The Art Of Love

James winced.

       The gallery benches were solid and unyielding, something he should have remembered after 53 years. Misery bit at his sharp, protesting bones as he sat, tweaking his purple scarf. Visible but unapproachable, like an anxious aubergine basilisk.

#

       On his first trip to London, his parents had dashed him up the long rumbling escalator from the underground. The promise of a trip to see the guards parading in their smart scarlet tunics outside Buckingham Palace excited him. At Hamleys, they'd bought him a much longed-for class 37 green diesel engine for his train set and he clutched it tight to his chest all day, refusing to free up a hand when crossing at the lights on Trafalgar Square. His toes were pinching in black patent buckle shoes when they reached the gallery. ‘Room 43, Seurat,’ his father said.

       James stared at the surprising likeness, the black hair peeking from under a red bathing cap. His feet dangled from the bench, shoes tip-tapping together. He wriggled, pursing his mouth and twisting his head from side to side. ‘Is it me, mummy?’ He asked, and his mother laughed. ‘No, darling, it's not you. But it could be.’

       Since that day, his seventh birthday, the painting had intrigued him. The face, pale with its few freckles and soft curves, the swimmers and the young men lounging on the grass. His father bought a postcard from the gift shop and James pinned it to his bedroom wall. He adored the contrasting light and shade and daubed a water-colour copy; presenting it to his parents with a proud smile. His father patted him on the back and helped add a frame.

       At fifteen, crushed by a rejection of juvenile love, he’d first noticed the loneliness of the two young men in the slow, swirling river. Not swimming but bathing, removing factory grime from their alabaster skin; each in isolation, and he’d wondered if, like him, they wanted, but feared to touch; if they too had been mocked and were ashamed to show themselves. 

#

       For over half his lifetime, the gallery had been a place of learning; first as a student, then as a teacher; of acceptance for who he was without the need to explain; and for a while, a sweet reminder of love. Now, with Georgie gone, this beloved place was all that filled the void. The painting had become a reflection of his life. His mother was right. It could be him; not in looks, but in loneliness. He pouted, a soft rueful turn of lips. Maudlin old fool.

       The room babbled and flowed. He watched as intimate strangers gathered around the exhibits, too close to care whose shoulder they leaned on; couples lingered, their fingers entwined, bobbing heads and sharing whispered secrets. It made him squeeze his eyes shut for a moment, and he breathed deeply until calmness returned. Fretful children tugged sticky fists on their parents' sleeves or wriggled, half-toppling from precarious backpacks. He hoped he wouldn't have to leap to save them, his legs were too heavy for precipitate action. 

       Benches filled and emptied, their surfaces rubbed smooth by the bottoms of generations of tourists. The day ebbed. James sat, stone still, hoping for the one familiar face that would keep the ache at bay. Memories stirred when he caught the movement, a flash of colour, from the corner of his eye.

       Georgie was a vibrant yellow when they met; a Van Gogh sunflower on a crisp white t-shirt, straw hat caressing his blond wavy hair, and mustard-coloured jeans that oozed molten gold, like a Klimt Kiss. Nineteen, on a gap year, staring alongside James at the Seurat painting, ticking a box on a must-see list;

       “You like surrounding yourself with beautiful things?” Georgie asked. 

       James laughed; did he mean the pictures, or his students? Was he so transparent? But he couldn't take his eyes off Georgie. 

       “Perhaps I could buy you a coffee later?” he'd asked, tentative, aware of his students' enquiring eyes.

       Forty years old and single; he'd loved and lusted casually and parted without hurt on either side, then grown comfortable with his own company.

       Coffee became wine and an exploration of intimacy and passion that surprised James. Georgie empathised with his love of art and travel and, within days, was sharing his home, his bed, and his friends. Colleagues shook their learned collective heads, pronouncing doom. “You’ll see,” they said. But they were wrong, for a while. The MoMA and The Met, Uffizi, and Prado, every summer vacation an adventure as James laid the glory of the Renaissance and Pre-Raphaelites, Monet, and Modernism on a table for Georgie to feast. He didn't remember when the gloss turned to matte, just as Georgie didn't remember the anniversary of the day they met in front of that picture.

#

      A couple, oblivious, it seemed, to the crackling white noise they emitted, immersed in their audio guides, stood in front of the painting; absorbing oil and acrylic like sleep learners. Grasping gallery maps; unless they showed some remarkable originality, James guessed they would soon move on to room 44 to study a painting of Don Quixote. 

