The Opal Desert Read online

‘This is quite an event, isn’t it?’ said Sam, a fellow classmate who had joined her. His glasses had slipped down his nose and his face shone with perspiration from the crush of people as he tried to juggle a cigarette, a glass of wine and a small spring roll.

  ‘Fabulous setting,’ agreed Kerrie. ‘Imagine having a whole space like this to show your work.’

  ‘Big art, big price tag,’ said Sam.

  ‘Faranisi is certainly a big talent,’ said Kerrie. ‘Not that I’m usually a fan of large works. These are impressive because of their scale but there’s something else about them – a sensitivity, a lightness, it’s incongruous, given their weightiness.’

  ‘Form, shape, substance, it’s all very solid, but using a hammer and chisel doesn’t seem as artistic to me as controlling a brush. You’d have to have a lot of strength to be able to create something like this.’

  Kerrie smiled at the slightly built art student beside her who looked as though he could barely lift any sort of hammer.

  ‘You’re right, Sam. I’d stick to painting, if I were you.’

  More and more people arrived and what was once a zen-like space was now jammed, making it difficult for waiters to move through the throng with trays of drinks and food. Noting the growing enthusiasm of the crowd, the director of the gallery decided to introduce the sculptor right away.

  Stephanie Oates, the respected director of the Gallery Museum of Modern Art, called for silence and announced, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Milton Faranisi.’

  He came through a side door, politely shook the director’s hand and then stood to one side, smiling broadly. It was not a flamboyant entrance but his presence dominated the room and held everyone’s attention. While the gallery director extended her welcome, her acknowledgements and thanks to everyone involved in staging the exhibition, the creator of the show folded his arms and watched the crowd. As the director continued speaking, Kerrie studied Milton Faranisi from the sideline.

  She wished she could sketch his firm profile, his thick dark hair and roman nose, and the slightly amused expression lurking at his mouth. He was tall and solid and seemed to bear out Sam’s comments about the strength that was needed for sculpting. He wore a cream linen jacket over brown pants and a cream shirt and an unexciting tie. For someone with such a wild reputation, Kerrie was a little disappointed to see him so conservatively dressed. Then she noticed the expensive leather loafers, what seemed to be a designer belt and his classy watch.

  As if sensing her scrutiny, he swung around and looked directly at her, his deep green eyes staring into her face, causing her to blush, but she did not look away. His eyes narrowed slightly and his lips curved into a brief smile and then he turned away leaving Kerrie feeling as though she’d been caught out in some childish prank.

  Stephanie Oates was lauding the work of Faranisi:

  . . . continuing the tradition of great European sculptors who have pushed the boundaries to embrace new mediums, new materials and new constructs, yet always communicating to an audience who invests the time and trouble to investigate these new sculptural forms. I predict that his work will be acquired by museums, galleries and corporations all over the world. And, as Faranisi’s work is growing significantly in size as well as reputation, we are elated to have such a collection as wonderful as the magnificent pieces you see on display tonight. I’m sure you will agree the impact of them in one place is powerful.

  There was a smattering of applause, most guests finding it tricky to clap while holding a drink, catalogue and canapé.

  Stephanie concluded by commenting:

  Milton Faranisi has studied science, drawing, architecture and engineering, and I’m sure he would have been an outstanding achiever in any field. His work incorporates these skills and you can see his knowledge flowering in the magnificent pieces on display tonight. We applaud his dedication to his art, and also his energy and enthusiasm, which is ours to share. Please welcome Milton Faranisi!

  The sculptor spoke eloquently but briefly before thanking Stephanie, his friends, fellow artists and the arts administrators who had supported his work. After his speech he stepped to one side to pose for photographers and submit to the TV cameras.

  ‘I’m looking forward to his lecture next week,’ Kerrie said to Sam.

  ‘I don’t see the point, we’re not doing sculpture.’

  Kerrie shrugged. ‘Stephanie Oates said Milton Faranisi studied drawing, architecture and engineering. He’s not that narrow. We might learn things from him that can be of use to us.’

  ‘I’m just not interested. Why are you? You always say that you only want to paint.’

  ‘Perhaps I’ll broaden my horizons! You never know. I’m going to take another look at his work in the courtyard. The place doesn’t seem so full now.’

  Kerrie drifted out to the garden. Most of the crowd were indoors, helping themselves to the complimentary wine, so she took her time, circling each of the exhibits, appreciating the changing surfaces of the three-dimensional forms. Pausing before one sculpture called ‘Distant Future’, she reached out and laid her hand on the cool stone, finding it solid and earthbound despite its delicacy and light-as-air appearance.

  ‘Ah, you couldn’t resist. What do you feel?’

  Kerrie turned to see Milton Faranisi regarding her with an amused expression. Before she could move he placed his hand over hers.

