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Rehana turns towards us, throwing me off my thread.
‘Erm, you know, like, stacked up on the supermarket shelves?’ I hear the doubt in my voice.
Again, I’m worrying about Rehana. I’m ridiculously uncomfortable with the mention of gay marriage. Jesus, I think I can take on global capitalism, but I can’t say ‘gay’ to a Muslim? Rehana wasn’t around when Gethin was little, and I’ve always let her assume I’m a heterosexual single parent. So much for being open, Gethin might say.
‘Anything Goes?’ Rehana levels her gaze at me.
‘You know, how everything can be a consumer product, so the Establishment don’t even have to bother controlling the left or the counter-culture?’
Rehana tilts her head. ‘Maybe in the west, but even then, it only goes so far, doesn’t it?’
‘Oh, I know, advanced capitalist economies can be marketing illusions of freedom while propping up, you know, the opposite…?’ I’m rambling into incoherence and will myself to shut up while Rehana takes another look.
She turns to me. ‘It is beautifully made. The patterns of the collage, the dancing figures almost like Matisse, isn’t it?’
‘It has a bit of Matisse’s Dancein it. But my biggest influence is Hannah Hoch, a German Dada artist. She produced political collage work in the 1920s. I only discovered her earlier this year, at an exhibition in London.’
‘I must look her up,’ Rehana says.
‘The twenties was such an exhilarating time for artists, with the Soviet Constructivists as well,’ I warm to Rehana’s interest. ‘That belief in art at the cutting edge for change. I was inspired by that era when I went to art college in the early eighties. So now I’m trying to peel back the notion of radical art, you see, to examine how possible it is to be a political artist today.’
‘Have to say, this is ticking all the boxes for me.’ Charlie says. ‘Don’t you think, Reh? Art that communicates and looks good. It’s all we ask for.’
Rehana nods slowly, then she reaches out to clasp my hands in hers. Her smile lights her face, reminding me how young she is.
‘I think it’s very good, Pat. You know I wouldn’t say so if I didn’t mean it.’
‘Nice one.’ Charlie pats me on the back.
After they’ve gone, I stay in the installation, hugging myself in a rare glow of satisfaction. They like it, they actually like it. It was worth all those countless hours I put into this. It really does look good. They liked it.
Maybe they didn’t get it entirely: did they notice the broken golden frame hung empty on the screen? But that’s where I’ve struggled the most: to show how this piece itself is equally meaningless and commodifiable.
What would Gethin say if he were here? Would he think it worth the effort, the time I didn’t give him? At this moment I want him to see it more than anything. I could send Grace a text, maybe she could bring him and Francesca along, a way of breaking the ice between us?
I pull out my phone and see there’s a voicemail from an unknown number yesterday. My heart jumps. Maybe he used a friend’s phone. How have I missed it?
But the voicemail is from Norwich Social Care to say they’ve booked an assessment visit to my parents on Monday afternoon. ‘You are welcome to attend if you feel this would be useful.’
‘Bloody hell, Monday?’ I mutter, looking round to see the identikit skinny young men coming into the installation. I hurry out past them and stand round the side of the box.
If I feel it would be useful? I asked for the bloody assessment, didn’t I? Mum and Dad won’t admit they’re not coping. I’ll have to go.
I’m banging the phone on my hand, and only notice when I hit my knuckle too hard. I lean against the wall. Forget about Norwich for now. See about texting Grace to bring Gethin.
I go back round to the entrance and stand just inside, open a text and think what to say. The two young men are behind the screen. Their stylised clothes and hair make them look like part of the photomontage seen through the outlines of the dancers. A Dada Happening, no less. I have never thought about the effect of people behind the screen. It works on levels I didn’t even plan, and I feel again a surge of excitement. I really must get Gethin to see it!
I go back to my text, but I’m distracted by the young men’s talk of the death of agitprop.
The dark haired one nods. ‘No more than Militant Nostalgia.’
‘Naive at best: as if a bunch of hackneyed images can say anything new in this age of information overload.’ The blond one waves his paisleyed arm to dismiss the swirl of collage.
That’s the point, I want to shout at them. That’s why I’ve framed the eighties posters. But inside my confidence shrivels. Militant Nostalgia? The insult cuts deep. The work is too obvious, or not obvious enough. Either way it has failed.
‘Deliver us from the Message!’ The dark haired one laughs, exposing rows of too-perfect white teeth.
‘Art should be asking questions, totally not about answers…?’ is their parting shot as they head for the exit, oblivious, it seems, of my presence.
