Yearn: Tales of Lust and Longing

Sven held his manicured hand out to Sara.

“Norwegian father, Essex upbringing—so Stephen to you.” His voice was unpretentious and surprisingly pedestrian in its accent. It didn’t fit with either his persona or his fashion sense. Nevertheless Sara found herself taking an instant liking to him.

“Sara Le Carin,” she said, shaking his hand. To her pleasant surprise his grip was strong, masculine. His large hand engulfing her own ignited a sense of femininity in Sara that was momentarily thrilling.

Smiling, he leaned forward so that he was out of earshot of the gallery owner. A wave of Gaultier’s Le Male swept over her; he smelt delicious enough to eat.

“Love the bag, but it doesn’t go with the stockings,” he murmured.

“That’s the point,” she whispered back, grinning, making them instant coconspirators, an evident intimacy that had June in a self-congratulatory slather. The gallery owner watched the two for another second, then brusquely clapped her hands together.

“So, Sven is my latest discovery, an up-and-coming art curator, actually more of an art philosopher than critic, and one of the best young commentators on contemporary British work—as yet unknown. You couldn’t be in better hands, Sara. So go! Go! Go and conquer!” June exclaimed dramatically while ushering them toward the door, half an eye on another client who had just entered.

As Sara was about to step back out onto Cork Street, June called across the gallery: “Oh and, Sara, whatever he tells you to buy, you buy! He has the best eye in the nation!”

Outside, backlit by a sliver of sunshine that had escaped between the tall buildings, the critic’s beauty was a little more intimidating than Sara had bargained for. Thank God for the accent, she told herself, grasping the one flaw that made him human.

Stephen slipped his arm through hers, presumptuous but friendly, and utterly nonsexual in a gay male/female friend sort of way.

“June exaggerates,” he informed Sara as they strolled down toward Piccadilly.

“She does?” Sara inquired, although she intended it to be more of an ironic statement than a query.

“Oh yes,” he reassured her, deadly serious. “I have the second-best eye.”

• • •

Frieze was the largest annual art show London boasted. Set in tents and buildings in the center of Regents Park, it was the last art show in a series of important art shows, but it was considered the most fashionable and serious one to be seen at and to bu

y from. Sara had missed the one the year before due to her deteriorating marriage, and as this was her first outing in public life since the divorce, she felt excruciatingly self-conscious as they entered the white-walled art sanctum.

Sara glanced at her companion. Was it obvious that Stephen was a walker—a professional social escort? She was hoping he might be mistaken for her latest boyfriend—at least at a distance—for in truth his sexuality was as apparent as his beauty. But it was still flattering to be seen walking beside such a paragon of male perfection, his handsomeness reflecting on her own good taste.

As if sensing her anxiety, Stephen paid for their admission then led her to the first stall he claimed was interesting. A photography exhibition, the first two of three walls were covered in blown-up images of young adolescent girls who, although in contemporary evening dress, were obvious references to the Pre-Raphaelite concept of beauty. The third wall was hung with close-ups of body parts, isolated and blown up in a montage of skin creases and crevices that looked very sexual in an ambiguous way, so one could not tell breast cleavage from a pressed armpit, a buttock crack from the tops of thighs.

“A little obvious, but he’s very collectible at the moment,” Stephen commented after reading the dismay that momentarily swept across Sara’s face.

“It’s just so . . . visceral, which is not part of my emotional language at the moment,” she replied, tight-lipped, feeling very middle-aged surrounded by the bevy of exotic, gorgeous young men and women who always seemed to appear at such art shows. Drifting through the exhibition in groups of three and four, they were like lost muses just waiting to be discovered by some unsuspecting artist. Such blatant physical beauty reminded Sara of her ex-husband, and her mood shifted down a gear to a darker, more miserable place.

They moved on to the next stand, which displayed a triptych of abstract canvases consisting of a block of color with various fluorescent grids set over the top. As hard as she tried, Sara just couldn’t see the point of them. She felt as if they were trapped in a kind of stupefied, misplaced reverence as they stood for a good five minutes in front of one canvas. Her gaze slid sideways toward her companion and she wondered whether he disliked the art as much as she did. She coughed politely and fidgeted until finally Stephen, clutching the catalog, flicked it open decisively.

“I do think any art that requires extensive catalog notes to appreciate it is suspicious.”

“Of course, but I have to confess I do need a little narrative, you know, something my imagination can get hold of. Perhaps I just haven’t the intellect to understand something so abstract.” Sara replied, wondering if the grid might have some religious symbolism—the Christian cross, perhaps? But as much as she tried, the painting just looked like a glorified traffic sign to her, a reaction she dared not share with the critic. As if reading her mind, he interrupted her reverie.

“Don’t beat yourself up. Art is about emotion, instinct, gut reaction—if it doesn’t move you it doesn’t move you, nothing to do with intellect. This is cold, constipated, emotionally indifferent.”

Hugely relieved, Sara turned to Stephen, grateful for the validation.

“I’m so glad you think so. My ex-husband used to accuse me of having a plebeian eye,” she confessed, then immediately wished she hadn’t.

Sensing her sudden vulnerability, Stephen lightly touched her arm. Sara found it a comforting but strangely erotic gesture. “Ouch. I’m assuming that’s why he’s an ex-husband?” he asked, but Sara fell silent. It was painful for her to talk about the divorce and she now regretted even mentioning Hugh.

“Are you buying with a purpose?” Stephen asked, changing the subject.

“Actually, I am. I’m thinking of starting a collection, you know, officially, to eventually auction for a charity. The trouble is, I can’t seem to be able to decide which charity.”

“I find that once you start collecting, the shape or tone of the collection will dictate its eventual home. Maybe you should just start and wait to see what presents itself organically.”