million—’alf a bleedin’ million—on a picture last year. What was ’is name? Duveen or something? ’alf a million! There’s men out of work and children wantin’ for a good meal and a man spends all that on a f—” He bit his lip. “Spends all that on a picture. It makes me seethe, it does.”
Maisie nodded. “Point taken, Billy, point taken. And it’s a good one.” She paused, allowing her agreement to soften her assistant’s temper. “But here is something to remember, when this sort of thing comes up and makes you angry: that in our work we come across injustice. Sometimes we can do something about it—for example, as Dr. Blanche taught me, our wealthier clients pay us handsomely, which enables us to work for those who come to us with little or nothing with which to pay. And sometimes our work can put right an injustice against someone who stands accused, or clear the name of someone who is dead. To accomplish all of this, we have to face aspects of life that are not always palatable.”
“So, what you’re sayin’ is that I’ve just got to swallow it and get on wiv me job.”
Maisie nodded. “Look at the world beyond your immediate emotion, the immediate fury of inequality. Choose your battles, Billy.”
Silence seeped between them. Maisie allowed another moment to elapse, then moved to the chair and picked up her notes.
“I thought it would be a good idea to get a better sense of what we are dealing with in our investigation into the death of Nicholas Bassington-Hope. I am keen to know more about those characteristics that are common among artists, that might give us clues as to what moved him, what risks he might take as an individual and what he might do for his fellow man, so to speak.”
Billy nodded.
“Dr. Wicker was most interesting, explaining that there is a connection between art and the big questions that the artist is seeking to answer, either directly or indirectly, with his work.” Maisie met Billy’s eyes as she uttered the word work . He was listening, and even making a note. “It may be a passion for a landscape that he can bring to life for a broader audience, people who will never have the opportunity to visit such a place. It might be a depiction of another time, a comment on our world, perhaps, let’s say…life before steam or the spinning jenny. Or—and I think that this may be where Bassington-Hope felt he could communicate a message—it might be some inner or external terror, an experience that the artist struggles to tell us about by depicting the memory, the image, in his mind’s eye.”
Maisie stood again, rubbing her arms against the encroaching chill of late-afternoon’s darkness. “The artist takes it upon himself—or herself—to ask questions and, perhaps, sit in judgment. So, as in literature, the work may be taken at face value, for an audience to appreciate as a form of entertainment, or it can be seen in the context of the artist’s life, and indeed, from the perspective of the individual observer.”
“So, the artist really is sendin’ a message?”
“Yes—and in working on their craft, the dexterity of hand, the understanding of color, light and form, so the artist builds an arsenal of tools with which to express a sentiment, a view of the world from their perspective.”
“I reckon these ’ere artistic types are probably a bit soft.”
“ Sensitive is a better word.”
Billy shook his head. “Now that I come to think of it, it must’ve been rotten for the likes of Mr. B-H in the war. You know, if you’re a person what lives with pictures, someone who sees somethin’ more where the rest of us just see what’s what, then what we all saw over there in France must’ve been terrible for ’im, what with all that sensitivity or whatever you call it. No wonder the poor bloke went off to America and all that land.” He frowned, then continued with a sad half laugh. “If ’e came back from the war ’alf as worn out as the rest
Maisie nodded. “Point taken, Billy, point taken. And it’s a good one.” She paused, allowing her agreement to soften her assistant’s temper. “But here is something to remember, when this sort of thing comes up and makes you angry: that in our work we come across injustice. Sometimes we can do something about it—for example, as Dr. Blanche taught me, our wealthier clients pay us handsomely, which enables us to work for those who come to us with little or nothing with which to pay. And sometimes our work can put right an injustice against someone who stands accused, or clear the name of someone who is dead. To accomplish all of this, we have to face aspects of life that are not always palatable.”
“So, what you’re sayin’ is that I’ve just got to swallow it and get on wiv me job.”
Maisie nodded. “Look at the world beyond your immediate emotion, the immediate fury of inequality. Choose your battles, Billy.”
Silence seeped between them. Maisie allowed another moment to elapse, then moved to the chair and picked up her notes.
“I thought it would be a good idea to get a better sense of what we are dealing with in our investigation into the death of Nicholas Bassington-Hope. I am keen to know more about those characteristics that are common among artists, that might give us clues as to what moved him, what risks he might take as an individual and what he might do for his fellow man, so to speak.”
Billy nodded.
“Dr. Wicker was most interesting, explaining that there is a connection between art and the big questions that the artist is seeking to answer, either directly or indirectly, with his work.” Maisie met Billy’s eyes as she uttered the word work . He was listening, and even making a note. “It may be a passion for a landscape that he can bring to life for a broader audience, people who will never have the opportunity to visit such a place. It might be a depiction of another time, a comment on our world, perhaps, let’s say…life before steam or the spinning jenny. Or—and I think that this may be where Bassington-Hope felt he could communicate a message—it might be some inner or external terror, an experience that the artist struggles to tell us about by depicting the memory, the image, in his mind’s eye.”
Maisie stood again, rubbing her arms against the encroaching chill of late-afternoon’s darkness. “The artist takes it upon himself—or herself—to ask questions and, perhaps, sit in judgment. So, as in literature, the work may be taken at face value, for an audience to appreciate as a form of entertainment, or it can be seen in the context of the artist’s life, and indeed, from the perspective of the individual observer.”
“So, the artist really is sendin’ a message?”
“Yes—and in working on their craft, the dexterity of hand, the understanding of color, light and form, so the artist builds an arsenal of tools with which to express a sentiment, a view of the world from their perspective.”
“I reckon these ’ere artistic types are probably a bit soft.”
“ Sensitive is a better word.”
Billy shook his head. “Now that I come to think of it, it must’ve been rotten for the likes of Mr. B-H in the war. You know, if you’re a person what lives with pictures, someone who sees somethin’ more where the rest of us just see what’s what, then what we all saw over there in France must’ve been terrible for ’im, what with all that sensitivity or whatever you call it. No wonder the poor bloke went off to America and all that land.” He frowned, then continued with a sad half laugh. “If ’e came back from the war ’alf as worn out as the rest
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