       James stayed seated, unwilling to face another deluded lover, a 'do not disturb' sign, painted as a battered leather briefcase, clutched on his lap.       

       The familiar sweetness of Cavendish tobacco smoke caught at his throat. His colleague, Maitland, in his old harris jacket. He would have something to say about a purple scarf, in a prissy plum voice that would draw attention to them both. I will have to get in first.

      “Henry; good to see you. First years?”

      “Yes, Caravaggio’s influence on Baroque. So sorry, James, I didn't see you there. Must get on.”

      “Of course.” 

       Of course. Well, they were right in the end. Perhaps I should have invited them to this wake for my life.

       He should have noticed the signs, so much clearer than those beside the paintings;

      “I have to work late,”

      “Tonight?” 

      “Hmm, meeting.”

       “Again? Honestly, Georgie, it's too much. We're going out.”

       “Take Harry, don't be so needy.”

        Eyes hid behind a waved bunch of papers, documents parading as royal decrees or vital letters of state, more important than an anniversary. 

       He should have asked why Georgie was wearing a pink shirt. Who wears pink to work? 

       “Don’t waste the tickets, it can't be helped.” 

But Georgie's voice didn't have the decency to shake with the force of the lie. Cursory lips brushed James on the cheek, leaving the aroma of Tommy Hilfiger to seep into his consciousness. 

       “Well, get you and your subtle hints.” Georgie said, when James bought him Eternity. 

#

        He was being watched. A wrinkled crab-apple face that tried to attract his attention. Once, James was glad to talk to strangers in the gallery. Answering intelligent questions from kindred spirits. His students attracted glances, so boisterous and enthusiastic. Now he spoke brief words to strangers in supermarkets and dog walkers, their snuffling companions happy to let him stroke silky spaniel ears and murmur soft words of affection. He looked away, unwilling to be the lonely old man that others seek out for company. 

       The painting beckoned him closer, and he stood, yearning to walk the river’s green bank, to dip below the cool, enticing water, to possess and inhabit it. Not only for its beauty, the tints and tones and subtle hues that bled into his soul, not for its scale, size, and grandeur, all of which were immense and imposing but worth nothing by the pound, but for the intangible scent of every leaf and blade of grass, every perfumed wildflower. And all the dreaming moments he’d inhaled and absorbed, sitting in that same spot. The rushing hum of the river filled his ears. The soft, seductive haziness of a summer day caressed his face, as Georgie’s fingers once did. He needed it for the look of love in those fathomless brown eyes of the dog that lay loyal by its master’s side. All those images that tumbled and jumbled, uncontrolled, wrapping themselves around his senses, turning them upside down revealing the emptiness in the faces of the sun-catching strangers and he knew loyalty was meaningless; wasted. He fought the urge to grasp the summer day and bellow at the young men on the riverbank, placid and unaware, “Watch out, life is going to break you!” 

      A visitor’s casual glance might assume such a striking image to be full of happiness, as James, in his purple scarf and old tan check jacket, must also be happy; but he doubted such a thing could ever be possible again.

        The tweed jacket had corduroy patches on the elbows. They were hand sewn; a long labour of love that blistered James’ fingers. Once, Georgie would have placed those fingers to his lips. Instead; 

       “You are going to change that awful old thing, aren't you? God, you’re drab, no fun, any more. I need some colour in my life.”

       James pulled the silk scarf closer, as a current of cold air bit at his hunched shoulders.

#

       People around him were moving, and the man with the apple face approached. He coughed. A polite non-committal, throat clearing, preparatory remark. James froze, afraid of striking up a conversation. What would he say? Oh, yes, all the time, well, it’s my work. Yes, such amazing luminosity, my favourite piece in the collection.

       “Excuse me, sir, the gallery is closing in five minutes. Can you make your way to the exit?”

There were neat figure-of-eight bows to his laces, dangling millimetres above the soles. James studied his brown brogues, unable to move. A hand steadied his elbow and guided him to the bench.

       “Just catch your breath, Professor.”

       “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

       “Everyone knows you, sir. No gallery without the Professor, we say.”

       A lifetime whirled in front of James. Groups of students in awe at the beauty and wonder of the world they were entering. Cocktail parties and Georgie’s gentle teasing of his bow tie and gown. His parents vocal encouragement of his career choice. The rumbling underground and the run up the escalator every year on his birthday. Museums, galleries, everywhere; open for him to explore. People who knew him, and that he mattered. Not a wake, but an awakening.

       “Thank you. I’m better now. It’s been a long day.”

       “See you again soon, sir?”

       “Of course.”