like to show you. Value your opinion.” He didn’t bother to remind him not even to think about saying no.
“Two o’clock?” Adrian queried.
“Two o’clock,” Jayjay confirmed. “Walk or bring your bike— all the same to us.”
Adrian decided to walk.
~ * ~
Dinner went reasonably smoothly. Angelica Jarndyke didn’t avoid looking at her guest, and played a much fuller role in the conversation, although she seemed to be avoiding the subject of art.
Jayjay was obviously aware of that, and it eventually offended his rule about not beating around the bush—although, when he eventually steered the conversation in that direction, even he took the scenic route.
“I noticed on your CV that you once went to a GRE conference in Oslo,’’ he remarked to Adrian. “Did you take in Gustav Vigeland’s sculpture park? The Vita?”
“Of course,” Adrian said. “Not really my cup of tea, though. A bit austere. Colorless. Impressive, but...just not my sort of thing.”
“I liked it,” Jarndyke said, blithely. “What about the other brother? Did you visit his Vita?”
That was the point, Adrian knew. Jason Jarndyke was fishing. Gustav Vigeland’s little brother Emanuel hadn’t been given a park in which to show off. He had been an official recorder, painting portraits of local dignitaries to hang in civic buildings, condemned to a humdrum existence of conspicuous underachievement, living in an ordinary house on an ordinary estate—until he’d ripped out all the floors in his ordinary house and made the entire interior into a single coherent space, on whose black-dyed walls he’d painted his own all-encompassing vision of human life, in all its aspects, which was designed to be looked at in dim light, so that visitors had to be in there for a good half hour before their eyes adjusted sufficiently to see it as it was meant to be seen.
A blind man could have spotted the hidden agenda. Jason Jarndyke had his own theory about what was going on in Angelica’s “barn.” Doubtless she had “dragged” him to see Emanuel’s house, which was only open to the public for a couple of hours a week, perhaps because the local authorities suspected his Vita of being pornographic.
“Yes,” Adrian said. “I saw it.”
“And what did you think?” was the inevitable next question.
“Original. Ingenious. Very effective. A masterpiece, in its way.”
“Not brilliant? Not a work of genius?”
“Maybe not entirely my cup of tea,” Adrian hedged. “More so than Gustav’s Vita, certainly, but still...in sum, less than the eye could have desired to see.”
“Angie liked it,” Jarndyke said, laying down the hook along with the lure.
She bit, but almost dutifully, because it was expected of her— or so Adrian thought. “Mr. Stamford’s right,” she said. “It’s a masterpiece, in its way. Original, ingenious and effective...but it used semi-darkness as a cloak, to shield its weaknesses. I can sympathize with that, I suppose, but...well, I did like it, but not as much as the Rothko chapel. Rothko could use near-black in a way that Vigeland junior couldn’t. Rothko understood its subtleties better.”
It wasn’t really a lead-in, but Jarndyke used it anyway.
“Angie has some pictures set up in the library that she’s like to show you,” he said to Adrian. “To demonstrate that she does understand near-black...as well as red and blue...and maybe even gold.”
“If only I were a reverse engineer instead of a mere dauber,” his wife retorted, a trifle sharply “what sweet music we might make...not to mention money. I fear that my paintings are never going to find much of a market.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Jarndyke said. “What matters is that you know what they’re worth.”
“I’m sure that Mrs. Jarndyke has always known that,” Adrian put in, trying to be gallant. “I’ll be very interested to
“Two o’clock?” Adrian queried.
“Two o’clock,” Jayjay confirmed. “Walk or bring your bike— all the same to us.”
Adrian decided to walk.
~ * ~
Dinner went reasonably smoothly. Angelica Jarndyke didn’t avoid looking at her guest, and played a much fuller role in the conversation, although she seemed to be avoiding the subject of art.
Jayjay was obviously aware of that, and it eventually offended his rule about not beating around the bush—although, when he eventually steered the conversation in that direction, even he took the scenic route.
“I noticed on your CV that you once went to a GRE conference in Oslo,’’ he remarked to Adrian. “Did you take in Gustav Vigeland’s sculpture park? The Vita?”
“Of course,” Adrian said. “Not really my cup of tea, though. A bit austere. Colorless. Impressive, but...just not my sort of thing.”
“I liked it,” Jarndyke said, blithely. “What about the other brother? Did you visit his Vita?”
That was the point, Adrian knew. Jason Jarndyke was fishing. Gustav Vigeland’s little brother Emanuel hadn’t been given a park in which to show off. He had been an official recorder, painting portraits of local dignitaries to hang in civic buildings, condemned to a humdrum existence of conspicuous underachievement, living in an ordinary house on an ordinary estate—until he’d ripped out all the floors in his ordinary house and made the entire interior into a single coherent space, on whose black-dyed walls he’d painted his own all-encompassing vision of human life, in all its aspects, which was designed to be looked at in dim light, so that visitors had to be in there for a good half hour before their eyes adjusted sufficiently to see it as it was meant to be seen.
A blind man could have spotted the hidden agenda. Jason Jarndyke had his own theory about what was going on in Angelica’s “barn.” Doubtless she had “dragged” him to see Emanuel’s house, which was only open to the public for a couple of hours a week, perhaps because the local authorities suspected his Vita of being pornographic.
“Yes,” Adrian said. “I saw it.”
“And what did you think?” was the inevitable next question.
“Original. Ingenious. Very effective. A masterpiece, in its way.”
“Not brilliant? Not a work of genius?”
“Maybe not entirely my cup of tea,” Adrian hedged. “More so than Gustav’s Vita, certainly, but still...in sum, less than the eye could have desired to see.”
“Angie liked it,” Jarndyke said, laying down the hook along with the lure.
She bit, but almost dutifully, because it was expected of her— or so Adrian thought. “Mr. Stamford’s right,” she said. “It’s a masterpiece, in its way. Original, ingenious and effective...but it used semi-darkness as a cloak, to shield its weaknesses. I can sympathize with that, I suppose, but...well, I did like it, but not as much as the Rothko chapel. Rothko could use near-black in a way that Vigeland junior couldn’t. Rothko understood its subtleties better.”
It wasn’t really a lead-in, but Jarndyke used it anyway.
“Angie has some pictures set up in the library that she’s like to show you,” he said to Adrian. “To demonstrate that she does understand near-black...as well as red and blue...and maybe even gold.”
“If only I were a reverse engineer instead of a mere dauber,” his wife retorted, a trifle sharply “what sweet music we might make...not to mention money. I fear that my paintings are never going to find much of a market.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Jarndyke said. “What matters is that you know what they’re worth.”
“I’m sure that Mrs. Jarndyke has always known that,” Adrian put in, trying to be gallant. “I’ll be very interested to
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