. . . they nicknamed me after one of the great geniuses of my profession â Vincent Van Gogh.â
âI see.â Mrs Pargeter was silent for a moment before asking the inevitable question. âThen why arenât you called âVVGâ?â
âI told you. They made a mockery of me.â The misunderstood one took another angry slurp from his mug, as he spelled out the detail of his humiliation. âThey called me âVincent Vin Ordinaireâ.â
Hamish Ramon Henriques ran a hand through the luxuriance of his moustache to prevent his smile from becoming too overt, and Mrs Pargeter was glad she wasnât in eye contact with him, as she soothed the injured genius with the meaningless words, âOh. Oh well, thatâs nice.â
But VVOâs well of bitterness was far from dry. âTheyâre always making fun of me,â he moaned on, âlaughing at my aspirations to be a great artist . . . dismissing my paintings as mere imitative daubs . . .â
âOh, come on,â HRH protested. âWe always respected what you did best.â
The artist was incensed. âNo, you didnât! You respected my hack work!â Fuelled by anger, he rose from his seat and started to circle the room. âYou respected me when I produced a Rubens.â
As he spoke, he picked up a canvas of a buxom nude whose bottom blushed appealingly. Mrs Pargeter, who had seen a similar sight in the bathroom mirror earlier that morning, could not restrain herself from murmuring, âOh, thatâs very good.â
âOr a Goya,â VVO went on vindictively, picking up a lady wearing a black mantilla whose authenticity was only let down by an unpainted patch of canvas in the top corner.
Though this picture struck no personal chords, Mrs Pargeter could still recognize the skill of its execution. âThatâs smashing too,â she said.
âOr a Jackson Pollock.â On this third canvas, however, she could express no opinion. Mrs Pargeter had always found it tricky to tell a good Jackson Pollock from a bad one â or indeed from an accident in a paint shop.
The tortured genius let all three canvases clatter to the floor, as he struck his chest in impassioned misery. âBut what happens when I express
myself
. . . when I do a painting that is a true
Reg Winthrop
?â
To reinforce his words, he picked up a picture which had stood facing the wall. It was fixed in a gold frame, and was quite definitely the ugliest work of art Mrs Pargeter had ever seen. No weekend painter, suffering from a terminal overdose of sentimentality, could ever have produced worse.
A black Scottie dog, with an anthropomorphic smile and a tartan bow about its neck, sat coquettishly in front of a little humpbacked bridge over a tinkling stream. Spotted toadstools poked up through the grass. Bluebirds circled aimlessly overhead. The painting could have won a Queenâs Award for Winsomeness. Even a chocolate-box manufacturer would have rejected it as too coy.
âHmm . . .â said Mrs Pargeter awkwardly. âWell, yes . . .â
âSee!â VVO let the painting slip from his hand and hurled himself histrionically back into his chair. âYouâre just like all the others. You canât appreciate what Iâm really trying to say. You canât see through to the soul of my art. Ah, is it always the fate of genius to be misunderstood?â
Hamish Ramon Henriques decided that pursuing such speculation would be fruitless. It was time to get down to business. âVVO, in fact the reason we are here is thatââ
But the artistâs list of grievances was not exhausted. âNot only does nobody appreciate my painting, Iâm also excluded from all the exciting bits when weâve got a job on. Iâm always left on the sidelines. While the rest of the lads are having fun, out and about breaking and entering, Iâm
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