the far side of the room.
‘A hundred and ten? On the New York phone. A hundred and twenty to my right. A hundred and thirty on the New York phone. A hundred and forty with Susan.’ Very rapidly the bids rose to a hundred and seventy thousand and only then was there a lull. I found that despite my earlier composure, I was now feeling giddy.
‘At a hundred and seventy thousand to New York. Selling at a hundred and seventy thousand Euro. Fair warning. Here it is. This wonderful original work, which has already been requested for exhibition in London at the National Portrait Gallery. My hammer is raised at a hundred and seventy thousand.’
‘Wait.’
‘Waiting on Neo.’
Neo? I hadn’t seen him in the crowded room but now I followed the gaze of the auctioneer to the far corner and there he was dressed in a tuxedo, sitting at a table with his hand outstretched.
‘Against you Neo. Do you want to come in?’
He smiled, shark like. ‘Two hundred thousand.’
‘Two hundred thousand Euro with Neo. Two hundred thousand. Do I hear two hundred and ten thousand Euro?’
The man holding the phone who had been signalling bids from New York shook his head.
‘Looking for two hundred and ten thousand Euro. An astonishing talent. I have two hundred thousand Euro from Neo. Two hundred thousand Euro. I give fair warning. My hammer is raised. At two hundred thousand with Neo. Last chance.’ She banged the hammer down. ‘Thank you, Neo, yours for two hundred thousand Euro.’
A murmur of conversation rose in all directions as the hushed audience were released from the constraint of the formality of the auction. Beside me, Julien beat a drum pattern on the tablecloth and grinned at me delightedly. ‘Excellent,’ he said.
‘I can’t believe it,’ said Daniel. ‘Remember yesterday in Dunnes, when you put back that peanut butter as too expensive? You’re rich now Cyn, even after fees and taxes that’s what? A hundred thousand? You can have whatever peanut butter you want.’
I didn’t answer because Neo was following the curved route between the tables and for a horrible moment I thought he was going to speak to me. Then he was past, without having noticed me, and was clambering up onto the stage and turning one of two slender microphones from the lectern towards him.
‘Just a minute, before we continue. I have an announcement.’ Neo was flushed, red cheeks, red ears. ‘This–’ he gestured to the painting ‘–is a consequence of DreamAds. Our technology releases the inner artist in all of us. No insult to the artist, Cynthia Meltwater, but this work, which seems a masterpiece in our eyes, is only the harbinger of the future, where every artist will be at this level and higher. Imagine a world where everyone is a Mozart, or a Picasso, or a Joyce. That’s coming. I know. I’m there already. Honestly, you’ve no idea of the power inside you until you release it. It’s better than any drug. Sex, I mean, sex is unbelievable. I used to have sex with all these beautiful woman and it was getting boring. Even if I got them to be kinky for me. Then I started using the DreamAds hoods and O. My. God. It was like a flower unfolding in my mind. I discovered the secret of really great sex. You want to know it? Of course you do. It’s love. Love brings sex into a different dimension. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking about life-long love, like swans. I mean in that moment. Oh, I see a lot of you pointing your phones at me. Don’t bother. Brad will tidy up my speech, won’t you Brad?’
A muscular man in a grey suit, wearing sunglasses indoors gave a nod.
‘And anyone who tries to post this on social media will have their accounts shut down. Just saying. Brad’s team know you all. But we are all friends here. You have to try the DreamAds hoods people. Get to know the real you. I’m not saying this to sell the hoods. I’m one of you. It’s not about the money. It’s the release. The inner you. The dreamer. There’s nothing like it.’ He waved again at We Will Meet Again. ‘That’s what I’m talking about. A second-rate artist becoming a genius. It’s going to happen for us all.’
‘Thank you, Neo,’ said the auctioneer coldly. ‘We still have six lots remaining, please take your seat.’
‘No applause?’ asked Neo. ‘Well, how about this. I donate that painting to the National Gallery. It’s a landmark painting, the first by a user of the DreamAds technology. It’s a piece of history and I give it to the people of Ireland.’
Some people clapped as Neo waved and got down from the stage. Not me. Quite apart from the cringe about sex and the failure to get my artist name right, there was his jibe about “second-rate”. That one hurt, because there was a sense in which it was true. Much more than I, Celine had been responsible for We Will Meet Again.