The Death of the Artist

People file though galleries like they’re waiting in the queue at the pharmacy. “Ooh,” I hear someone say, “I like that one,” pointing at a depiction of the artist being ripped to shreds in the war-torn jungles of Vietnam, like it’s a new type of corn plaster she’s thinking of taking for a spin. Most people move at a bureaucratic pace, past each frame: tick, tick, tick. It makes sense, if you want to see as much as you can. As the factoid goes, if you looked at each painting in the Louvre for just thirty seconds, it would take over eight days to see them all. Nobody has that much time.

I sit at the other end of the spectrum. I want to find artwork I’m entranced by, and when I do, I offer myself up for captivity. Captivate me! I say, as I look at it loudly close up, and quietly from a distance. I look at it in and out of focus. I close my eyes to try and recreate it in my mind, then I look again. I look at the little corners that the artist probably thought nobody would focus on, or at that figure in the background, doing an impression of being incidental.

I sit at bench 42 in the Turner Contemporary, Margate. The painting I’m looking at has been in the gallery’s permanent collection for 1183 days, and I’ve been here for most of them. Not in this spot the whole time: I’m not a lunatic. I do know the security guards by name, though, and they me - Trev, Stu and Gaz have all added me on Instagram (Gaz has a great side hustle in bespoke oversized macramé pieces). The gallery is on my way to and from work, and my twice-daily visits to this painting have been a helpful pause, an inhale-exhale, as I take my own bureaucratic steps. So I feel like I’ve put in enough hours to generalise a little bit about gallery-goers.

The painting I sit in front of is called The Success of Icarus. It’s a transavantgarde painting: that is to say, it’s bold and expressive; it tells its story with drama. Icarus doesn’t fall - he rises. His arms stretch out to the sun. He is enveloped in white light and his feathers begin to fall away, but his face is ecstatic. I’ve always thought he looks like someone at the top of a rollercoaster, eyes wide with exhilaration, anticipation, and fear. The sea lies below him, painted in pale, insignificant colours, the waves soft and cushioning. It’s 36 by 48 inches, oil on canvas, and an absolute smash hit.

I’m not quite telling the truth: it’s not transavantgarde, it’s actually a response to the transavantgarde movement, but now we’re really counting brushstrokes. It doesn’t matter. The only place it ever mattered was during my PhD.

One gallery-goer reads the accompanying text for longer than he looks at the painting. I know it off by heart. The Success of Icarus, Hillary Vale, 1981, Oil on Canvas. Vale reimagines the myth of Icarus, portraying him not as a tragic figure, but as a symbol of elation and freedom. With vibrant colors and dynamic energy, this celebratory painting challenges our shared narratives, focussing on flight rather than fall. The artist requested multiple revisions of this piece, leading to legal action by the gallery before the final version was completed in 1988.

I check my phone. 8.46 - already one minute late. I stand up to go. “Cheerio, Nate”, says Trev.

“Bye -” I say, and stop. I step closer to Icarus, narrowing my eyes.

Is that…? I lean in.

Maybe it’s because I’ve been thinking about all the changes Vale made, but I swear there’s something different about it. Next to Icarus’s mouth, where the feathers are beginning to scatter, amongst the confusion of barbs, there’s an unfamiliar shape. It looks a little bit like … a teacup? I immediately dive down into the reservoir of Vale-knowledge within me, but come up disappointed.

I thought I knew every brushstroke, but Vale can still surprise me. I keep thinking about the teacup all the way to work, thinking loudly up close, and quietly from a distance. It puzzles me.

_________________________

When I left my PhD I had two criteria in my job search: it should offer me enough spare change for the 1kg tubs of kimchi, and it should be at least 99% conflict-free. I appreciate that there will always be some disagreements about the correct biscuit to have in the office, which I allowed 1%.

I became a Finance Administrator at the Arts Centre. Processing invoices, I thought, would be safe territory. Unfortunately, the artists who work for us don’t care about submitting neat and accurate expense claims. And the people who owe us money don’t really want to pay up. It’s been three years. I still haven’t really had the heart to make them, so now I’m failing art itself.

I’m on my lunch break when I see it. There, on the top shelf of the cupboard, with the plastic champagne flutes, pumpkin carving kit, and a mug shaped like Dali’s head, is the teacup. My hand shakes as I gently lift it down, cupping it in my palms like a baby chick. 

It is very delicate looking, with a slightly worn gold rim. The only remarkable thing about it is a distinct blue tinge inside. Again, I search for some sense of recognition, but find nothing. I wrap it in my jumper, then in my bag, out of the way. All afternoon I’m tempted to Google “Hillary Vale blue teacup”, but don’t, partly because I want the satisfaction of decrypting the enigma, and partly because I’m worried I’ll stray into territory NSFW.

