Mel and J make their less frantic way to the party, Mel still animated and loquacious, but a little more focused. As she says, J is in for a surprise when she reaches the party as the internal structure of Kiri’s place has rather to be seen to be believed.
It used to be a warehouse, and one half of it had been partially converted into living space, then rented out. The other half had been left to stay a deserted warehouse. One of the weirder things (of which there are many) about the building is its location – slap in the middle of a residential area which grew up around it when it was thriving sometime in the late 19th Century, then overtook a lot of the residual space around it when it ceased to thrive. Kiri has taken ownership of the whole building, further converting the living space at the front which looks and feels perfectly normal (carpets, sofas, kitchen) until you head out into the hallway which just opens out and out, cavernous and captivating, throbbing as it currently is with people and dominated by the metal stairway and balcony-ish catwalks, still metal-railed at the top. The hallways turns into twisting corridors, a random place with metal sinks, a worktop and a toilet, and then you reach a small gallery and general exhibition/ storage space for works (by various) on the move or trying their feet at the back of the building. Upstairs through the living area are normal bedrooms and an eccentric bathroom. Up the bold, metal stairs, by contrast, are more works on the walls/ in corners on the catwalk, and access to the working areas, a series of different-sized rooms and less well-defined spaces which Kiri uses herself and also rents out to a variety of folk.
Part of the money for all this comes from a government grant and is paid for by educational activities and community projects. The rest before the rent started coming in is rumoured to have something to do with an obscure inheritance from a distant uncle that could only be spent on a house, the terms of which Kiri took great delight in twisting. But some people will say anything.
During a party you just walk through the front door – if you know to come you know to come, and Kiri knows far and away too many hard-arsed people with attitude problems who regularly attend her parties to feel she risks crime, petty or otherwise, by maintaining an open house on these occasions. In general, for most of the people attending it is firmly in their interests for Kiri to remain happy and the Art Factory to remain viable.
Mel and J sway their way through the people to the kitchen to deposit drinks, and make their way out to the hallway, Mel trusting the chaotic coat pegs and J electing to keep her jacket on for the meantime. J eschews a guided tour and promptly loses Mel to the depths of the Factory when she goes back to the kitchen in search of another bottle. She shrugs and, after a teeth-gritted time during which she very nearly bolts altogether, gets dragged into Conversing With Artists.
Mixing with this lot isn’t what you’d expect from a bunch of artists. They’re not very fabulous, really. For a start, it turns out that most of them are sculptors and installation artists and have calluses and the kind of wiry musculature that comes from eighteen hour nights and a sometimes haphazard approach to diet. That and using their bodies all the time (as opposed to nicely-balanced, somehow artificial muscle from routines. I doubt a one of them had ever done a crunch in their lives. Had he been there, they’d have put Dan’s prowess to shame, I suspect). I was also introduced to a new breed – the chain-rolly-smoking, hardcore vegetarian. Many of them had tattoos, or an unusual length of hair, or piercings you could moor a boat with. Or all three. Very refreshing.
I mean, oh yeah, don’t get me wrong – this was clearly a new kind of lovely, a wild pretension, but still. Heh.
One woman with knee-length hair (no, really, I shit you not) had me listening to a dissertation on her work on symbols of the female and male as evident in, well, everything and it was interesting and all and then she asked if I wanted to get involved.
“Me, really? Art? Coz, art – well, no, really, umm...”
“Oh,” she laughed, “no, I didn’t mean – I meant... it’s an untrained contribution I want.”
If ever there was a raised eyebrow moment this was it, except it was rapidly superseded by the forthcoming explanation:
Fig (no, I didn’t ask), for her latest piece, called Blood Moon, wanted... well, I think you’ve probably guessed, the twist being that she wanted it to be the result of contributions from strong women.
Well, I had time to argue, so I did (I’d otherwise, up until that moment, been about to nod politely and just be incredibly British about the whole thing).
I frowned. “Really? That is interesting and – I hope – flattering, but what exactly do you mean by strong?”
She drew breath.
“You know,” I went on, “strong physically, strong intellectually, strong politically, strong morally, strong spiritually? And what’s ‘strong’? Strong as in resists pressure? Or creates pressure? Or just a more pungent taste? And while we’re at it,” I continued, “are we meaning strong like: strong like a bloke would be strong, so strong inter-gender, or strong as in: strong for a woman, so intra-gender? Virility-aping or true muliebrity? Or is it just...” I peered at her, “women who – as women – stand out... for you?”
She looked at me for a bit. “Yes,” she said, “I suppose that’s it.” Pause. “You’re quite aggressive, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I think it may be an angry, unfulfilled young queer woman thing.”
“Or a Northern thing.”
“Or that,” I agreed. “Well-spotted, by the way.”
“Clearly, your accent gets stronger when you get worked up about something. Or distracted.”
“Clearly. So, still want me to...”
“Absolutely, yes!”
“Why?”
She tiled her head on one side and looked at me. It was a penetrative look. “Because, as you said, you stand out. And because I want to paint you as a warrior, Pictish, waiting for war, sharpening her swords and stamping at the traces.”
“Okay. Uh. Pictish?”
“Yes. Oh yes – braids and spiral woad and arm-rings under a grey, bloodshot sunset, looking askance at...”
“Um. You’re a spooky lady.”
“Yes.” She – out of the depths of wherever she’d gone – looked at me and smiled. I didn’t like it very much.
“Do you do Tarot?”
“Yes.”
“Please don’t do mine.”
“Okay.”
I’d already been edging away and now it was time to make it official. I stood. “So, um, has Kiri got your number?”
“She’s got Eric’s.”
“Oookay, well, I’ll get in touch when, er, about the, er...”
“Thank you.”
“It’s been educational,” I said, and scarpered.
I went searching for people I knew. I felt badly in need of some normality, but failing that my friends and some booze would do. I stomped towards the main living room, and immediately saw, with a relief that was slightly shameful, several people I knew.