The Painter (part one)

“The only difference between myself and a madman is that I am not mad!”
- Salvador Dalí, 1935

Chapter 1

It’s a fine line that separates genius from insanity. Robin Voltman would not have argued with that. His work has always been controversial, ever since he first picked up a paintbrush at infant school and painted a picture of his teacher with devil’s horns.

Although perceived by the public as being a sexually frustrated, male chauvinist his unique brand of surrealism, influenced greatly by the Dada movement, was, and still is, quite popular. Like sex, controversy sells.

He often depicts women in a depraved sexual manner commonly referred to as bestiality. But the controversy doesn’t just stop there. Charities, social groups, clergy, politicians, Jews, blacks, no one is safe from his artistic scorn. Last year an exhibition of his work at the Amsterdam Museum of Modern Art, entitled ‘Paranoid Dementia’, came in for scathing criticism because of its insensitive imagery of ethnic cleansing in Bosnia and its denial of the Nazi holocaust. Voltman is also renowned for doing portraits and adding to the model’s normal physique some form of abnormality such as pupil-less eyes, a misshapen head, or a large fleshy cyst that obscures most of the face.

Notwithstanding his infamy as an artist and the fact that his work is now banned from almost every gallery in Amsterdam, a world-class indictment, his critics still regard him as a very talented painter. A visionary. Some have even gone so far as to say he’s a genius.

Voltmanism ignores all conventional methods of painting and opposes traditionalism to the point where it’s forged new theories seizing upon the basics of the craft – colour, texture and detailing. His use of these elements can be so simple and yet at the same time innovative, creating the most stunning results.

Chapter 2

Lena watched with disgust as he squeezed the spot on his nose. At first it resisted his attentions but he forced his nails on either side of it and a small, yellow globule of pus bubbled into existence. He carefully scooped it up with his index finger and wiped it on the inside of a glass jar then screwed the lid back on and set it on the shelf in front of him.

Repelled, Lena grunted. He looked up at her and smiled. She turned her eyes away from his dissecting stare.

Why did I ever agree to come here in the first place? she asked herself then cast her mind back four days…

Chapter 3

It started with a chance meeting at the Van Gogh Museum.

Lena was writing a thesis on the great man as part of her foundation course in painting and sculpting. She had been to the museum many times before and found it to be a wonderful source of inspiration but tonight was different. Tonight the curator was hosting a party to celebrate the opening of a new wing and anyone who’s anyone in the Amsterdam art scene was there. She had managed to get hold of an invite through one of her tutors, Professor Hoffman, Lukas. It wasn’t difficult. She knew already that he fancied her. A little teasing smile and a flutter of her eyelashes was all it took. She didn’t have to sleep with him or anything, but she might… in time, just so long as her boyfriend never found out.

She drank a couple of glasses of champagne and networked for the best part of an hour whilst Lukas was cornered by an old acquaintance. Shamelessly she introduced herself to a number of important people including Andries Schuurman, a reputable art exhibitor – owns his own gallery on Waterloo-plein, and Catherina de Moor, a highly respected art critic who writes for the Sunday Times. She chatted and laughed at their jokes for a while but eventually grew weary of it all and was contemplating an early exit when she spied him on the steps to the first floor gallery. Robin Voltman - instantly recognisable because of his shaved head, goat beard and round John Lennon glasses - slouched against the wall, alone with his thoughts.

Lena quickly downed the rest of her champagne, a little Dutch courage, not that she really needed it, and set the glass aside. She checked her hair, straightened the front of her dress and made sure she was showing ample cleavage before striding across the foyer trying to think of something smart to say to him.

‘Don’t you just love his use of coloured lights and shadows?’ At first she thought he didn’t hear her but then he looked at her with enormous concentration on his face. She smiled up at him, nervously waiting for his response, and when it didn’t come: ‘My favourite’s the skull with the cigarette.’

She recalled reading somewhere that he was quite an introvert person.

‘Impressionism sucks,’ he told her.

Lena’s reaction wasn’t quite a laugh or a mope, it was somewhere in between and she felt foolish.

