Art for Art’s Sake Brand New Story!

Art for Art’s Sake

You may have noticed that now most of my stories go straight to market. Publishers simply prefer unpublished stories. This has meant very few new stories have been posted on my blog page this year. However, this is about to change!

Art for Art’s Sake is a brand-new story, and it gives me the greatest pleasure to publish this here first – just for my loyal readers and followers! I hope you enjoy it.

This story explores the themes of identity, artistic expression, and the power of unexpected encounters. It delves into the complexity of art, challenging preconceived notions and reconsidering the boundaries that define creativity.

Stephen Machen is a disgruntled art critic and total asshole. His disdain for contemporary art takes an unexpected turn when he receives a peculiar voucher for a free tattoo. Stephen reluctantly gives it a shot, hoping to rebel against his monotonous life. Little does he know that this impulsive choice will lead him on a transformative adventure, challenging his beliefs and opening his eyes to the art world in ways he never anticipated. Prepare to be captivated by Stephen’s journey as he navigates the intricate tapestry of art, greed and just desserts, unravelling a mystery that changes his perspective on creativity and self-worth (worthlessness).

Art for Art’s Sake

Trent Absalom was Stephen’s long-time dealer.

He operated from an industrial lock-up three miles out of town. The location gave him easy access to the M4, M40, and the M25. London was a quick and easy commute. He often needed to make quick deals at short notice. Location, speed and availability were crucial to his line of business. Turnover was critical, so no place was out of reach. A deal was a deal, and dealing was his lifeblood.

He heard Stephens Rover before he saw it. It was a hot, dry summer, and dust kicked up as the brakes gripped at the latest possible moment.

“Been a long time,” Trent said, as Stephen exited the car, drenched in sweat. “What do you need?

“I need some relief, a quick deal to ease some pressure.”

“So, you are buying?” Trent asked.

“Selling,” Stephen sighed.

“Whatcha got, then?”

Stephen walked around to the back of the Rover and popped the boot.

Trent peered in. “Mmm, a George Handicott, ‘Child’s recital,’ from memory, circa 1870.”

Stephen issued a half smile. “You got it in one. What can you get for me?”

“When did you buy it?” Trent asked.

“2013.”

“Not enough, then. Not nearly enough. What did you pay for it – about ten thousand?”

“Pretty close,” Stephen acknowledged.

“Sorry, mate,” Trent muttered, “put it back in your boot. I won’t insult you with an estimate.”

“The market’s that bad, huh?”

Trent nodded. “Bring me a Banksy; bring me a Qwert. Even a SIMMER or C_3, bring me something like that, and I’ll make your belly button pop and your eyes water.”

Stephen turned away, head down, hands in pockets.

“Sorry, Stephen, the markets changed. The punters don’t want horses, children in parlours, or dogs in sitting rooms. They want colour, movement and light. They need to be challenged, not placated. I will try and get a price, though. I’ll be in touch.”

Stephen grinned. That’ll teach the bastards!

Finished, he re-read his last paragraph.

Comics, graffiti, and tattoos are low-brow — the lowest form of proletarian artistry, akin to cave paintings and scribbles. I’ve seen more talent in primary school student doodles than with some of these dolts peddling anime, screen prints and stencilling. Please someone give me a paintbrush, give me a canvas or some marble. A scribble on a wall is simply an insult to the eye, an affront to intelligence, and wanton vandalism. Soggy buns with floppy chipolata’s is not art – it’s a travesty to taste!

He closed the lid on his notebook. Another deadline hit. Xavier, his editor, would be pleased. The piece had just the right balance between art theory and vitriol. The readership of the Home County Sentinel would lap it up. It was inspired by and written after graffiti appeared on the long brown brick wall of Marlow Train Station. Stephen had been disgusted. An image of a ranch slider door was not art, but it was what was written underneath that really got up his nose. No knobs necessary! Was the vandal trying to be funny, offensive or obtuse? Art should give you answers, enlighten you, not pose questions. That was the realm of poets and philosophers.

