It was a rainy and cold November day.
Not much going on in my own life, I was happily convinced to start a conversation with the bloke sitting across from me in the aisle seat of coach E.
I prefer it that way. The aisle seat, I mean. Always ready to escape and not squeezed in between a window and the person next to you in the desirable aisle seat. Phew, how the hell would one want the window seat? Far too much information for my taste looking out to ever changing landscapes without any context. Oh great, there is a farm house. So what? Maybe the people living in that farm house are total arseholes and you’d never ever want to speak to them.
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I guess, it is just people’s imagination. The whole chose of what-would-be-if? The grand would-be-should-be. The subjunctive really is a marvellous idea of linguistic invention, isn’t it? I could, I would, I should. Most people are so narrow-minded, they don’t even see that it is them causing the problem in the first place.
Anyway, I am sitting across this bloke in seat 27, coach E of the Avanti West Coast Train from London to Manchester.
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Boarded at bloody Euston. What a mess this station is, I hope they sort it out soon. I am occupying my beloved aisle seat, and continue reading Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield where aunt Betsey Trotwood has just welcomed teen orphan David Copperfield into her house in Dover. A remarkable story. A turn-around I wasn’t expecting when I was starting to read David Copperfield’s glorious beginnings as gentry folk offspring thrown into a miserable working child situation in the dire social circumstances of 19th century London. The misery orphaned or poor kids were exposed to! Dreadful. Hurray to the 21st century with democracy, welfare and antibiotics.
The guy opposite me chats me up. Not a bad-looking man. In his 40s, a lovely shirt from retailer “Toast” and hands that suggest a considerate way of treating himself. Those hands look fine.
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“So,” he says, “you are travelling to Manchester?”
“Oh, yes, it appears so,” I reply.
“Hmm, okay. What are you doing there?”
“Trying to be of assistance to my artist friend Neil.”
“Ah, that is interesting” he says.” What would you help Neil to do?”
And I say, “I am trying to get his legacy as an artist sorted.”
“Oh, that is marvellous, an artist’s legacy. How would you do that?” he asks leaning forward as if I am about to let him into a secret confession.
“I am trying to meet the museum folks to get his lifetime works archived.”
“Why doesn’t he do it himself?” he asks.
“He is 86 years old and he is stubborn.” I shrug my shoulders and slightly roll my eyes.
“I see,” the bloke says letting himself fall back into his seat.
Then here’s a long pause.
“Are you an artist, too?” he asks. “Yes.” I am graciously responding. “In fact,” I continue, “I am a writer and conceptual artist.”
“Oh,” the guy says, “that is interesting. My aunt is an artist, too. She just had a retrospective at the Tate.”
No way, I am thinking. I am intrigued. “What is the name of your artist aunt,” I am inquiring. He tells me her name. This famous artist I so admire is his aunt? Incredible. I am gobsmacked.
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Darren, as he introduces himself to be called, says: “When you are back in London, can I show you something?” Though smitten by the idea of the famous artist-aunt, I am also annoyed. This is the sentence in literally every romcom movie where they get together and kiss because “he wants to show her something”. I get myself together and reply “No, thank you. I am fine.” One has to show countenance faced with basic seduction.
Darren insists and says the magic words. “My aunt always wants me to introduce interesting people to her and I want you to see her place. It might be something you want to write about.” I was flattered. I am this interesting person! Interesting as for his famous artist-aunt!
Little did I know that this encounter would change my life. Yet, I coolly said at this moment in time “maybe, we’ll see.” We swapped phone numbers, and I expected to never hear from him again.
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Some days passed and I received a message. “Meet at Little Venice tomorrow afternoon?” Little Venice is a vast area. I replied “Where exactly, please?” He exacted his coordinates with Warwick Avenue and a house number. I knew where that was.
We met in front of a grand Georgian House. I was impressed. This is where his famous artist-aunt lives. Darren I met on the train to Manchester has connections to a bohemian abode like this. Seems I had underestimated this Darren guy.
He greets me and shivers a shy kiss on my cheek. He is nervous. And I am thinking, that is kind of sweet. He opens the grand entrance door of the building and we ascend the stair case. It is marvellous. Built completely in marble, it is a magnificent way up. All those little sculptured faces of people and their ways of acting. Some are happy, some are unsure, but most of them are torn, unsure about their destiny. It made me a bit uneasy, yet such is great art. It’s there to challenge you, not to please you.
