Two Bites of the Apple

I: Scrub That

Braunschweig, the artist, uses, employs, must have, in essential requirement, to make his art, a hardware shop scrubbing brush of time-immemorial unchanging weight and shape, hard bristles set in a vaguely figure-eight wooden base or grip, as used by his mother, as probably yours, to scrub the linoleum in the kitchen, bathroom, toilet (only it was called the lavatory then), outside too, the concrete, the steps, and his scrubbings, or marks, as the learned cognoscenti love to pronounce, whether on bounce of Belgian linen, the rasp of rough-grained canvas, the slick anonymity of smooth-faced board or card, whichever or whatever to hand, likewise of meditated moment or simply seized, algebraic wisdom, rush of blood, to begin, let’s say, bristle tips of dipped no-colour watered black, in tenderest touch, a stipple of spots, a scribble of briefest braille, that first sprinkling of lightest rain upon placid lake’s waiting face, perhaps the crease of passing breeze adding for a moment the surface, come and gone, a mirrored memory, no more, done and done, until or unless the sky should darken, becloud, threaten, loom by, the hand then to hover, in ever-increasing fury, but held, held, held, suddenly to swoop, to swipe, to swirl, in immemorial unattainable artistic frustration of expression, to—damn it—scrub.

A Primitive.

Neo-Post.

Dirtworks.

Braunschweig, the artist, acknowledges his achievement, underlines it, if you like, seals it, sets it off, each picture or artwork, call it as you will, in a same frame of simplest silver, a calibrated exactness you would be more aware of in its absence, its purpose not to draw you to its shine. A frame can brag, boast, browbeat, beg the question (and answer it), broadcast an importance unwon, undeserved. Not here. Never here. Braunschweig frames in simple silver as sincerely as he signs his name.

Signed his name.

Past tense, alas.

The painter passed.

Taken from us.

In his studio discovered.

Midwork.

Fallen.

One arm outstretched.

In endless striving.

Forever reaching.

Between one heartbeat and the next.

Stolen.

Stilled.

Gone.

Too early, too late, who can know such things, who can say?

An auction remembers him.

So we have here the numbered paddles, the prearranged movements and tics of bidding, raised finger, cocked brow, the clapped-to-ear cellphones of sombre, efficient staff, unidentified buyers, you understand, Arabian royalty, Japanese insurance, richest Russians, gangster trash.

Bidding opens at ten.

Triples to thirty.

Leapfrogs to sixty, no pause.

Eighty.

Ninety-five.

All finished?

Done?

Bang of hammer, sold, congratulations, chance of a lifetime, buyer not named.

One hundred and eight million dollars.

A world record.

The largest sum ever paid for a hardware shop scrubbing brush.

II: Occupy Wall Space

Three Studies of Lucian Freud, a triptych by the 20th-century figurative artist Francis Bacon, was sold by Christie’s for $142,405,000, a world record for the most expensive piece of art ever sold. The identity of the buyer was not immediately revealed.

—AP, AFP

Should a scenario suggest, and how could it not, let the curtain rise on the Unidentified Buyer, an unlikely lad of possibly twenty, twenty-and-a-half absolute tops, toting a section, not without difficulty, of the Bacon triptych into the living room of your average typical middle-class suburban home, furniture, doodads, lighting etc as you would expect. Achieving the centre of the room, he sets the picture down for a moment, takes a breath. We become aware of his mother, a no-nonsense woman if ever, of stern expression, hands on hips.

Mother: And where are we hanging that, may I ask?

Her Son: (pointing with his chin at an area of wall) I thought—

Mother: Not the Modigliani, surely?

Her Son: Mother, I’ve stared at it for months.

Mother: So? Your father, may his soul rest in peace, tolerated a Rembrandt for two years.

Her Son: (with a tone) A stoic.

Mother: Watch your mouth, my boy! Limitless wealth does not give you the right to speak ill of your father, may the angels above sing his praises evermore.

Her Son: (unrepentant) Sure, sure. That’s not what you said when he was around.

Before the mother can reply, never mind her mouth already open to do so, enter the cleaning lady, her hair in a plastic shower cap, her shoes in protective pillow cases, her vacuum cleaner strapped to her back, a feather duster in her left hand, an all-purpose rag in the other. She sees the Bacon, stops, gives it a good stare.

Cleaning Lady: Ooooooooooo! That’s different.

The Son: (obviously pleased) Actually, this is just part of it. It’s a triptych. There are two more bits.

Mother: (interrupting) Which will hang? Hmm?

Her Son: Well, obviously, mother, one on each side. The Matisse and the Picasso will have to depart.

Mother: (shaking her head) I know it’s ungrateful of me, but I do sometimes rue the rush of blood that plunged you into the world of computer technology wherein fortuitous happenstance has so far netted you a stable of winning racehorses, two Gutenberg bibles (authenticated), and a crackerjack major league basketball team, to speak only of the icing on your cake. Perhaps I’m a silly ninny, but I can’t help looking back on those simple days when—(suddenly becoming aware of something) You’re not knocking more nails in the wall?

Her Son: Relax, mother, no one will see them.

Mother: Oh no? And what about if we decide to sell the house, answer me that? Your father, may his memory shine eternal, never once knocked in a single nail without first considering—

To be interrupted here by the entry of a next-door neighbour, that nice Mr Stewart, Frederick, Fred, the neatest lawn on the block.

Mr Stewart: What’s all that damn bubblewrap blowing into my front yard? All over the dahlias, for God’s sake. I nearly broke a leg—(as he sees the painting) And what’s that supposed to be? Don’t tell me you did it yourself.

The Son: (drawing himself up) It might interest you to know—Fred—that what you’re looking at, if I might here employ the words of the evaluating expert at Christie’s, our long-established major auction house, is, quote, an icon of 20th-century art, unquote, which I was fortunate enough to acquire against some of the hottest bidding ever enacted. (puffing himself up further) And a pretty penny it cost too, if I may make so bold as to add. A hundred and forty two million and change, the most ever paid for a painting, I believe.

Mr Stewart: They charge ya for the bubblewrap too? I wouldn’t be at all surprised.

Cleaning Lady: Oh don’t mind him, he’s only jealous. (unbuckling herself of vacuum cleaner, stripping and shedding the plastic shower cap, the protective pillowcases, the feather duster, the all-purpose rag) Come on, I’ll give you a hand with the other bits.

Leaving the mother and the next-door neighbour, that nice Mr Stewart, the ground eroded from under their feet, as it were, impossible of issue, either of them, the one, the both, of further word, in static incredulous freeze, as our curtain considerately descends.