So-called artists like Banksy and the new sensation SIMMER, whose work now adorned Marlow Train Station, made a fortune peddling pictures with scant artistic worth. Simplistic little images taking the piss out of social norms and convention. How could five-minute stencilling and scratching be worth thousands upon thousands? Had the world gone crazy?

His wife called up the stairs, “Stephen, darling, your afternoon tea is ready.”

“Bring it up then,” he yelled.  

—

Stephen was upstairs starting his latest critique. It’d been a week since his ‘low art’ piece had been published, which, to his delight, caused quite a stir. Deadlines never waited. They were a scourge, and writing was now a mug’s game. He had to submit a week before publication and then wait 30 days for payment. That’s if the bastards paid on time. Making things worse, the recession was starting to hit advertising revenue. The magazine columns, the newspaper critiques, and guest editorials were drying up. Money was tight, he was an angry man.

“Stephen, darling, you have a letter.”

“Who’s it from?”

“I don’t know. There’s nothing on the envelope.”

“Don’t be ridiculous; of course there is, you silly woman. Who’s it addressed to?”

“You…, Stephen Machen, Art Critic.”

“See, I bloody well told you there was something on the envelope. Bring it up. Quick.”

Stephen snatched the letter from his breathless wife. He tore it open.

“Well, what is it?” his wife asked.

Stephen kept his head down, mouth slightly open. He shook his head slowly.

“Well…?”

“It’s a voucher.”

“A voucher for what?”

Stephen hesitated. “Nothing of importance. You get on with your cleaning.”

When his wife left, he re-examined the voucher.

The holder of this voucher is entitled to a free tattoo at Natty Tats.

S Merhtens – guest artist

It has to be a joke, he thought.

He was an overweight (although he preferred the word rotund) middle-aged, middle-class man. Why would I want a tattoo? He hated tattoos. Tattoos were for the working man, not the literati. Tattoos were for malcontents, non-conformists; they were crass markers of one’s station in life. His station was Marlow – the 7^th wealthiest town in the UK. And he was damn proud of it.

And as much as he was appalled at the thought, getting a tattoo started an itch he felt he should examine, if not scratch. The more he thought about it, the more it tickled his imagination. He had considered marking the passing years with a monument for a while now. He was too obnoxious to take a lover, and young women were so needy and tiresome. No mature woman would have him. He knew that. He hated speed, so motorbikes and fast cars were out of the question. Perhaps the voucher was a sign that it was time to act.

The transition from boy to teenager was a doddle compared to the transition between a middle-aged man and old age. Stephen had always been awkward. He was the first to admit it, but farewelling his youth and virility was driving him to distraction.

He sighed. If he hadn’t gone bald, he would still have his ponytail. Now, the only thing that separated him from the plebs was his earring, flat cap, intellect and talent. Still, for once in his life, he wanted to rebel. He wanted to feel alive again. No, not just feel alive – feel; actually feel something – anything! He wanted to shake life by its lapels, loosen its bolo tie, and kick off its silver-buckled shoes.

He would give the voucher some more thought.

The shop doorbell rang. A man, presumedly a tattooist, lifted his head from behind a high counter littered with tatty portfolios.

“Morning, sir.”

The customer looked about the parlour, scanning everything except the eyes of the tattooist. The monotone designs covering the wall screamed pain and cliché.

Stephen eventually spoke. “I have a voucher for a tattoo. Can you tell me what it entails?”

Stephen handed over his voucher.

“Oh, I see, sir. This voucher entitles you to a free tattoo up to five hundred pounds.”

“The thing is, I’m not really into tattoos. Could I redeem it for cash?”

“No, sir, it’s not redeemable. The terms and conditions are on the back of the voucher.”

“Well, could I sell it to someone?”

“Sorry, sir, no. Non-transferrable.”