When did I discover Vale? I was fourteen. An age where I loved things absolutely, before caution and caveats got in the way. We were studying a painting by Theodore Redgrave, a friend and artistic contemporary of Vale. Burned bright. Died young, by suicide. Small oeuvre, huge potential - all lost. My teacher couldn’t miss me having a screechingly obvious pivotal moment in his second period Tuesday Art class. “If you like this, check out Hillary Vale. There’s a lot more to get into,” he said, in the same voice he’d use to suggest that I might want to put the lids back on the pens.

I did a quick search for Vale’s work when I got home. 

I stayed up all night looking at it.

I loved it; loved the look of it; loved his insistence on choosing the vibrant. Already at fourteen, the world’s narratives felt familiarly miserable. Vale said: fuck that. Vale made me feel more me.

I loved The Last Laugh, in which rainbow confetti erupts from the mouths of diners, laughing in the face of death.

I loved Gutterfolk, a mid-80s depiction of nurses providing hands-on care to an AIDS patient.

I loved The Divine Mess, a vivid celebration of celestial chaos.

I loved Hercules in Lace, in which the hero, draped in soft pink material, holds a club in one arm and cradles a baby in the other.

I loved Sebastian, in which the saint looks too bored with his suffering to feel it. 

And of course, I loved The Success of Icarus. That night, my heart pumping neon red blood through my body, I’d looked up Vale himself. Still alive. Not just that - contactable. I wrote him an email to say thank you, thank you, thank you.

_________________________

When I arrive home from work, I put the teacup on the top shelf of my own cupboard. It is hardly in danger from my part-cat-part-cushion, Icky, but it feels right to try and keep it safe.

_________________________

“All right, Gaz?”

“Afternoon, Nate.”

“Been at the macramé again then.” I wave my phone.

“Can’t knot do it.” He winks, and chuckles, not finding that joke any less funny than the first time he told it. 

I am just about to tell Gaz I’ve been meaning to put in a good word for him in the cafe exhibition space at the Art Centre, when I look at Icarus and see it has changed, again.

“Do you see that?” I point, next to where the teacup was.

“What?”

“It looks like a bottle. A tiny bottle, pouring… See it?”

Gaz wrinkles his nose.

“Nah, can’t see it, Nate. You must’ve looked at this guy one too many times.” He makes the sign for “crazy”. “But then again,” he says, “what do I know. I’m not the art doctor, eh?” 

He slaps me on the back. I pause, my gaze suddenly completely stuck.

“Well, neither am I, am I?”

“Close enough, mate.”

I shake myself out of it, make myself look him in the eye, smile. I must remember to speak to Maggie about the cafe space.

On the walk home, Gaz’s comments pull me back to that moment, that room - three or so years ago. 

There’s a certain shade of disdain which I’ve only seen from professors; somewhere along the road to seniority they all master it. Maybe they teach it at the graduation ceremony. Wouldn’t know.

Professor Sophie Simons, pre-eminent transavantgarde expert with a specialism in Hillary Vale, had printed off my thesis-so-far. She had not sent me the notes ahead of my supervision. I’d been waiting two months since our last meeting. This copy had creased pages, coffee (and wine?) stains, and as she passed it over she said, “Sorry, it appears some pages are out of order.” 

I flicked through the first few pages, which had been scrawled on in various hands.

“What’s going on?”

We sat opposite each other in her poky, umbrous office. It was a room in which I felt a Vale expert should have refused to teach.

She perched on the edge of her chair, hands clasped.

“I felt, last supervision, that our conversation was … unproductive.” Her expression was concerned.

“Yes. We argued.”

“A spirited discussion about the Redgrave matter. Any more than that and I would have referred the matter to the faculty.” She raised an eyebrow. “Please bear that in mind.”

She continued. “In our world, debate is par for the course - pardon the pun, if you will. We must all stand up to critical vigour. But there is a point at which that becomes inappropriate.”

“Please, I can’t take another attack -”

“You must hear me, Nathaniel, when I tell you that you have reached and passed that limit.” Her voice became sharp. “I can’t tell you how many times I have attempted to dissuade you from your theory that Icarus was painted by a dead man -”

“I think he’s a collaborator, obviously not after he died,” I said, already exasperated.

“Please refrain from interrupting me. I don’t wish to argue with you.” Her tone softened. “I do ask that you hear me. Otherwise we won’t have time for you to complete your studies. We’ll have to consider deferral, or worse.”

She smoothed down her skirt and clasped her hands again.

“I really do want you to consider this, as I’m sure you could be a stellar presence in the transavantgarde academic community. I’ve taken the time to ask my most eminent colleagues to read your draft. You will find some intellectual truths here from those who should matter if you want to pursue a future as a Vale scholar. Icarus is not a lost Redgrave, it is a tribute to him. This is a crossroads - there’s still time to take another path.”

“I’ve contacted Vale - I know he’ll get back to me soon.”

“The artist is not the canonical interpreter of their work. You know this. It doesn’t matter either way. It’s futile.”

She held her head in her hands and addressed him as though he were a five year old who’d used her acrylics to paint the radiator.

“The work speaks for itself, Nathaniel.”

I knew as I walked out that it would be the last time we’d speak, at least as professor and student. Even if I picked some other central argument, with this thesis trick she’d done a bang-up job of pre-emptively razing my reputation. 

