Read The Modigliani Scandal for Free Online Page B

selling you short, and that would harm my reputation—you know what an incestuous little circle this is.″
    ″I know.″
    ″But your work isn′t selling. Pete, I can′t afford to use precious wall space for work I can′t sell. In the first six months of this year four London galleries went bankrupt. I could so easily go that way.″
    Peter nodded slowly. He felt no anger. Julian was not one of the fat parasites of the art world—he was at the bottom of the pile, along with the artists.
    There was no more to be said. Peter walked slowly to the door. As he opened it Julian called out: ″I′m sorry.″
    Peter nodded again, and walked out.
     
    He sat on a stool in the classroom at seven-thirty, while the pupils filed in. He had not known, when he took on the job of teaching art classes in the local polytechnic, how grateful he would one day be for the £20 a week it brought in. The teaching was a bore, and there was never more than one youngster in each class with even a glimmering of talent; but the money paid the mortgage and the grocery bill, just.
    He sat silent as they settled behind their easels, wait ing for him to give the go-ahead or to begin a lecture. He had had a couple of drinks on the way: the expenditure of a few shillings seemed trivial compared with the disaster which had overtaken his career.
    He was a successful teacher, he knew: the pupils liked his obvious enthusiasm and his blunt, sometimes cruel assessments of their work. And he could improve their work, even the ones with no talent; he could show them tricks and point out technical faults, and he had a way of making them remember.
    Half of them wanted to go in for Fine Art qualifications, the fools. Somebody ought to tell them they were wasting their time—they should make painting their hobby, and enjoy it all their lives while working as bank clerks and computer programmers.
    Hell, somebody ought to tell them.
    They were all here. He stood up.
    ″Tonight we are going to talk about the art world,″ he said. ″I expect some of you hope to become part of that world before too long.″ There were one or two nods around the room.
    ″Well, for those who do, here′s the best piece of advice anyone can give you. Forget it.
    ″Let me tell you about it. A couple of months ago eight paintings were sold in London for a total of four hundred thousand pounds. Two of those painters died in poverty. You know how it works? When an artist is alive, he dedicates himself to art, pouring his life′s blood out on the canvas.″ Peter nodded wryly. ″Melodramatic, isn′t it? But it′s true. You see, all he really cares about is painting. But the fat guys, the rich guys, the society women, the dealers, and the collectors looking for investments and tax losses—they don′t like his work. They want something safe and familiar, and besides, they know nothing—sweet FA—about art. So they don′t buy, and the painter dies young. Then, in a few years′ time, one or two perceptive people begin to see what he was getting at, and they buy his pictures—from friends he gave them to, from junk shops, from fly-blown art galleries in Bournemouth and Watford. The price rises, and dealers start buying the pictures. Suddenly the artist becomes (a) fashionable and (b) a good investment. His paintings fetch astronomical prices—fifty thousand, two hundred thousand, you name it. Who makes the money? The dealers, the shrewd investors, the people who had enough taste to buy the pictures before they became trendy. And the auctioneers, and their staff, and the salesroom, and their secretaries. Everybody but the artist—because he′s dead. Meanwhile, today′s young artists are struggling to keep body and soul together. In the future, their pictures will sell for astronomical sums—but that′s no good to them now.
    ″You might think the Government would take a cut on these big art deals, and use it to build low-rent studios. But no. The artist is the loser,