Art's Blood (23 page)

A noisy crowd of studio strollers was descending in a clatter of clogs and chitchat. Elizabeth and Phillip flattened themselves against the peeling paint of the stair wall till the group had passed. “…that tall redhead with those awful dreadlocks,” a lean middle-aged woman with jet-black hair pulled back in a neat ponytail was saying. “She’s a friend of Kyra Peterson’s. I heard she knew The 3
very
well and Carter told me…” Whatever Carter had told the woman was lost to hearing as the group went out the door.

“I had a feeling that The 3 might be a big topic today,” Elizabeth told Phillip as they reached the top of the stairs. “Laurel said the rumors just keep flying.”

“Good reason for us to be here, then. Might find some new angle on this mess.” Phillip looked around at the art-bedecked walls, shook his head, breathed deeply, then followed Elizabeth down the hall.

The interior of The Wedge was dim, mazelike, and claustrophobically hot. Clusters of sightseers wandered through the building, from studio to studio, clutching maps of the District and gazing, often without comprehension, at the works on display. Narrow hallways had been pressed into service as galleries; progress toward Laurel’s space was slow.

Hawkins paused at a grouping of photographs: an assortment of life-size faces, all of which, Elizabeth sincerely hoped, had been digitally altered. Eyebrows grew to extravagant lengths; a tongue, riddled with ovoid holes, stretched up to touch the end of a nose, the nostrils of which were delicately scalloped; a mouth gaped to reveal tiny stalactites of pink flesh hanging from the hard palate. Below the faces were photographs of feet. One had toes the length of fingers; another sported toenails grown into twisted talons; a third showed a pair of feet, seemingly joined at the heels and transmogrified into a fluke.

“What the hell’s the point of all this?” Phillip murmured close to her ear. “Can you imagine hanging something like this in your house?”

Elizabeth averted her eyes from a photograph in which the facial features had been morphed into genitals. “You know, there’s a phrase,
‘épater les bourgeois’—
I’m probably not saying it right— but I think that’s the point: to shock the ordinary person.”

“I get it.” Phillip gave the photographs a last disparaging look. “If you can’t be good, then be outrageous.”

They followed the sound of pulsating reggae to Laurel’s studio, a long room at the back of the building. A window fan provided some respite against the suffocating heat and an orange ice chest bore the sign
Bottled Water—$1.
Three women were examining the large multimedia pieces that leaned against one wall; a fourth was writing a check, evidently for the small collage that Laurel was holding. Catching sight of her mother and Phillip, she grinned triumphantly, then returned her attention to the buyer. “Yes, all the illustrations and printed material are from fifties-era magazines. That’s right; those
are
prizes from Cracker Jack boxes.”

The collage was soon wrapped and handed over to its purchaser. The four women left and Laurel bounced over to hug her mother. “Thanks for coming, Mum. You too, Phillip. I didn’t know
you
were interested in art.”

“Oh…ah…sure I am.” Hawkins was peering closely at one of Laurel’s larger pieces— a door-sized panel covered with some plasterlike substance that had been deeply textured before being painted. Faded black-and-white photos, enlarged to the point of graininess and hand-tinted, as well as odd bits of disassembled kitchen implements were embedded in the surface. A smiling woman labeled “Mom,” wearing a neat shirtwaist dress, pearls, high heels, and a frilly apron, peered out from behind a sieve. Above her, “Dad,” a handsome man with pipe and slippers, sat in a plaid easy chair, reading the newspaper, sadly oblivious to the shrimp deveiner poised to strike him between the eyes. Other groupings showed various members of the idealized nuclear family— Sis, Buddy, Baby Bitsy, Granny, Pops, Sparky, and Fluffy— all in peril of being mashed, gutted, julienned, tenderized, grated, or otherwise harshly treated by the contents of their kitchen drawers.

“It’s called
Kitschen Kin— A Nightmare.”
Laurel moved to Phillip’s side. She studied her work appraisingly. “Of course, this sort of thing’s been done to death, but I got a great deal on a boxful of old kitchen gadgets at the flea market, and the whole piece just kind of put itself together.” She fixed Phillip with an intense gaze. “What do you think?”

Phillip looked alarmed. “Well…you’re certainly creative, Laurel. I…ah…I think it’s very…ah…creative.”