I’d expected the worst but even this didn’t prepare me for the ambush when I read the notes. “Inchoate notion of Vale’s context”, “Gutterfolk is nineteen eighty-SEVEN, not nineteen eighty-SIX!!!!”, “fundamental misapprehension of Vale and Redgrave’s styles”, “absolutely Stephen, couldn’t agree more”, “you must abandon this notion”, and one which simply said, “ha!”

I’m so deep in memory, I nearly miss the small bottle. It’s peeking out from a pile of discarded food packets by my bins. It’s made of thick, blue glass, with a floral pattern. I have a battle with the cork stopper, but eventually I’m victorious. The inside smells of bitter almonds - I quickly replace it. I know very well what Redgrave drank to kill himself. What I don’t know is why it’s in my possession. I walk home quickly and put it on the shelf next to the teacup.

_________________________

Vale wouldn’t have spent time on grim thoughts, so after Professor Simons and I uncoupled, I tried my best not to ruminate. I hadn’t won over the establishment, and the artist had not validated my theory, but no one died. Just my ambitions. And the plan for the rest of my life.

As I look at Icarus this evening, I get as close up as I’m allowed. I trace my finger in the air over the brush strokes of the impossibly textured sea, a palimpsest. I look at the eyes, which bear a hint more definition than Vale’s usual style. They look wider; more fear than exhilaration in them today. As I scan the sky, I see them all: the teacup, the bottle, and holding the bottle - 

A hand. 

Not Icarus’s.

I think about my solitary park walk home, and bite my nails.

“Oright Nate,” I hear security Stu call. “Heard you got Gaz his first exhibition.”

Maggie had loved the idea of macramé. Apparently cord is in.

He shakes my hand vigorously. “Good lad. About time Gaz got some recognition for ‘is strings.”

“No problem,” I say. “Evening, Stu.”

I glance at Icarus one last time before leaving. I can’t help but see the hand. The little finger sticks out: jaunty, camp.

I wonder if I’ll make it home. I’m really glad I put the bottle of cyanide where Icky can’t get it.

I’m close to the park when my phone begins to ring - it says Unknown Number, but I know who’s calling. I answer.

“Hillary Vale?”

“That’s right.”

Hearing such a familiar voice addressing me, feels like seeing the eyes of Icarus turn, slowly seeking - to fix directly on mine.

“You emailed me a long time ago. Sorry it’s taken me so long to reply.”

“You really don’t have to,” I say. He laughs, and even though now, I know what I know - I still feel a rush, an aurora, surge within me.

“I sent you some emails more recently. I could have done with a reply to them too.” I pause. “Regrave painted Icarus, didn’t he?”

It takes a while for Vale to reply.

“He was more of a collaborator. But yes, we made it together.”

I’m back in the office. I’m telling Professor Simons; I imagine her face, those clasped hands, gripping on to the last moments of her illustrious reputation. I’ve still got the thesis covered in vicious marginalia. I could publish it - watch as they all turn on each other… until I realise - 

“They won’t believe you,” he says.

I imagine myself actually trying to explain the situation, and realise that I have no evidence. I am only Mr Nate Crowe, an embittered conspiracy theorist, trying to tarnish the memory of a living legend.

“Why do you think I’ve revealed this to you? Keep the trinkets, the police won’t want them.”

I can hear him smiling.

“You murdered your friend,” I say. “Why?”

“To live, Nate,” he says. “I had no choice. Think of my life with him still around. He was always the better artist: it was a fine margin, but there it was. Every award, every exhibition opportunity - he was there around every corner, winning it all. I always thought I could achieve more, do better, outrun him like Atalanta. Until he painted Icarus. When I saw it - how remarkable he had made my vision - that’s when I knew I’d never be legendary with him around. I was great, but he was greater, and so,” his voice became a forced rasp, “I needed to be The Sun.”.

“Why tell me at all?” I ask.

“Nate, it’s been forty years - you’ve seen from my art how I’ve struggled to avoid these encroaching shadows, with no way to unburden myself. But now I have you. And you finally have me.”

He ends the call.

In my mind’s eye, I see The Last Laugh, in which rainbow confetti erupts from the mouths of diners, laughing in the face of the figure of death, who remains there, temporarily obscured.

I see Gutterfolk, a mid-80s depiction of nurses providing hands-on care to an AIDS patient, and it suddenly feels like performative empathy.

I see The Divine Mess, a vivid celebration of celestial chaos, where noise drowns out the clarity of truth.

I see Hercules in Lace, in which the hero, draped in soft pink material, holds a club in one arm, slightly behind him, and which you may not notice given the baby cradled in the other.

I see Sebastian, in which the saint looks bored of his tiresome, endless suffering. 

I see Icarus’s terror.

When I find artwork I’m entranced by, I offer myself up for captivity. I look at it loudly close up, and quietly from a distance. I look at it in and out of focus. And there, that’s me - in the corner of that park scene, doing an impression of being incidental.