‘Not macabre enough for you.’

He looked away. No response. He reminded her a little of a recent picture she had seen of Charles Manson. She’d only ever seen photographs of Voltman in newspapers and magazines and they were mostly close ups. She didn’t realise he was all of six feet tall with bony shoulders and long, dangly arms.

‘Why are you talking to me?’ he suddenly asked.

‘Because… I’m a big fan of your work.’

Voltman showed no particular surprise but his eyes widened slightly and he looked at her again. ‘I’m sorry. I get a little uptight at these functions.’

‘So why go to them?’

‘My agent thinks it’s a good idea to be in the public eye as often as possible. And you are…?’

Lena smiled. She had beautiful white teeth. Voltman only noticed her striking good looks for the first time. The dark skin, the ruby eyes and the long, straight black hair parted in the middle falling smoothly down either side of her oval face and turning inwards above her shoulders.

‘Lena Kriskov.’ She held out a hand and he barely touched it.

‘You look as though you have some Romany blood in you, Lena Kriskov.’

Lena laughed. ‘Well, perhaps just a little. My father was a Russian immigrant but my mother was from Rotterdam.’ She always left out the bit about her mother working as a prostitute from time to time. There was a short silence during which she felt quite uncomfortable. ‘So, if you don’t like Van Gogh then what do you like?’

He moved down a step to be nearer to her. His manner dangerously gentle. ‘I like to distort reality and spread confusion.’

He came close enough for her to see his green eyes - the one thing she was always wary of, especially eyes that sit so close together.

‘Some form of neo-expressionism?’ she asked.

‘That movement is dead.’

‘Then you must like Dalí.’

‘He’s al-right. My point is to paint what comes from within.’

‘And is that what comes from within you? Confusion and distortion I mean.’ He seemed to draw back from her. ‘They say if the Devil was an artist he would be Dalí.’

‘No, he would be me,’ Voltman returned.

Lena felt hypnotised by his stare and only snapped out of it when Voltman laughed. ‘I’m just kidding,’ he said.

Lena laughed with him.

After this the conversation flowed and she became more at ease with him. They chatted for over an hour and sipped champagne and as the night wore on she became increasingly aware of his erotic charm. Despite his eyes and an inner feeling telling her no, she was attracted to him. He offered to show her some of his work but Lena was reluctant to leave the party without Lukas. In the end she decided it was too good an opportunity to pass.

‘I must tell Lukas I’m leaving.’

‘No, no, no.’ He gently took hold of her arm. ‘No one must know where we’re going.’

‘Why?’

‘Because, it’s a secret, that’s all. I don’t want anyone to know about it.’

‘But-’

‘Timing is important, if we go now we may just evade the watching eye of the paparazzi. I’m sure… Lukas will understand.’

‘What if they should see us leave together?’

He gave her a smile she simply couldn’t resist.
‘They won’t. Not if we’re smart about it.’

Lena felt a rush of adrenalin. The thought of stealing away excited her.

No one saw them leave. Lukas didn’t even notice she was missing until an hour later.

In the car the conversation was strangely muted. The rain was hammering down which kept the streets mostly clear. They drove by the Royal Palace, along Voorburgwal and turned left. Lena hadn’t the slightest idea where they were going; it seemed almost as if he had no particular destination in mind.

‘I thought your studio was on the other side of town,’ she remarked.

‘It is.’

‘Then where are we going?’ She tried to hide the concern in her voice.

‘I have a canal house along the Keizergracht. I also have a studio there. In the attic. It’s where I do some of my more… intimate work.’

Ten minutes later they were driving along one of Amsterdam’s famous canals. It was a brightly lit area with several barges moored along the banks and opposite Victorian style houses where an apartment was high-living. He drove around the back of the houses and parked.

‘This is it,’ he said and climbed out of the car. He hurried round to open the door on Lena’s side and then ushered her through a gate. The garden was a wilderness of overgrown weeds and brambles. They hurried through its inhospitable surroundings to get out of the rain.

