The Opening

The gallery is packed. 

Isobel is the only one of Andy's siblings who has never treated him like a nuisance, a stupid baby, and a total loser. She maintains this stance despite the fact since childhood he has done very little to disabuse his family of the notion that he is all of these things.

He doesn't know why his half-sister should extend him this courtesy. His own mother did, after all, pilfer Isobel's father off hers. And Andy's own birth effectively usurped her position as Baby of The Family. Nevertheless, the moment the assertive five-year-old clapped eyes on her infant brother twenty-eight years ago, he was hers - warring mothers and loose-flied fathers be damned! It was her sheer force-of-will over this matter that eventually stabilised the new family order as a whole. 

From Andy's own perspective this loyalty is all the more remarkable given that further - and some might say more productive - additions to the family have failed to change Isobel's devotion. Indeed, the proliferation of more praise-worthy individuals in their ever-expanding dynasty should have altered everything. As his younger sister Georgia once pointedly put it: We aren't ALL screw-ups, Andrew.

But Isobel's regard has never wavered. This is why when she asked him to this opening it never occurred to him to say No. Her gallery is exhibiting the work of one of the country's (actually one of the world's) foremost photographers, a genius home from overseas. Andy likes photography. Some of his own images are pretty good too. He should come, she said -  he will appreciate the work.

She hasn't been wrong about that, he admits. The theme of the exhibition is 'Urban Renewal and Heritage Preservation In The Age Of Ecological Disaster'. It's part of a fund-raising campaign to promote awareness on new local government initiatives. To Andy's eye the photographer, one Giordano Firenze, has delivered a striking collection. 

According to Isobel, Firenze shuns publicity like The Plague, preferring his work to do the talking. He is that rare creature, an artist who has made lots of money, a specialist non-specialist who has earned respect the world over for his landscape, portrait, wildlife, and war collections alike. His peers laud his craft while the advertising communities watch his every move like puppies sniffing out biscuits.

The brochure says Firenze is in his mid-fifties ...Italian parents ... came to New Zealand in 1985 ... trained at Elam in Auckland ... blah blah blah. A portrait would have made the reading more interesting.

Andy has reached the last photo. Never Wasted, he mutters, reading from the blurb, and then looks up at the photo on the wall in front of him.

He sees the university clock-tower just before dawn.  To either side of the edifice, a tall tree rises from the pavement, it's glossy foliage spattered silver under reflected light. The gothic tower, spot-lit for both effect and security, looms out of the night like the prow of a ghost-ship, all pale blinding haze against rippling shadows. From the centre of the image, a flight of steps spills like Jacob's Ladder from the foot of the grand oak-framed doors down to street level. On the pavement before these steps, directly in the foreground, a row of five council wheelie bins stand like dark sentinels, waiting for collection. Their bulging red lids, like stunted bud-heads, provide the only vivid colour in the image. That startling red is the one clue that the image is not in fact black-and-white, but the result of artful lighting.

The picture is stark and industrial and yet at the same time oddly moving. Never Wasted, Andy repeats to himself. He likes the whole concept - somehow hopeful. The photographer has an inner vision Andy can relate to.

He glances around, but can't see anyone he wants to talk to - or for that matter anyone who wants to talk to him. Isobel, chic in black-leather everything, is doing what she does best: charming the punters. He smiles, proud but also rueful. Iso is everything he isn't. Next to her he feels gangly, self-conscious, and far too young. But then, to be honest, most people make him feel like that. 

He should wait until Iso's free so he can say goodbye. Hopefully that won't be long. The exhibition has been interesting; but now he's run out of photos to view, he is remembering how much he hates crowds, especially at gatherings like this.

Andy recognises several faces among this well-dressed pack. A politician here, a television journalist there. An actress known for her role in a popular local dramedy, now tipped to become a Hollywood sensation. On the other side of the room a fifty-ish man in tight jeans and a t-shirt under a tweed jacket is expounding at length to a group of young people, mostly female. Some of the girls are almost slobbering. The man's body-language is expansive, his baritone controlled but resonant. Andy wonders suddenly if this is Firenze. He hopes not. It would be a shame, because the guy comes across as a total dick.

The air is stuffy. A mix of heavy perfumes and the discord of experimental jazz are making his head ache. Isobel is still occupied. He decides to grab a glass of red wine and take it outside. He'll have one drink in the fresh air. If his sister isn't available by the time the glass is empty, he'll slip away and make his apologies later …

There are three others in the tiled courtyard. A lone man, dressed too casually for the occasion, is hunched vaping beneath a potted tree on the far side; and a young couple occupying a bench in the middle, appear to be having an argument. As the hostilities amplify from sotto voce to audible, Andy catches Vape Guy's eye. Vape Guy responds with a grimace. 

Andy sips his wine and wishes he himself had a cigarette. He is trying to give up cold-turkey, but it's hard going. Chewing gum and meditation only go so far. He wonders if those vape things work. Nearby, the domestic is intensifying. The woman stands abruptly and storms off. Her partner follows, hissing her name with suppressed violence. They disappear around the corner and the space is tranquil at last.