“Well, that’s a nuisance. Your rules, if I may say so, your terms and conditions are very draconian, even bordering on being unfair.”

The tattooist smiled. “You did receive the voucher for free, sir.”

“Yes, why? I don’t understand why it was sent to me.”

The tattooist pulled out a notebook from under the counter. “What’s the voucher number?”

“237.”

After scanning the notebook and flicking through some pages, the tattooist looked up, grinning. “You were sent the voucher because you hate tattoos – it was hoped that you might be converted by getting one.”

Stephen scowled. “So, I am the victim of a gimmick?”

“Yes, sir, a five hundred pound one.”

“Well, who’s this Mehrtens fellow? Is he any good? Why is he just a guest tattooist?”

“That’s me; am I any good? I’ve never had any complaints, but ultimately you will determine that. That’s if you decide to go ahead.”

“Do I get a refund if I don’t like it?” Stephen asked, thinking he might have found a loophole.

“Sure. We’ll refund you what you paid.”

“Hmpf… I don’t like the idea of permanency. I’d have it for life. So, I’m thinking probably not.”

“Your call entirely. What I could do for you, though, is to paint on you. That way, you’d get an idea of what a tattoo would look like, but it would wear off in a few weeks.”

“Oh, I’ve never heard of that before. Can you do that?”

“Can’t see any reason why not.”

Stephen nodded. “Okay, let’s go with the painting, not the ink.”

“Kula Shaker,” the tattooist said, holding his hand out. “My name is Simeon. What do you want?”

“I’m a traditionalist, so something old school.”

“Old school like a skull wearing a black top hat, with the ace of spades inserted in the band? That sort of thing.”

“Hell no! That sounds shit – are you sure the parlour’s name isn’t Crappy Tats?”

Simeon rolled his eyes. “What then?”

Stephen thought for a moment and came up with a tester. “How about something from Sir Joshua Reynolds?”

“I can do anything you want, but I’ll be honest with you: modern art, street style is more my bag these days.”

“Can’t bloody stand that shite—infantile crap painted by talentless knobs. No, give me traditional any day. No offence.”

The tattooist smiled. “None taken. We all have our tastes, and it’s right to be passionate about what you like. But what is it you want exactly?”

“There’s no point in me saying. If you’re a street artist, and a tattooist, you certainly won’t know! Warhol will be as far back as you’ll go. These days there are so many pretenders, all without formal study or art appreciation. How much talent do you need to operate a spray can or tattoo gun—?”

Simeon interrupted. “Reynolds was an establishment portrait artist working in the 18^th century. He painted wealthy people, the aristocracy, and the like. A bourgeoisie git. Privileged and patronising. Not too much has changed really. There’s still a lot of it going around.”

“Class is permanent,” Stephen retorted. “Slap-dash chicken scratchings on walls – fugacious and foul.”

Simeon grinned. “Like temporary paint which wears off in two weeks! Wang-y-tong or Omai? They might have been imperialist sentiments and racist claptrap, but at least they demonstrated some degree of talent. You can turn around and walk out the door if you want anything else. There’s no way in hell I’ll paint a portrait of Lady Elizabeth Hamilton, the Earl of Dunmore or Countess of Lincoln.”

Stephen chuckled. “I may have underestimated you, Simeon. Omai.”

“Good choice. As we will be working together, perhaps you can tell me your name.”

“It’s Stephen Machen. Stephen with a ‘p.’”

“I think I’ve heard that name before,” the tattooist said. “Do I know you?”

“We’ve never met before, if that’s what you are asking. This type of establishment is certainly not my scene.”

“Ha, I worked that out already, Steve. May I call you Steve?”

“Steve’s got a v, not a p!”

“Yes, of course,” Simeon answered. “Apologies, Stephen. So do you want your painting now, or do you want to make a booking?”

“Can you see me now?”

“Sure thing. It will take a few hours, but come on out the back, make yourself at home.”