We were walking up the stairs and had a very pleasant conversation. Darren was inquiring about my day and the only thing I could say was: “Oh, yes, I did have such a pleasant day so far. How about you?” He answered: “Oh, yes, very pleasant indeed.” Summary of the walking up the stairs business: We both are very pleased.
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We approached the door of his aunt’s place. It felt like ages. I was uncomfortable, I don’t like those semi-intimate interferences, you might call it small talk. Darren unlocks the apartment door. He hollers a “Helllloooo, auntie” which is responded by an “Helllloooo, sweetiepie”. My anxiety calms as I know there is someone real on the other side of this door.
Next thing I know is I was shown into a grand sitting room. Darren’s aunt is placed in front of a large window on a comfy mustard-coloured armchair, with a slight shadow falling on her remarkable features. A handsome face. Old and graceful. Exactly as I had remembered this exceptional artist from her pictures. Gosh, I am in heaven. I will be the one speaking to her. Asking her questions and learning about her journey of becoming this famous artist she is. “Just don’t mess this up,” I am self-talking. “Stick to questions mostly asked in all of those beautiful art magazines you read.”
His aunt Paula looks up and greets me with a nod of her delicate head. “How do you do, darling?” she says and smiles at me benevolently. I am relaxing and trying to impersonate a self-confident and bohemian person, despite wearing leisure clothes and feeling a bit scruffy. I tried to make an effort dressing up but realised I had forgotten how to. I am immediately regretting my choice of stark blue adidas trainers with several holes in the textile part of the shoes, paired with an equally stark blue coloured jeans, a bright red stretch belt and a pink long-sleeved T-shirt. At least the top was clean, I think.
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We talk. She asks me where I am from. I answer. Paula tells me about her childhood in Lisbon, a childhood that was overshadowed by the back then Fascist leadership of Portugal. She speaks about her grandmother who was an important person in her life. Her father was a businessman and her mother a housewife.
Though a talented artist herself, her mother doesn’t encourage Paula to consider art as career option. To remove her from the oppression of a Fascist regime, her parents send her as a sixteen-year-old to London where she attends the Slade School of Fine Art.
She falls for one of her fellow students. He is seven years her senior and he is married, yet they embark on a passionate love affair. During the next five years, Paula has many abortions. Her lover threatens that he’d return to his wife if she would ever keep a child.
When she turns twenty-two and finds herself pregnant again, she decides to keep the baby this time. She leaves the UK for Ericeira, a seaside town 40 km northwest of Lisbon. Back in the 1950s a popular family summer retreat and not yet the surfer hotspot Ericeira has become in recent years.
Paula gives birth to a daughter and it is then that her lover joins her there. He divorces from his wife. They marry two years later and have two more children. Her husband stays unfaithful throughout their marriage. Paula tells me, she even depicted some of his mistresses in her drawings!
She speaks about pain, abandonment and rage being echoed in her paintings.
Did she regret the life with her husband? No answer.
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We were just expanding on some further aspects of her art, when all of a sudden, she stops talking mid-sentence. Her jaw drops initiated by a twitch of her eye.
Darren who was following our conversation from the sofa across the lounge, rushes forward to see what is the matter: “No, no, this is not supposed to happen ..” he stammers incredulously. I sit on my chair next to Paula’s armchair and don’t really understand what is going on. My heart is pounding. There’s a mixed feeling of craving for sensation and lingering discomfort.
Aunt Paula’s face is in full light now, and I notice a slightly artificial shimmer. Darren opens his aunt’s face. It is some sort of latex front. “What does this mean?” I hear myself say. Darren doesn’t answer, he is preoccupied with cursing and twiddles with some brightly coloured cables coming out of the inside of his aunt’s face, presumably her brain.
I reckon I should be leaving. Fear tops curiosity. I get up and direct myself towards the hallway. The apartment door was just at the end of the long-stretched corridor. I was wondering if I remembered that correctly. Suddenly, Darren jumps up. He pushes past me and stands now in the hallway door frame. “Please don’t leave, I can explain. Please, please, let me explain” he begs.