  ‘Oh. Sorry. It looks so delicate, almost translucent, I wanted to see if it was hollow,’ Kerrie apologised.

  ‘Can you feel the small groove marks from my tools and the strength in this stone? I’m pleased that you think this is light. The small sphere represents a distant planet that could drift away into the night at any moment. As a sculptor I’ve tried to utilise three-dimensional thinking and direct abstract thought into the physical, using my mind to guide my hand.’ He continued to hold her hand. ‘Are you an artist?’

  Kerrie knew that the older man was flirting with her and was secretly flattered, but she couldn’t help being impressed by the description of how he worked. ‘Not really. I’m an art student. At the Armitage School.’

  He nodded. ‘You get good formal training there. The discipline is good, but just going to classes there won’t necessarily make you a great artist. I’m speaking to Armitage students in a few days. I hope to see you there.’ He saw Stephanie Oates coming towards them. ‘Excuse me, I must thank Stephanie for her kind words.’ He let her hand go, after gently squeezing it.

  The whiteboard beside the lectern was covered with sketches and outlines. The forty students in the lecture room looked slightly dazed as the torrent of information, demonstrations and anecdotes from Milton Faranisi continued nonstop.

  Kerrie was impressed, not just by the insightful sculptor, but by how entertaining he was. Even Sam was taken by his eloquence and the ideas Milton used to illustrate the history of sculpture and the interrelationships between contemporary and classical sculpture:

  The key to your studies is to reach that moment of truth known as ‘the breakthrough’, where you discover you are working from instinct, you just know you are ready to create from your heart and mind as well as with your body. That is when you begin to trust yourself and create for yourself. The power and wisdom and spirit within you will let you flower and set you free to make your own art, your way. Don’t get distracted, don’t get seduced by profit, and don’t get sidetracked by commercial middlemen seeking to milk your talent. Remain true to yourself, to your art.

  ‘He’s compelling, though I bet the art schools don’t like him encouraging students to get out and go it alone,’ commented Sam.

  ‘He makes me want to try new things. I really do want to experiment,’ said Kerrie.

  ‘I think he remembers you from the exhibition. Notice how he keeps glancing at you?’ teased Sam.

  ‘Is he?’ she replied innocently. But Kerrie had caught Milton’s eye a few times and assumed that he had remembered her.

  ‘Come on, Kerrie, let’s see if he does remember you.�
� Sam rose as the lecture concluded and edged from their row to join other students clustering around the sculptor.

  Milton Faranisi spoke to Kerrie as soon as she approached. ‘You were at my exhibition the other night, weren’t you?’ When Kerrie nodded, he smiled. ‘Did you enjoy my talk? Find it useful?’

  ‘We all did. It was very inspiring.’

  ‘And what is your name?’

  ‘Kerrie. Kerrie Jackson.’

  She didn’t think more about her meeting with Milton Faranisi. He was far removed from her world. But when he turned up at the art school looking for her she found that she wasn’t totally surprised.

  He met her after class and took her to a wine bar, where they sat in a dark corner and talked, laughed and discussed art and life. She asked him questions about sculpting, trying to extract information from him, a kind of masterclass, while Milton obviously enjoyed the rapt attention of the pretty young woman. She was unsure why he had asked her out, and he gave no indication of wanting to take things any further. Nor did they discuss anything personal so she didn’t know what his marital status was. She resolved to check out his biography, but then chided herself. What would be the point? Why would this sophisticated man be interested in a young art student? But later she did look up his biography. She found that he was a widower, whose very wealthy Brazilian wife had died a few years earlier, leaving him three daughters to raise.

  Two nights later he asked her to dinner. She was surprised but she accepted. As she got ready to go out she found that she had put on her lacey, sexy underwear. She stopped and laughed at herself. Had she decided to go to bed with the famous sculptor? She knew that she could offer him no more than her body and her attention, but his smile, the attentive warmth in his eyes, his stories and anecdotes, the plans he shared with her for future projects, made him wonderful company.

  ‘I’ll just take things as they come,’ she told herself.

  And, she had to admit as she sat across from him at a table in a small Italian restaurant, she was stirred by his physical presence. His dark T-shirt stretched across his muscular chest and shoulders and was tucked into jeans, which were belted across his taut stomach. His arms were tanned and he wore an expensive watch. His conversation was erudite and his manners polished. The hardened calluses on his hands were the only clue that this was a man who indulged in physical work. He asked about her plans after art school.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Kerrie replied honestly. ‘I don’t know if I’m any good. And even if I have some talent, it’s not easy to make a living as an artist.’