Simeon waved his arm, welcoming Stephen into the bowels of the parlour with a nod and smile.

As he walked in, Stephen noticed a young woman arranging inks on a shelf by the entranceway.

“So, where do you want the painting?”

“Across my back.”

“Okay, right. Sit yourself down on the sofa. Chas, can you please organise refreshments for Stephen while I sketch up?”

Chas, the young woman, looked over. “Sure thing.”

Chas’s hair was held up with hundreds of pins, and her denim dungarees softened her obvious rough edges. She looked every inch a 1950s pin-up girl, albeit grease being substituted by masses of messy black ink, covering the exposed skin on her neck and hands. Her accent was shabby suburban, dropping consonants and emphasising vowels. Stephen was appalled yet equally intrigued. Young women might be needy and tiresome, but they could still catch his eye and fire up the boiler.

While Simeon retired somewhere to the rear of the building, Stephen tried engaging with the young woman whom he presumed was named Chastity. He doubted she had the slightest clue what chastity meant. Smiling, he imagined her unpinning her hair, shaking it loose. Then he imagined pushing her onto his bed, her luscious long hair splaying wonderfully over his down pillow.

The dungaree loosened around her bottom as she moved, accentuating willowy movement from a form he could only imagine. Conversely, the dungaree tightened across her top, revealing a full bosom that John Collier might have modelled Lilith upon. The serpent might have been replaced by thick black ink, but it was nonetheless just as erotic and dangerous.

“Do you have any Earl Grey or Herb teas, my dear?” he asked in his most well-behaved voice.

She smiled back. “Builders bum or instant coffee; the maid is on holiday,” she added sarcastically. 

“Water?” Stephen asked.

“It’s tap,” she retorted.

He humped, rolled his eyes, and crossed his arms. “Don’t worry, I’m fine.”

“So, what do you do here,” he asked, after a moment, trying his best to start a conversation. “Do you run around after Simeon? Are you his assistant?”

“Hell no, I own this place. I’m in charge around here. Simeon only comes in for special occasions. He’s a guest artist.”

“Well. What’s the special occasion this time?”

Chas winked at him and fluttered her long thick, blackened lashes. “You are.”

Her lips were as full as a Romney painting of Lady Hamilton, tempting him, inviting him to explore the warmth and softness contained within. His mind raced.

Stephen was torn. His head told him she was having fun with him, toying with him. His testosterone told him she was making a play. He decided not to act. He had been wrong too many times before, often leading to embarrassment and threats. Still, it would not harm to trade subtle innuendos.

“I bet you have some amazing art under those dungarees?”

“Oh, I do,” she cooed.

“Did you know I’m an art critic? So, if you ever need an evaluation, just let me know, and I’m happy to do an appraisal.”

Chas giggled. “Thank you, Stephen, that’s very kind. You know what, I can’t wait to see you with your shirt off, so I can see what Simeon does to your back. I’m sure it will be amazing.”  

He sat back, pleased with himself. He might be getting older, but he still had it.

Eventually, Simeon returned, sketch in hand.

“What do you think of that – are you happy?”

“It’s just a line drawing,” Stephen complained. “What do I think of it? Not much.”

“Trust me, Stephen. It will be fine. Are you ready to start?”

“It will wash off, right?”

“It sure will. It’s water-based paint. If it were oil-based, it would be a different story. That’s almost impossible to remove.

“First, we put a special primer down to ensure the paint sticks to your skin. Then, we wait till it dries. To stop cracking, it’s important to remain on the tattoo table, not to move. That will take about thirty minutes. The painting on top will take about an hour, but only twenty minutes to dry. Are you okay with that?”

“Yes, but it sounds like a lot of work for something temporary.”

“Oh, but it will be so worth it,” Chas interrupted.

Stephen wanted to ask if it would hurt but decided against it. It appeared Chas was going to be sticking around.

