raw, exposed wood remain where dividing walls once stood. At the far end, angled towards one of several curtainless windows, twin easels support what can only be the painting she’s been sent to reconnoitre. Wider than the spread of her arms and almost as tall, the canvas is shrouded in a grey, paint-spattered sheet. Pointedly, Jacqueline averts her gaze. Allows it to drift instead over the smaller canvases that lie stacked against the outer walls, their faces turned uniformly away. The jars of brushes and half-curled tubes of paint cluttering the corners and windowsills. The single mattress with its colourfully stained and crumpled sheet.
‘Sometimes I crash in here,’ Ryan says. ‘Easier’n cleaning myself up for bed.’
Jacqueline smiles. ‘I can imagine.’
‘Ryan?’ Alice pokes her head around the door. ‘Ryan, I got things of my own to do today. You gonna be long with her?’
Jacqueline opens her mouth to tell the woman not to wait on her account, that she’s quite capable of calling a taxi, but she doesn’t get the chance.
Ryan whips around, his face dark with fury. ‘Get the fuck out of here, Alice!’
‘I only–’
‘Piss off !’ Right in her face, so close that Jacqueline sees spittle arc through the air and land on Alice’s cheek. Her heart beats faster. Her breath sticks in her throat. The woman backs quickly out of sight and Ryan slams the door. Hard enough to make all the windows rattle in their frames.
‘Sorry,’ he mutters. ‘She knows I don’t want her in here, I don’t ever want her in here.’ He turns to face her, hands spreading in a gesture she takes for contrition. ‘She doesn’t understand art, never has. Doesn’t get the process, you know?’
Jacqueline nods. ‘Sure.’
‘Only reason she’s interested now is there’s money involved.’
‘I imagine that interests a lot of people. More so than art, that is.’
Ryan grins. ‘Someone in mind?’
Jacqueline takes a couple of steps towards the nearest stack of canvases. The topmost bears a word scrawled in red across its back: median or perhaps meridian . ‘Dante does care more about the money, your sister was right about that. Art is his business, and a status symbol. To be honest, I doubt he’d spot the difference between a genuine Jackson Pollock and a mass-produced Chinese knock-off. If he could sell them for the same price, he’d quite likely argue there was no real difference at all.’ She points a toe at the canvas in front of her. ‘Could I . . .?’
Ryan moves to her side. ‘Yeah, I got that about Dante. A real bottom-line guy.’
He bends and flips the painting around to face them. A sunset, all bloody reds and rich, bruised purples, casts its dying light over a city which has long since ceased to breathe. Skyscrapers loom, their glassless windows gaping black as missing teeth, above a river the colour of raw sewage. A post-urban wasteland, concrete and iron decaying to rubble and rust – and amid it all, faces peering out. Or what might be faces; what might be nothing more than wishful thinking. What might be nothing ever again.
‘It’s Brisbane,’ Ryan says. ‘One day.’
Jacqueline nods. ‘What you have to understand about Dante, though, is that he’s good at his business. Very good. You need him, Ryan, you really do.’
He shrugs, noncommittal, then turns over another canvas. And another. He leads her around the room, becoming more animated as each new painting, each vision of his tragic, post-apocalyptic city, is revealed. They’re good, better than good. They’re grand and dismal and undeniably beautiful, although Jacqueline can’t but help feel that something is missing. A unity, a narrative. Perhaps when they’re hung. Perhaps when the centrepiece is there to tie them all together. If the centrepiece ties them together. Jacqueline glances at the shrouded bulk straddling the two easels. Her fingers ache to lift a corner of the sheet.
‘You coming out tonight, then?’ Ryan
‘Sometimes I crash in here,’ Ryan says. ‘Easier’n cleaning myself up for bed.’
Jacqueline smiles. ‘I can imagine.’
‘Ryan?’ Alice pokes her head around the door. ‘Ryan, I got things of my own to do today. You gonna be long with her?’
Jacqueline opens her mouth to tell the woman not to wait on her account, that she’s quite capable of calling a taxi, but she doesn’t get the chance.
Ryan whips around, his face dark with fury. ‘Get the fuck out of here, Alice!’
‘I only–’
‘Piss off !’ Right in her face, so close that Jacqueline sees spittle arc through the air and land on Alice’s cheek. Her heart beats faster. Her breath sticks in her throat. The woman backs quickly out of sight and Ryan slams the door. Hard enough to make all the windows rattle in their frames.
‘Sorry,’ he mutters. ‘She knows I don’t want her in here, I don’t ever want her in here.’ He turns to face her, hands spreading in a gesture she takes for contrition. ‘She doesn’t understand art, never has. Doesn’t get the process, you know?’
Jacqueline nods. ‘Sure.’
‘Only reason she’s interested now is there’s money involved.’
‘I imagine that interests a lot of people. More so than art, that is.’
Ryan grins. ‘Someone in mind?’
Jacqueline takes a couple of steps towards the nearest stack of canvases. The topmost bears a word scrawled in red across its back: median or perhaps meridian . ‘Dante does care more about the money, your sister was right about that. Art is his business, and a status symbol. To be honest, I doubt he’d spot the difference between a genuine Jackson Pollock and a mass-produced Chinese knock-off. If he could sell them for the same price, he’d quite likely argue there was no real difference at all.’ She points a toe at the canvas in front of her. ‘Could I . . .?’
Ryan moves to her side. ‘Yeah, I got that about Dante. A real bottom-line guy.’
He bends and flips the painting around to face them. A sunset, all bloody reds and rich, bruised purples, casts its dying light over a city which has long since ceased to breathe. Skyscrapers loom, their glassless windows gaping black as missing teeth, above a river the colour of raw sewage. A post-urban wasteland, concrete and iron decaying to rubble and rust – and amid it all, faces peering out. Or what might be faces; what might be nothing more than wishful thinking. What might be nothing ever again.
‘It’s Brisbane,’ Ryan says. ‘One day.’
Jacqueline nods. ‘What you have to understand about Dante, though, is that he’s good at his business. Very good. You need him, Ryan, you really do.’
He shrugs, noncommittal, then turns over another canvas. And another. He leads her around the room, becoming more animated as each new painting, each vision of his tragic, post-apocalyptic city, is revealed. They’re good, better than good. They’re grand and dismal and undeniably beautiful, although Jacqueline can’t but help feel that something is missing. A unity, a narrative. Perhaps when they’re hung. Perhaps when the centrepiece is there to tie them all together. If the centrepiece ties them together. Jacqueline glances at the shrouded bulk straddling the two easels. Her fingers ache to lift a corner of the sheet.
‘You coming out tonight, then?’ Ryan
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