The serious set of Laurel’s face dissolved into an enchanting grin. “Hey, no biggie. It’s really okay if you don’t like it. I mean, the art that my generation is making doesn’t always suit the stereotypes that your—”

A husky voice with a British accent interrupted her. “Laurel, my angel, it’s hot as a bloody crotch down in my studio. If I could just stand in front of your fan for half a tick.” A tall, rawboned woman with thick makeup and a hairdo in the manner of Dolly Parton paused dramatically in the doorway, then made for the window. She stood in front of the fan and lifted the front of her calf-length flowered skirt. “And tights— what was I thinking on a day like this?”

“Don’t mind us,” Laurel said to her visitor’s back. “Mum, this is Jess. Jess does really outrageous glass pieces— mostly slumping and fusing. Jess, this is my mother, Elizabeth, and her…her friend Phillip.”

“Lovely to meet you both.” Jess didn’t turn but continued to air herself in front of the fan. “I’m about to slump and fuse myself.” The fluttering skirt billowed around legs that Elizabeth suddenly noticed were exceedingly muscular. And quite hairy under the pantyhose.
And the high heels, they’re huge. What size would those be?

At last the skirt was lowered and Jess turned to smile at Elizabeth and Phillip. “One must suffer for one’s art, you know. When Grayson Perry went from being just another potter to the darling of the British art world— you know he got the Turner a few years ago— all because he wore frilly little girl dresses and called himself Claire, well, I decided to have a go at my inner Jessica.”

As Jess spoke, Elizabeth became aware first of the faint shadow along the jawline, imperfectly masked by makeup, and then of the Adam’s apple that nothing could hide.

“Of course, Grayson really
is
a tranny. He gets a kick out of wearing all that gear, but it’s nothing but aggro to me.” Jess tugged at a bra strap and went on. “The bloody thing is, people will pay almost anything for
Jessica’s
glass, so I can’t afford to quit dressing up like a raving nutter. Places that would have booted
Jess
out the door a few years ago are on their bloody knees begging to give
Jessica
shows.”

From down the hall came a shrill whistle. “Bugger! That’s my wife. Bloody reporter scheduled an interview and she’s letting me know he’s arrived. Charming to meet you people; Laurel, you’ve saved my life.” And Jess was gone with a floral swirl and a castanet-like tapping of high heels.

“He’s a trip,” Laurel said, looking out the door after the vanished glass artist. “And his wife’s amazing. She’s the one who thought up the cross-dressing thing. She’s American and she convinced him to leave London and come over here. She thought they should go straight to New York but he said he wanted to try out the Jessica thing somewhere small. He said that he wanted to be comfortable in drag before hitting New York.”

“So, it’s all just a gimmick?” Elizabeth moved in front of the fan. Phillip was lost in contemplation of another of Laurel’s large works. This one involved bits of string that appeared to have been hurled at the wet canvas, much as one tosses a strand of pasta at a wall to test for doneness. Indeed, the title
Al Dente
suggested that this was the artist’s inspiration.

“A gimmick? Oh, absolutely. Jess is a terrific artist but there’re a lot of terrific artists out there. You have to do something to get noticed, one way or another.” Laurel opened the cooler, extracted three plastic bottles of water, and handed them round. “Compliments of the house.”

“So, Laur, how’s it going? I saw you just sold a collage.”

“So-so. A few small pieces and there’s this one guy who I’m pretty sure is going to take the kitchen piece— he wants to hang it in a restaurant he’s opening. And I’m doing great with the bottled water.”

“We were thinking of going by Kyra’s studio. And your friend Rafiq— didn’t you tell me he has a place here in this building?”

“Oh yeah, you don’t want to miss that.” Laurel pulled a brightly colored pamphlet from a stack on the windowsill. “This is a map of the River District and all the studios are shown. But you probably ought to visit Rafiq’s right away. He was up here early this morning before the stroll started, and he’d already started drinking.”

Phillip swigged down the last of the water and tossed his bottle into a bin marked for recycling. “If what you said about gimmicks is true, Rafiq must be doing pretty well.”

“That’s the problem,” Laurel said. “Almost all his stuff has sold. His show’s a huge success…but for the wrong reason. That’s why he’s drinking so much.”

Rafiq was, indeed, well on his way to becoming a spectacular drunk. His voice, slurred and high-pitched with anger, could be heard as they approached his studio on the ground floor of The Wedge: a huge room with giant metal overhead doors that were open to a loading dock. The cavernous space was filled with people clustered around the eleven rectangular crumples of steel and chrome that were the centerpiece of Rafiq’s exhibit. On the corrugated metal walls hung abstract pieces composed of a miscellany of metal parts welded into strangely suggestive forms.