"Thank Christ!" mutters Andy louder than he intended and Vape Guy laughs.

"I understand she wanted to stay at home and watch a soap opera," he remarks slyly in a north-of-England accent. "Probably quite right."

"You don't like the exhibition?" asks Andy, amused.

"Oh, it's okay," responds his companion, comfortably. "I'm just not really into viewings and stuff. I get there and it's always a bit overrated … You?"

"Yeah," says Andy, thinking, and then clarifies with more confidence. "I mean, Yes. I do like this collection. The dude's got a good eye."

"Well, I suppose he should have," shrugs Vape Guy. "By all accounts he's been doing it long enough. He must be a hundred and ten if he's a day."  The man examines his e-cigarette. "I suppose I should put this away. I don't even know if you're allowed to smoke in this space." He thrusts the device into the pocket of his hoodie. As the man extends a hand, Andy can smell the peppermint vape waft off his clothes. "Dan, by the way." 

Andy shakes the hand with his free one and introduces himself.

"So what brings you here, Andy? You're a photography buff, I take it?"

"Sort of.  I started taking a few pictures in my spare time. My sister invited me, thinking I might be interested. She's one of the owners - "

Dan's interest seems to sharpen. "Ah - is that Isobel? Yes, my wife and she get on like a house on fire. They're in there working the room together so I left them to it. So you're an actual photographer." He says it like a statement, but Andy shakes his head.

"A beginner," he replies, firmly. "And you?"

Dan muses for the briefest instant. "I consider myself a beginner. I sometimes wonder if you ever get to the end of it. There always seems to be more to learn." Andy sips his wine and they share a companionable silence. Dan doesn't seem to have a glass.

"So - what line are you actually in. If I might ask?

Andy knows the man is only making small-talk, but he feels the usual knee-jerk pulse of resentment. "I work in a call centre," he replies evenly.  "Yourself?"

"Oh a bit of this, a bit of that. A jack-of-all-trades, me," returns Dan. "And what do you sell people - at your call centre, I mean?"

What are you, a cop? Andy wants to say, but he bites his tongue. It's always the same when people ask him this question. "Insurance," he says, controlling himself."I deal with insurance claims." He can't think of anything else to say.

"Any living is a good living," says Dan, in a non-committal tone. Suspecting condescension, Andy bristles. He takes a closer look at Vape Guy. He'd assumed the bloke was his own age based on the casual jeans and hoodie, the slim build. Now he thinks the man might be considerably older.

"Perhaps. Hopefully this phase won't go on for too long, though," he adds with an awkward laugh, before kicking himself inwardly. But he just can't do that bluff-and-hearty stuff his father thinks manly. He clears his throat. "I'd prefer to find something else," he finishes, stiffly. Why the hell not say it, he thinks. It's true.

"What would you like to do?" asks Dan.

"I'm not really sure, to be honest," he says, with forced lightness. "Probably something in the arts. Maybe photography even - like this Firenze guy. If I could ever be good enough." He takes another swig before adding in a sombre tone: "But in my family, photography is not seen as a valid career choice. There's no money in it."

"I doubt Signor Firenze would agree with you," points out Dan, rather acidly. "And what about your sister? She works in the arts."

Andy laughs. "Iso was born a saleswoman. She co-owns a successful gallery. She doesn't work in the arts. She's a business-woman."

Andy relapses into silence. He hears his father saying words like 'head in the clouds' and 'flakey'. He hears the comparisons - to Georgia, with her maths doctorate, already scaling the walls of international academia with her rope of advanced theorems. To Mark, their little brother, the trained chopper pilot with his economics major and his plans for a tourism company in the South Island. And then to the older siblings: the never-ending procession of success-stories, fitting right into the universe proscribed by all their parents. 

Andy is the only one that doesn't fit. A third class degree in Arts, his father scoffs. What the hell use is that?

He just doesn't see the world the way the others do, doesn't even want to. It's as if he has some inexplicable dyslexia that prevents him. He wants to find success and happiness like everybody else. He just can't quite seem to find the right direction. He is nearly thirty years old, as his father keeps reminding him. When will he grow up? Why can't he?

And of course the partying, booze, and dope don't help. He knows that. His mood plummets. Shit. He shouldn't have come out. This was a mistake. He was doing so well, now he's sliding. He feels humiliated. Emasculated. And these words in themselves are too heavy and dark to be addressed except as fleeting shadows.  The concepts lurk, constant and unexamined, in the deepest recesses of his mind - like beasts evading capture.

He can feel Dan looking at him, thinking what a douche he is, no doubt. He will collect himself and make as graceful an exit as he can. 