Inside Voltman gave her a towel to dry her hair and without wasting any more time showed Lena upstairs as if she were a prostitute and he a sailor on shore leave.

They climbed three flights of stairs and all the doors they passed were closed. He used a key he kept above the door to unlock the attic room and when he switched the light on it startled her. The attic was quite large, larger than she had expected, with a double bed pressed against the far wall – now she understood what he meant by more intimate work. The room though was cluttered. Ceiling high bookshelves crammed with various artists’ biographies and collections of their works occupied the near wall. The wall adjacent to that had row upon row of canvases, paintbrushes, palettes, masking fluids, different types of paper, and every watercolour paint imaginable. There was a sink next to all of this with a cracked mirror above it and the floor was covered with paintings, none of which she recognised.

‘You’ve been busy,’ she commented as she made her way through a narrow path on the floor. ‘When do you sleep?’

‘I don’t.’

‘So why the bed?’ she asked with a cheeky smile.

‘That’s for my Scarlet Ladies.’

Lena picked one of the paintings off the floor and examined it more closely. It was a chaos of colour.

‘I didn’t think you would be into abstract.’

She set it aside as another caught her eye. Lena stooped to pick it up and was shocked rigid. At first she thought it was just a cluster of grey storm clouds swelling across a dark sky but on closer inspection she realised it wasn’t that at all. The whole sheet was covered in little grey faces no bigger than half an inch in diameter. They had been etched out in pencil and then painted over to make them blend as one. Their eyes were dark hollows, mouths twisted and gaping screaming out in agony. All she could think of was hell and damnation.

‘I call that one “The lost well of souls”. ’

Lena was speechless. Robin Voltman’s paintings terrified her. She let the painting slip from her hands.

‘What’s the matter, you don’t like it?’

Lena glanced down at another painting close to her feet. Her eyes widened in horror and she felt a shudder inside. It showed a pregnant woman stabbing herself in the stomach and unless Lena was mistaken the woman looked like the Virgin Mary. She looked away from it but her eyes found another painting, this time the illustration depicted a family seated round a table feasting on human remains. Whichever direction she looked her eyes would happen upon another, and another, and another. A sea of grotesqueness surrounded her. She was standing on them, walking over them, staring at them without wanting to. Tortured souls, twisted limbs, anguished faces. They were everywhere.

She staggered back, felt her legs against the bed, and sat.

Voltman was grinning at her from the far side of the room.

‘You’re insane,’ she muttered.

‘Don’t be so judgemental.’ He held up both hands, made a square and squinted at Lena with one eye. ‘I think you should model for me.’

She shook her head silently.

‘I better go.’

She stood up and made for the door but Voltman quickly blocked her path.

‘It wasn’t a request.’

‘My coming here was a mistake, now if you don’t mind I’ll see myself out.’

Voltman’s eyes narrowed and his voice turned menacing. ‘No, you see, you don’t understand, my dear, what an honour it is to model for me.’

Lena tried to push him aside but he was far too strong for her and with one violent shove he sent her reeling across the room. She fell against a sideboard and winced in agony as a cold, stab of pain kicked through her back. Before she knew what was happening Voltman was across the room and throwing her on top of the bed. She tried to scream but he put his hand over her mouth. All she managed was a rasping, stifled screech from her lungs. Using his knees he pinned down both her arms leaving only her legs to kick out with. She struggled but to no avail. Tears tracked through her make up as she wheezed against the palm of his hand, let me go, let me go. She felt the purple bruises in the folds of her arms, the flow of warm blood swelling inside her fingers. Eventually she gave in. Her body loosened beneath his weight like a sack of grain. She was at his mercy. All she could do was cry and pray he didn’t hurt her.

‘There’s a good girl,’ he whispered. ‘You’ll become one of my Scarlet Ladies.’ He wiped the tears from her eyes gently with his thumb. ‘I’m going to lift my hand away. Don’t… call… out!’

Slowly, he pulled his hand away from her face.

‘HEEEELLLLLPPPP!’

Thud.

Darkness.