Free Glimmer and other Stories by Nicola McDonagh

arty type.’
    ‘I see. We’ve only just met and you think you know me?’
    ‘Sorry. That was a bit rude.    
    ‘Just a bit. Don’t look so crestfallen, I forgive you. I forgive you because you’re here, and because you understand his work.’    
    ‘I think I do, but what I don’t understand is why he destroyed everything.’
    ‘Not everything.’
    ‘Such a waste.’
    ‘Not to him. Art was more than the object, more than the value of the piece. It was a way of giving himself to the world without actually having to be part of it.’
    ‘I suppose that was what attracted people to his work. The unattainability. Must have been the only artist to make money out of hearsay.’
    ‘If people want to pay for art they can never have, then why not give them what they want?’
    ‘The Emperor’s new clothes.’
    ‘Except that he did make things. Beautiful things, but they were never good enough. I think he wanted to create something that eluded him.’
    ‘The sign of a true artist, I guess. I wish I had that kind of discipline. That objectivity.’
    ‘No, you don’t. You’re young. Be spontaneous. Make mistakes. Enjoy what you do, who you are. Be happy while you can.’
    Lola leant forward and felt the heat of Raphael’s breath on her exposed neck. She turned up the collar on her black raincoat and stepped away from him. She had felt such warmth, such proximity before, but it was a long time ago. A time when her flesh looked good in any light. Raphael turned to face her. She avoided his gaze and looked up at the whitewashed walls and ceiling of the gallery.  
    ‘A month ago this was a disused warehouse. An anonymous patron bought it and transformed it into this rather sterile environment. The window looks so alone here, so lost.’ Lola took off her glove and touched the plaque. She let her fingers slide across his name and pressed her palm against the date of his death.
    Raphael shuffled his feet and coughed. ‘When I found out that the last of his work was going to be on display, I got really excited. I mean, it’s historic. I thought there’d be more people here.’  
    ‘You missed the rush. The place was packed this morning. They were giving away one hundred avocados dipped in creosote. I was almost crushed in the stampede.’
    ‘But he did that thirty years ago. I mean he made three then smashed them in front of the Tate. Why would anyone want a reproduction?’
    ‘Because of the limited supply, and the occasion. You’ll see they’ll be selling for millions in the next few days.’
    ‘Before they go off.’
    Lola smirked. ‘That’s the beauty of it. That’s what art is these days. Hype and illusion.’
    ‘He’ll be turning in his grave.’
    She bowed her head and swallowed.
    ‘Lola, have you been here all day?’  
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘You must be his biggest fan.’
    ‘Perhaps. You too Raphael, by the look on your face.’
    ‘First time I saw ‘Drops In Anger After The Rush’ I couldn’t sleep for a week. The passion in the strokes, the reds bleeding into one another and the scale…’ Raphael put his hands to his face and stepped back shaking. Lola touched his arm and felt the pounding of his heart thump against her fingertips.
    ‘You understand.’
    He took her hand, pressed it against his forehead and closed his eyes. She stroked the outline of his face, taking note of a small scar above his lip.
    ‘What happened here?’  
    Raphael opened his eyes and stared into hers. ‘I got into a fight when I was twelve. Some bloke had the nerve to say that Thirk was an overrated hack. I threw myself at him like a mad dog and he swiped me away. He wore a ring the size of a doorknob and it took a piece off my lip.’
    ‘That’s loyalty. He would have appreciated that. Although, he would never have condoned the use of violence to defend his good name.’
    They both stood back. Raphael twisted his neck, tilted his head and squinted, in order to gain a better perspective of the piece. ‘They