Quickly assessing my chances of wrestling with a tall fit man in his forties, I figure it’s best I play along for the time being. My survival instinct is kicking in. Funny, I think, when you are watching those glamorous action TV-series, they always have a witty quip at hand on such an occasion. I just stare, mouth open, I am paralysed. Darren, it appears, interprets my immobility as my interest in his explanations of the situation.
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Darren manoeuvres me towards the door of another room adjacent to his aunt’s lounge. He opens the door. There is only some light coming in from a window, the curtains are closed. He turns on the light by pulling one of those antiquated pull cords so many old London flats have in their bathrooms.
A cold and mercilessly bright light is now shining on the contents of this room. I see people sitting neatly in a row of chairs. When we come in and turn on the light, they don’t turn their heads. They don’t say anything.
They are all women, about ten of them. I am in shock but still functioning. I recognise painter Vanessa Bell, the sister of Virginia Woolf. Then there is photographer Nan Golding. I see conceptual artist Jenny Holzer. And installation artist Cornelia Parker. To her right, filmmaker and photographer Cindy Sherman is sitting. Placed to her left is painter Chantal Joffe. The rest seem vaguely familiar but I cannot put a name to the faces.
Vanessa Bell has died decades ago, somewhen in the 1960s, I randomly think. And suddenly it hits me: The artist-auntie I spoke to, Paula Rego, she also has been dead for some years! Why didn’t I clock this earlier, I ask myself.
“Isn’t it a high-risk strategy to present artists who have passed away a long time ago?” I remark. Darren nods pensively. After a while, he answers deliberately. “Yes,” he says, “I had a long think about it and decided it is an added challenge. Yet another layer to my precious work if you will.” I nod. I don’t know why, but I nod. Sure, then you have to pick people as an audience who might not be familiar with the Western art world or who are so star-struck that they forget important details. I blush. I am convinced, it all makes sense.
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Meanwhile, I am coming to terms with the knowledge that those women are not real. They are copies. They are all famous women artists robots. Darren is reading my mind. “I am a humanoid engineer at an AI company, we specialise in making service robots look human. I am heading the H.U.F.E.R team.” “The what?” I ask. “Sorry, corporate slang, I am leading the Human Face Resemblance unit. We are at the forefront of emulating human skin and improving tactile experiences.” Darren explains, and continues “This is my side hustle. I am working long and intense hours, I travel a lot and I just don’t have time to meet anyone, let alone to entertain the time-consuming effort a dating app requires.”
He looks straight at me. I stare blankly back and he offers further insights: “This is the only way how I can meet women. I did some research and found out that women of my age and social status bracket are very much interested in women artists and are willing to circumvent their usual reservations meeting me when I mention my aunt is a famous artist.”
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Darren is storing famous women artists robots in his flat. It is his way of meeting women and escaping loneliness. A cold shudder is running down my spine. What is going to happen now?
At this moment, I hear a piercing shriek. Robot aunt Paula Rego we had left sitting on her mustard-coloured armchair in the bay window has rebooted and apparently regained consciousness. Cable clutter is dangling from where her graceful face should be. Darren is running towards her trying to contain any further damage to his labour of love. Or insanity. It sometimes is a close call, I suppose.
I am usually not the opportunistic type, yet fear turns me into my agilest self. I use the moment Darren’s attention is distracted and make my way to the hallway. I reach the apartment door. It is locked. The key is in the lock. Which way to turn? Frenetically, I joggle the key. Is it right, is it left? I hear steps behind me, my head seems to explode, I increase my frenzied efforts to open that awful door.
Suddenly, someone puts their hands on my right shoulder and yanks me back. I turn around screaming “Darren, noo, nooo!!”.
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My sister looks at me. “Bad dream?” She sits on my duvet brushing her teeth. She always does this, walking around while brushing her teeth. Why does she do this, what’s a bathroom and a sink for? I am numb and confused. She gestures while brushing her teeth moving from my duvet to the edge of my bed and mumbles while toothpaste is dripping from the corner of her mouth “Thraain… tooo… Mauncheschter … in dreee hoursch… get ooup!”
Next thing I know, she sticks her head into my room. I am dressed. I am ready. She says “Darren is here. He will drive us to the train station.”