Her Quiet Legacy

Chapter 4

Art that is not representational or based on external reality or natureAt the bottom of the narrow staircase, a wall of solvent hit me. The hydrocarbons I’d released into the air hours earlier still lingered, their scent both sugary and chemical. I flicked on the light switch and another button next to it. A fan whirred to life in the back wall, filtering the air and venting the noxious chemicals through a pipe which led into the darkness. The strong air currents on the mountain would snatch the particles and hurl them away to be diluted and subdued. And my secret room would remain my own.

An oil painting rested against an easel, the colours muted in a sepia, 1960s style. A music stand next to it contained the photograph I’d painted from. The client emailed it to my business address with the request for a quote. A woman bent to pick roses in a garden rich in tone and shadow. Behind her, a 1900s era villa nestled at the bottom of a hill. I’d stuck to the original photo until almost the last brush stroke, subduing my urge for drama. The woman’s skirt hung to her ankles in swathes of rich auburn fabric, her head bowed and covered by a wide brimmed straw hat. I stood back to admire the textures captured in the two-metre-wide painting and nodded with satisfaction. The vintage hues diminished the leafy greens and the reds of the brick house, giving them a washed-out effect. It held the elusiveness of a revived memory, and I liked it. The woman’s fingers clutched a single rose, her trophy for persevering in the harshness of colonial New Zealand. Blood red tones gave the petals an ethereal appearance, standing out against the rest of the painting like a beacon of hope. I didn’t care whether the new owner approved of my creative licence or not. The twenty-thousand-dollar price tag gave me permission to interpret the photograph in any way I wished. And the scrawled ‘X’ in the bottom right corner made it mine. I often wondered if signing my single initial on canvas and auctioning it would produce the same interest. On lazy days when the demons whispered their threats in my mind, I wished it was that easy.

With the oil paint still tacky for another week, I’d already turned my attention elsewhere.

A glass screen hung from the ceiling, one side splattered with paint and stained by escaped coloured mist. My protective mask and suit hung on a wall peg just inside the sliding door. Built from the remnants of a greenhouse, the cubicle kept the oil canvasses safe from drifting. ‘A room within a room,’ the Wellington builder called it. The metal door squeaked on its sliders as I moved it aside and stepped through the gap.

Spray paint dried within seconds, adding a versatility I’d discovered late in life. One colour could blot out another in seconds, unlike oils and watercolours. I’d secured my place in the art scene with unsolicited murals on prominent businesses in Auckland, favouring the anonymity of Banksy with all his sarcasm but none of his political commentary.

‘X’ brought me notoriety and more money than I earned in the army. Jack Alexander Jethro. I plucked the ‘X’ from my middle name, calculating it as the eighth letter in my full signature. The number eight represented creation and new beginnings, and that’s what ‘X’ gave me. It also held the place of the twelfth letter from the end of my name. Twelve brought perfection, entirety, and order. It added the irony in relation to my constant state of flux. I became ‘X’, dotting my signature on murals around the Auckland scene and promoting my brand through secrecy. Each installation meant something to me, communicating my love for the paradise of New Zealand against the backdrop of a war-torn world. I should know. I’d seen both sides.

My latest work featured a yellow kowhai bud bursting into bloom. The iconic national flower took centre stage in a riot of ochre and sunshine hues. Behind it, a sludgy green tide betrayed the fruits of decades of ignorance and mismanagement. I closed my eyes and let my fingers coast across the original work. I’d spent the afternoon slicing out a stencil, which would expedite the spraying process once I’d chosen the desired location. The spray paint held a different texture with every stroke. While it appeared uniform from a distance, each squirt of the can communicated its personality. Though I’d continued with commissions for oil and acrylic paintings, I hadn’t sprayed for over a year. Not since last time.

When my mobile phone rang upstairs, I closed the sliding door and jogged up the steps to answer it.

“Jacques.” Her tone held frustration. Instead of her usual smooth J, it held a sharp clang. “We need to meet, mon amour.”

“No more murals.” She couldn’t see my frown, but I sensed she felt it, anyway.

“You’ve never been precious about your work. Why start now? Auckland City Council painted over five of them before you became famous, and it didn’t bother you. Why did that one in Wellington affect you so much?”

“She paid for it.”

“You keep saying that, but who is she?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” It didn’t. The painting had been her final request before the dementia stole her personality and her ability to care about the past. I’d done as she asked, and they’d obliterated it with a wall of cream emulsion and normality.

“I put the refund back into the account like you requested.” Her tone held a familiar disbelief. I balled my fists and hoped she wouldn’t probe, the wish futile, as she took a breath and continued. “Five bucks, Jacques. A night’s work for five dollars and you refunded it. I just don’t understand.”

“But I do.” My index finger trembled as I ended the call and closed up the secret room. The cupboard seemed heavier than usual as I pushed it over the gap and waited for it to click shut. The cool wood soothed my warm forehead, but not the war waging beneath my skull. I contemplated starting something else, but a glance at my watch showed the small hand nudging the one of Thursday morning.

My body ached for sleep and my brain concurred. I turned my phone onto silent and left the garage, carrying it on top of my folded clothes. A cool breeze nipped at my exposed skin as I padded across the driveway in my boxer shorts and entered the silent house. Julia’s disappointment settled over me like a mantle, and I knew she’d call again. The key turned in the lock and I pushed my dirty clothing into the basket in the laundry, retrieving my phone at the last minute and setting it on the counter. Heavy steps carried me upstairs to the king size bed, which allowed my long legs to remain beneath the covers, and I sighed as I flopped face down on the mattress.

It was Thursday. Mother would call later. The electricity generator would last as long as I fed it diesel, meaning the landline would accept her call. I’d ask for her advice about the skinny kid. It would give her something else to think about.

Chapter 5