Simeon confirmed this an instant later. “Are you okay if Chas helps me out? She’s not seen this technique before. I’ll get her to apply the primer if that suits you.”

Stephen nodded his approval, he grinned, delighted she would apply the primer to his bare back. It was as likely to be as intimate as he would ever get with her.

“Okay, shirt off, Stephen,” she purred. “Up on the table, there you go!”

He sucked in a deep breath while undoing his buttons, immediately regretting eating lunch at The Club. He plopped down quickly, hoping his love handles wouldn’t droop and merge with his hips. He felt naked and afraid. Vulnerable.

He tried not to wince when the first brush of primer was applied. It was ice cold, and he wanted to cry out but chose to grit his teeth. Weakness and fear were not qualities he wanted to exhibit to Chas. He closed his eyes instead, imagining it was Chas’s fingers, not a feathery brush, caressing his skin. It felt good. He relaxed. Muscles unclamped quickly, and the synapses in his brain cleared. Clarity and perception returned.

He felt Simeon’s eyes on him. Simeon, the guest tattooist. An artist. A man with exceptional art knowledge. Simeon, Simeon Merhtens, Simeon Merhtens, SIMMER – SIMMER. He smiled knowingly. Maybe he could make some money out of this after all. First thing tomorrow, he would be visiting Trent.

It took closer to forty-five minutes for Chas to complete the primer. Stephen didn’t mind. He hadn’t been this close to a young woman for an age. It took another forty-five minutes for the primer to dry completely. He didn’t mind. The time was well spent; it was an investment.

“There you go, all done,” Simeon proclaimed an hour later. “Now, please stay still for another thirty minutes while it dries. Sorry, it’s taken so long!”

“It’s quite alright,” Stephen offered, “but before you finish, I wonder whether you would mind autographing the image for me.”

Stephen looked confused; Chas amused. “What? Are you kidding? It’s only temporary skin paint. It’ll wash off in two weeks! I’ll admit it’s pretty damn good, but my autograph – really?”

“If you could, I would greatly appreciate it.”

—

The Rover arrived at the lock-up with far less urgency. As Stephen exited the driver’s door, Trent saw that Stephen looked far more relaxed.

“You want to sell something else?” he asked. “Sorry, I haven’t received any decent offers on the Handicott. That’s why I’ve not been in touch.”

“It’s okay,” Stephen replied. “I’ve got something special. You suggested I bring you something a little more modern. Something from a street artist. Well, I’ve got a SIMMER.”

“Jesus, that is special,” Trent said, eyes lighting up, hands rubbing together. “Where is it?”

“It’s on my back.”

“What the fuck?”

Stephen then explained the whole story from voucher to autograph.

“Well, I’m not sure how you can monetise it, but I better have a look. Take your shirt off, Stephen.”

Stephen unbuttoned and turned around.

“It’s a portrait, not modern. That’s disappointing.” Trent moved closer and had a better look.

“It’s Omai,” Stephen said.

“Yes, I can see that. It’s a fair reproduction too, but it certainly isn’t a SIMMER.”

“How do you know that?”

“It’s a Simeon Merhtens.”

“Yes,” Stephen retorted defiantly, “Simeon Merhtens is SIMMER.”

“No, no, no, mate, sorry. Simeon Merhtens is a classically trained portrait artist who started doing street art. That’s where the money is these days, so you can’t blame him for trying to make a living. He’s also starting to make a name for himself, but he’s no SIMMER. Besides, the rumour is, SIMMER is a woman!”

The last of Omai washed off in the shower two weeks later. It was with colossal embarrassment that Omai’s departure was eclipsed by the unexpected arrival of ‘Miss Morris’ from Sir Joshua Reynolds from underneath. She was holding onto a pink chipolata, proclaiming within a speech bubble that Stephen has a small P, not a V! Beyond mortification, Stephen was doubly horrified to note the piece was signed and appeared to be oil-based.