Free A Matter of Marriage by Lesley Jorgensen Page A

than happy to see these paintings first, her old friends. Bodies as landscape, rolling hills of flesh, clouds of hair, the fishy gleam of bulging, still-life eyes. How tired she had been, still was, of her own portraits, of London It-girls, gap-year royals, young MPs with an eye on posterity. She was tired of mixing white lead and yellow ochre and red oxide for rosy or pasty skin tones, then puddling white lead and interference violet for shade. She was tired of long arms in custom-made shirts, little pointy noses and puffy lips that had been made not born, tailored suits and the one discreet piece of “statement” jewelry.
Statement, my arse.
This was not Raphael or Michelangelo, where the body was a natural wonder. This was painting as décor, faces as Plasticine. She may as well have been putting Vaseline on a camera lens. No wonder she wasn’t painting anymore.
    When Rohimun had had her fill, she walked slowly back to the first room. Simon had his arms tucked around two of the totties, posing for a photo. The camera flashed as all three did the half-gasp so beloved of fashion wannabes. Rohimun grimaced: cameras brought out more fakery than a paintbrush ever did. Or maybe it was just harder to maintain the illusion for the multiple sittings that her portraits took. Something real was bound to show itself in all that time. Although the end result was still largely rubbish.
    She turned back to a favorite Raphael, painted in reverse for a Sistine tapestry. The disciples were portrayed as rough and solid fishermen, pulling on nets and gobsmacked by the size of their haul. The delicate Christ figure sat passively at the end of one boat, knelt to by sunburnt, muscled peasants. She remembered this story from school: the prophet Christ telling his disciples to become fishers of men. To leave their livelihoods of honest toil, their families and traditions, for lives of isolation and suffering, glory and miracles.
    Did Raphael ever miss the village in which he’d been born, the dialect of his childhood, as he lived in the holy city and painted to order for the Vatican? What had he, the son of peasant farmers, thought of the corrupt wealth of cardinals? Rohimun thought of her mother, wanted to ask her how she’d felt about what she’d left behind, if it had all been worthwhile.
    And what of Rohimun’s own pilgrimage? To London and commercial success as a portrait painter. Had this path led inevitably to Simon and his kind? To burning out as an artist? It hadn’t happened to Raphael. Not that she knew. He’d painted his best after he achieved success, had never returned to the village of his birth. Not that was recorded, anyway. She sighed again.
Fuck the Masters
.
I must paint like Rohimun Choudhury at her best. If I can paint at all
.
    â€”
    R ICHARD HAD LOST Deirdre in the crush immediately inside, but was quite happy to avoid the air-kissing hysteria of the first fifteen minutes of Deirdre’s arrival anywhere. Rent-a-crowd would be off in half an hour anyway, especially as the word seemed to be that Lucian Freud was a no-show to open the exhibition, and some arts administrator in Chanel and a stiff blonde bob was standing in for him. Predictably, all Richard could think about was a nice quiet smoke. Why had he ever agreed to this? The numbers around the doors were thinning now, so it would be easy enough to head outside. By the time he got back to the main entrance, it was empty except for a turbaned security guard, who nodded at him as he passed outside.
    It was raining properly now, but there was a sheltered spot a few feet to the right of the main doors. He lit up a smoke, noticing that the guard was also enjoying a discreet cigarette. The air was cool and sweet, and cars hurried past, gleaming darkly. He considered his options, thought about when he would have to return and get caught up with Deirdre’s crowd again, and tried to calculate just how pissed off Deirdre would be if he