‘Sold to Margot for 240 pounds,’ the auctioneer pushed through, clearly trying to ignore Jésus’ theatrical yawn. The man certainly knew who had decided to be seen at his auction house.
And being visible seemed about the only thing this auction was good for. Normally Jésus did his business remotely, like the rest of the ring – his colleagues, though perhaps ‘co-conspirators’ would be more accurate – but he’d had a free afternoon local enough to the venue that he had succumbed to a whim and decided to attend in person. At the very least, it was worth showing his face once in a while. Jésus was in fact the one who had tipped Desmond and the rest of the ring off about this auction in the first place. His brother-in-law Antonio, a functionary in the Brazilian government, had been alerted to a wealthy cattle farmer who had recently passed away. Apparently, the man had owned a sizeable collection of artistic curiosities, but his family had no appreciation for such things and had decided to auction them off in London, where they ran much of their business.
‘Sold to William by phone for five hundred and ten pounds,’ the auctioneer said as a rather tasteless sculpture was taken away. Jésus didn’t even remember them bringing it out.
Still, now they were getting to an item Jésus was designated bidder for. Perhaps this would bring a little excitement.
‘Lot 32 now, a religious figure in soapstone, believed to be the work of Aleijadinho.’ A pause. ‘Uncertified. Starting at one thousand pounds.’
‘One thousand pounds,’ Jésus called, making his bid as instructed. To be honest, he thought it was overpriced for what was likely a forgery. But at least there might be some bidding drama.
‘One thousand pounds,’ the auctioneer repeated, looking around. ‘Currently one thousand pounds.’
Silence.
‘Sold to Jésus Candido for one thousand pounds.’
This was ridiculous. He was starting to think he might actually have made a mistake. The catalogue had been uninspiring, but to sit there and see this parade of extremely pedestrian art made him deeply weary. The whole auction had been like this, with the ring’s bidders picking up what they had been assigned with a minimum of fuss and counterbids. Great news for the ring, but dull for Jésus, and the thought that he’d have to see most of these items again at the Knock made him almost regret bringing it to their attention. Still, he’d bought what was required of him, so could finally make his exit. Perhaps he’d make a performance out of it.
‘Lot 51, an intriguing untitled mixed media piece, oil and charcoal on canvas. Artist unknown, date unknown. We’ll start at eighty pounds.’
Jésus looked at the painting and found himself sitting back down. He hadn’t particularly marked it in the catalogue for the auction, assuming it to be just another throwaway piece of junk from a mostly forgettable collection. A four-by-eight mixed media piece, oil and charcoal on canvas. Abstract, untitled, artist unknown, worth basically nothing. It had only been highlighted by the ring because William Duphine, a new addition to their ranks who Jésus privately considered an upstart with no taste, had been hired to adorn a full country house. He was bulk-buying anything he thought might work with the rest of the decor. To look at it now, though, Jésus couldn’t imagine this painting fitting into any wider aesthetic. A tactful person might call it unique .
Though even he had to admit seeing it was a different experience to the flat catalogue photograph. He might as well have been looking at a different piece entirely. It was vibrant and intoxicating, a series of bright, cascading lines that swirled and interlocked in an apparently meaningless manner, until your mind finally arranged it into what it was: the face of a woman. Her eyes were vague, her mouth closed and unreadable, but smiling. The style was crude, almost childish at points, but there was something there. Something he wanted …
Murmuring took up around him, and he realised he had raised his hand to bid. He wasn’t the designated buyer for this one, he knew that, and as he lowered his hand, he had a sudden worry he’d be responsible for raising the price.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Candido, was that a bid?’ The auctioneer seemed as surprised as anyone.
‘Eighty,’ someone mercifully called from the back before Jésus had to come up with an answer.
He recognised the voice, the young woman ring member Margot Lancaster used to deliver her bids, and he breathed a sigh of relief. The ring would get their due. Even so, he was struggling somewhat to maintain his composure. For Jésus Candido to be seen bidding on a piece like this, no name attached, barely worth the cost of the canvas, it was unthinkable. He was, perhaps , willing to compromise his artistic eye if the ring chose him to bid on a specific piece, but aside from that he considered his bid the highest compliment he could pay. And this piece …
It was certainly true he considered himself to have a keen eye for outsider art, created by those without training or intent, but it was not an interest he wished to be known for. Yet, as he did his best to relax back into a considered indifference, he caught his hand starting to rise again and pulled it back down before the auctioneer spotted.
He watched as the painting was carried off, sold to Margot’s bidder for a hundred and ten. His instincts had never misled him before. The more he thought about it, the more Jésus was certain: it would be perfect for his private collection. He resolved to own it, William Duphine be damned. He smiled to himself. It had been a long time since he’d actually found himself looking forward to the Knock.
‘This the one?’ the driver called as the black cab pulled up to Banyan Court. ‘Hell of a place, this. Bet you’re not for the poor door, eh?’
‘No,’ Jésus replied, ignoring the jovial tone and ugly laugh of the taxi driver, ‘I am not.’
He eased himself out, careful where he stepped on the streets of Tower Hamlets. Banyan Court loomed above him. There are some buildings in this world which exist to serve a function and have no aesthetic ambition beyond that purpose. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that their aesthetic ambition is to serve their purpose. Others are inviting, made to be welcoming and familiar, and still others are made to be intimidating, austere: a reminder to those that enter them of the power and position of their builders. But some buildings, at least to the eyes of Jésus Candido, some buildings were art.
Many were designed as such, their beauty intricately planned by architects of vision and skill, while others found their art accidentally, growing into it through their decay or sculpted towards it by later extensions and changes. Some even became art entirely by context: the tiny, ugly little church that refused to sell its land, stubbornly existing in the heart of a business district, walled in on all sides by fashionable glass monstrosities. You just needed to know how to look.
‘Oi!’ the voice of the cabbie cut through his musings. ‘You forgot your fancy cane.’
Jésus retrieved it without comment.
‘Don’t want anyone thinking you’re in the wrong door, do we?’ The driver’s laughter was cut off by the door slamming shut.
Jésus was quite sure that Banyan Court was intended to be beautiful. There was simply no way the interweaving of glass and steel with the aged brick of the old tenement served any practical purpose. And certainly it was broadly successful, that was true. But anything could be beautiful. Beauty was cheap. Beauty was obvious . And yet he chose to live there. Not because of the artistic merit it claimed to possess, but because of the artistic merit it had not even considered. There it stood, a bright splinter of excess, burrowed into the grey and dying streets of struggle and hardship, unable to even admit the parts of itself it considered shameful. Aesthetically, it was acceptable. Conceptually, it was art. And so, Jésus lived there.