"Come with me," says Dan with sudden authority. "I want to show you something." He takes off like a greyhound leaving a startled Andy trailing in his wake. Back inside, the light and background noise are disorienting. Andy leaves his empty glass on a side-table and shoulders his way through the throng, trying to keep up. They eventually reach an ante-room near the back of the gallery. Dan looks around furtively, then opens the door and slips in with Andy close behind. The door clicks behind them.

Looking about, Andy feels a little uneasy. This is storage space, clearly not a public area, and they probably shouldn't be here. Dan, however, doesn't seem bothered. He has gone directly to a bookcase on one side of the room and is ticking off the spines along the bottom shelf. Finally he comes to the tome he wants and hefts it out with both hands. Laying the large book carefully on a nearby table, he opens it and flicks swiftly to one page. Motioning Andy to his side, he points. 

Andy looks down and finds himself staring at a black and white picture of - of all things - a white kitten. The youthful cat is emerging from a pool of light, and the light in turn slivers out of  the darkness in the hinter-ground - probably through a door open somewhere in the background. You would think the white on white would become lost in the production but it isn't so. The cat is stalking out of the frame towards them, the intent behind its curiosity tautening its muscles, electrifying the very edges of that bristling fur to create a nebulous aura. The animal's eyes are gimlet-sharp,the expression in them exactly at the point where playful companion turns into cold-blooded killer. 

It's an awesome shot.

"Look at that," breathes Dan. "It's naive,un-lit, a lucky accident. But a moment of exquisite deafening power. A tri-partate communion between photographer, subject, and outside viewer. Refinement is learned along the way. It's valuable, necessary. But it's the recapturing of that intrinsic vigour and focus.  That's what's crucial." Dan drums the picture with the tip of his forefinger. "It's the chase that keeps you going. In any career. In life itself. Without it - well, really, what is there?"

Andy looks and looks again until he sees through Dan's eyes, absorbing the momentum in the image from discovery to excitement to completion. This is exactly how Andy feels when he manages to achieve the shots he wants.  He realises his skin is tingling.

Dan is closing the book when Andy asks: "Who took that photo?"

"Firenze. It was the very first picture he took on a proper camera - a rookie shot.The one that got him hooked on being a photographer." 

"Wow," says Andy. He looks at Dan who is sliding the book back into place. "And do you know him - Firenze, I mean?"

"Of course," replies Dan, with a short laugh. "Hang around this country long enough and you meet everybody." He looks at his watch. "Come on. Probably a bit cheeky for us to sneak in here. Let's go before we get snapped." 

Outside a burst of laughter rises like squealing brakes above the general babble. The red-faced man is still holding court, wine sloshing precariously as he waves his glass about. His acolytes sigh like couture-clad succubi, fawning in the master's attention. Andy turns to Dan, about to ask: Is that him? Is that guy Firenze?

But Dan is scanning the room. As his eyes alight upon a woman in the distance, he looks relieved. He turns and says: "Sorry, Andy, I'm not at my best at these schmooze-fests. If you'll excuse me, I just want to have a word with my wife for a minute while she's not surrounded with people. I'll catch you before we leave, alright?" He punches Andy's bicep lightly before disappearing into the crowd.

Isobel finds Andy a short time later. She is looking weary but also smug. He bends down to kiss her cheek. "Success?"

"Success," she agrees. "Did you enjoy it?" Andy nods and she looks satisfied. Then she says: "I have a message for you," and hands him an envelope.  He looks at her and opens it. Inside are several glossy A4-size prints of photographs he himself has taken.

"What's this?"

"I showed Giordano Firenze some of your photos. I wanted to get his opinion. Oh, don't look like that, Andy," she scolds, waving off his scowl. "What did you expect? I'm a curator, for God's sake. Look in the envelope," she continues. "He left you a note."

The note says: Sorry, Andy, we had to go. I'm not my best in crowds. These images are very strong. Look me up if you want to chat. Good to meet you. Dan. Underneath is a mobile number and an email address. And then: P.S. Remember, it's the chase.

"Well, aren't you Mr Popular," says Isobel. "Only his friends are allowed to call him Dan."  

Andy looks blank.  "But Giordano Firenze's Italian."

"His parents are Italian. But he was raised in England before they came out here to New Zealand - Lancashire or some such." 

She continues. "I like him - and his wife. Lola. She's his agent. He's shy. But very bright. Doesn't suffer fools. Hates exhibitions, especially his own. Lola makes him do one occasionally, but she has a struggle even getting him to attend. He used to suffer from depression, apparently. His parents didn't want him to work in the arts. They disowned him when he took up photography. And now look!"

Yes, thinks Andy. Now look. He replaces the photos in the envelope and folds Dan's note before carefully placing it in his pocket. "These images are very strong." The words reverberate in his head.

As Isobel chatters, he is thinking about the white cat, Giordano Firenze's predator, emerging, looking for the kill. Dan is right. It's about the chase.

When Isobel asks him which was his favourite photo,  he answers without hesitation: Never Wasted. Shortly after, he thanks her, hugging her very tightly. And then he heads off into the night.