“…no, no, no, the ‘death piece’ as you name it is not here! I tell you again, it was no good. Was never art! I have telled you. And then police take it apart and now is evidence! Vultures! What do you want? You want art or you want blood?”

The dark eyes scanned the eager listeners with a contemptuous gaze. Rafiq brought a half-full Stolichnaya bottle to his lips, threw back his head, and drank. Then he elbowed his way through the throng, moving unsteadily toward a dilapidated old purple sofa at the back of the studio. As he passed Phillip and Elizabeth he paused, then looked closely at Elizabeth.

“’Allo, Laurel’s mother.” He stood there, swaying slightly, then said, “You come sit. We talk.”

Elizabeth shot a quick glance at Phillip, then followed the staggering artist. Phillip ambled after them. Rafiq collapsed onto the tattered middle cushion of the sofa, then patted the cushions on either side of him, sending up small clouds of dust. “Laurel’s mother. Laurel’s mother’s boyfriend. You sit. We talk.”

They sat. Rafiq thrust the vodka at Elizabeth. “Drink!”

Taking the bottle, she began to lift it to her lips, but as Rafiq turned to Phillip she hastily set it down on the bare concrete floor beside the sofa.

Rafiq was glaring at Phillip. “So, you are policeman? You come to arrest me?”

“He’s not a policeman,” Elizabeth objected. “Who told you that? He used to be one but now he’s a teacher.”

Rafiq turned back to stare at her with mournful eyes. “It was Laurel tell me that, Laurel’s mother. Do you know I love Laurel? So beautiful, so brave…” His voice trailed off and his eyes drifted shut. His head lolled back. “I see her this morning and tell her I am at an end with it. All the questions, all the fools who want to know why I kill Boz. I tell them I don’t like Boz but I am artist— I don’t ruin my work to kill termite like him.”

Rafiq turned his head toward Elizabeth but did not open his eyes. “That piece, the one you and Laurel come to see, that was final piece in Zodiac series.” He flipped an unenthusiastic hand in the direction of the eleven tangles of metal. “Would have been my finest work. But now…” He made an unpleasant sound in the back of his throat. “Now is incomplete. No Sagittarius.”

“But it looks like you’re getting a lot of attention. Are—” Elizabeth hesitated, not liking to inquire about the financial success of his show.

Phillip had no such inhibitions. “I noticed little red dots on most of your stuff,” he said. “That means it’s all sold, right?”

“Most sold before show.” Rafiq’s voice was disdainful. “These people who buy— they know nothing. They don’t care am I good or no good. They just buy because of Boz.”

Slowly, drunkenly, the story emerged. Rafiq, who seemed to be susceptible to younger women, had been in love with Kyra. “So frail, so helpless. I would have take care of her but first she go with Aidan, then with Boz. She still come see me sometimes; help with casting charts for the cars. But I am just like oncle, ‘Oncle Raf,’ she call me. I warn her Boz no good; he is selling crank but she don’t believe me. And that other one— Aidan— what kind of man to share his woman that way?”

The artist’s head rolled toward Phillip as he muttered, “That termite Boz is good he’s gone. Kyra is better without him. You going to arrest me?” The brown eyes drifted shut once more and Rafiq sank into a noisy, snoring slumber.

T
HEY LEFT THE COMATOSE
R
AFIQ SPRAWLED ON
the sofa and emerged blinking into the sunlight. Elizabeth fished her sunglasses out of her shoulder bag. “Let me look at this map Laurel gave us. I think it’s too far to walk to the place where Kyra has her studio.”

Hawkins wandered to the end of the loading dock while Elizabeth tried to orient herself in relation to the map. When she had figured out which way they needed to go, she looked up to see Phillip studying the unusual fence at the end of the building. It stretched seven feet high and was composed of various iron and steel objects welded together to create a functional if eccentric barrier. Grates and grilles, pulley wheels, solid metal circles that Elizabeth recognized as parts of a disk harrow, the side of a shopping cart, and any number of forms that seemed once to have been parts of some sort of machinery— all had been shaped into the fence that ran along a steep, narrow flight of crumbling concrete steps up the side of The Wedge. Just beyond the fence a wasteland of weeds stretched beneath the soaring concrete supports of the Riverlink Bridge— a busy highway spanning the French Broad River as well as Riverside Drive and the railroad tracks. Squalid refuse seemed to suggest that the area under the bridge was frequented by some of Asheville’s homeless people.