artenol0416_sm_flipbook

34
STATE-OF-THE-ART
It had all been completely unprecedented. Yes,
his wildest dreams had come true, but at the same
time, it all made him a little nervous. Surely it was
only a matter of time before he was caught out. A
student from art school had already been in touch on
Facebook, congratulating him on his successes, but
expressing how sorry she was to learn of his “coinciding
misfortunes.” How long would it be before
someone from Lindl, too, caught on? How would he
explain his sudden disability? He would have had to
have had a car accident and become a rising art star,
all in a matter of weeks. He was now popping up in
all the free London papers, and they were bound to
spot him. After this show, he would escape back to
his village in Nigeria, he decided. One of his artworks
had just sold at Christie’s for hundreds of thousands.
He would live like a king, and would return to London
in a decade or so, and visit the galleries he had
grown to love.
It was a hot, late spring day and he fanned himself
with a newspaper, pausing to catch the headline. The
Chancellor of the Exchequer was making more cuts
to unemployment and disability benefits while the
wealthy got another tax break, he read.
This country was not quite the place it seemed,
anyway. Perhaps the sooner he left, the better.
3.
THE NIGHT WAS YOUNG, and the liggers
were at the London Arts Fayre. The
event was located in a warehouse in
central London, where three floors had
been erected to accommodate the
“affordable” contemporary art,
which hung within the labyrinth
of plasterboard walls.
Despite the complexities of the environment, Mac
and Simon had easily located the champagne stand,
and now they sailed past the artworks, glasses in
hands.
Mac wore a red corduroy shirt, and his shaggy
blonde hair was brushed to the side. “Wow, is that a
Hatzborg?” asked Mac, in his broad Australian accent,
pointing at a large purple abstract painting.
“No,” replied Thomas, the Swiss, his bald head
gleaming under the white lights. “It is not shit enough
to be a Hatzborg.”
“Well, there sure are a lot of look-alike art pieces
here,” said Mac, scouring the content on the everlasting
white walls. He paused at a bulky canvas. A
giant book of spells had been cemented to it, and the
whole arrangement was sprayed in a rusty orange
and powdery green. Mac squinted at the name tag of
the artist. “Gee, I mean, let’s face it, that’s a full-on rip
off of a Keifer.”
“This is what the institution does nowadays,” said
Thomas angrily. “They get a load of unknown artists
to imitate the high-selling ones – the tried-and-tested
products. But I just can’t believe that even the
Hatzborg rip-off artist is better than the real one.”
Mac laughed. “Well, Brad Pitt likes him,” he said,
scooping up another glass of champagne. “He bought
a whole series.”
Thomas was silent now, watching Mac wearily. It
was only last night that he had screamed down a gallery
owner in Cork Street, and it was by no means the
first time. After a certain amount of alcohol, a switch
would flick in Mac’s head, and he would rage about
various global issues, to everyone and anyone.
“Slags!” came a familiar squawk.
Thomas and Mac turned and looked into the excited
bespectacled eyes of Simon.
“Oh, Hi Simon!” cried Mac, enthusiastically.
“Did you get in all right?”
“I flashed last year’s ticket at the door, and
in I came,” he sang. “I don’t think they’re too
fussed about us this year; they want the crowds.”
“It’s not really that exclusive,” agreed Mac.
“Well, they probably think we’re going
to be stupid enough to invest in these
abominations,” cried Thomas, his eyes
bulging with contempt.
“Well, old Maureen over there
sure looks like she’s investing,” said
Mac, nodding to the left, before
emptying the champagne down
his throat.
Simon and Thomas turned,
FALL 2016