  ‘You’re right, it is very difficult to make it as an artist. You really have to believe in yourself, be prepared to make sacrifices and have a lot of luck. It won’t be easy for you, even if you have talent, and maybe you don’t. And maybe you’ll never know. You can only persist because you cannot live without art. Do you feel that way? There is always a price to pay so you should weigh up the risks before saying I want to be an artist.’

  Kerrie looked down at her plate of pasta feeling as though she had just wasted four years of her life. He reached over and covered her hand with his. ‘Perhaps you need a benefactor, a patron, like in the old days, or you could marry a rich man and indulge yourself.’

  ‘Yeah, right. And that’s going to happen,’ retorted Kerrie, her face hot with annoyance.

  Milton removed his hand and shrugged. ‘All things being equal – love, passion, sex – it could be a perfect arrangement.’

  ‘Is that how you got started?’ asked Kerrie crossly.

  Milton leaned back and looked at Kerrie in amusement and lifted his glass of wine. ‘Touché. You are right. I have been tactless.’

  Kerrie sipped her wine and gave an enigmatic smile. ‘Apology accepted. Anyway, what was your first job?’

  As they ate their dessert Milton talked of living in Rome and being apprenticed to a renowned sculptor who had modelled himself on Rodin and liked to sculpt classical figures. ‘I admire Rodin, but I didn’t see the point in trying to cast myself as a poor Australian imitation. But an apprenticeship is valuable. I learned skills, then I rebelled and began to do my own thing, which is as it should be.’

  ‘But those skills you learnt came in handy, didn’t they? So I’m not wasting my time at art school.’

  ‘Everything you learn you can use. It’s surprising where it can be applied. But what you must ask yourself is: why do I want to be an artist? how important is it to me? why am I doing this? For ego? Or for money and acclaim? If you never sell a painting, never receive any true praise, would you persist?’ He paused. ‘Sorry if I’m haranguing you.’

  Kerrie looked up from her plate and spoke firmly but quietly. ‘I’ll make it as an artist one day and I’ll make it on my terms.’

  He looked at her blazing eyes and smiled. ‘Good for you. I hope you do. Now, more coffee? A liqueur?’

  Kerrie shook her head. ‘No, thanks. It’s been a wonderful evening. You’ve made me think.’

  ‘I have really enjoyed your company. No one listens to me.’ He smiled. ‘My daughters treat me like an old man and are really too young to understand my work.’

  ‘Your daughters . . . are at school?’ asked Kerrie. She had no idea about their ages but Milton looked barely forty so they couldn’t be very old.

  ‘The older ones are almost into their teens, but already they seem to be at that rebellious stage. I’m not around them as much as I should be. I always seem to be overseas now that I am starting to get commissions from other countries. Anyway, they think that I’m very uninteresting. Perhaps you can help me . . . “lighten up”, as they keep telling me.’ He smiled at Kerrie. ‘Take pity on a man of forty-five and take him out dancing or clubbing or whatever it is you do to enjoy life, so that my daughters don’t think I’m so boring.’

  ‘I’m sure they don’t think that at all,’ said Kerrie quickly. ‘I don’t think you’re boring.’

  ‘Okay then, next time it’s your turn. Come out with me again, but take me to your favourite place . . . a club, a bar? Unless you would be embarrassed to be seen out with me?’

  ‘Of course not,’ laughed Kerrie, ‘but you mightn’t enjoy it. Wild lights, loud music, crowded dance floor, overpriced cocktails. People passing around joints and stuff.’ She rattled off a description of what she imagined he thought she enjoyed, the sort of evening her friends tried to persuade her to share, but which in all honesty didn’t really appeal to her. Shouting all evening over loud music in order to be heard really wasn’t her scene, but she tried to think of the places the other students talked about. She didn’t think that he really wanted to do this but was rather chuffed that he wanted to spend more time with her on her terms.

  ‘It sounds familiar, though it’s been a few years. Ah, Positano. I’ll tell you about it sometime. Shall we go?’

  Kerrie gathered up her bag and pushed back her chair.

  ‘I meant that, about the dancing, the wild night out,’ he said, rising from his seat.

  ‘If you really want to,’ she said. ‘I hope your daughters will be impressed.’

  ‘I’m not doing it for them,’ he said, contradicting himself. ‘I’m going to do it for me. You pick the place. Thursday night okay with you?’

  To their surprise, by the end of Thursday evening they both agreed that they’d had a brilliant time. Kerrie had asked her friends the best place to go dancing and their suggestion had been perfect. She felt strange going into a trendy club with a man old enough to be her father, even if a very young one. Initially dancing with Milton had been awkward, but as the floor space became more limited they had been forced to stay in one spot, wildly gyrating or clinging together, bodies sensuously rubbing together in time with Madonna’s ‘Vogue’.

  In the heady atmosphere, combined with the music and the swift downing of drinks, Kerrie’s inhibitions slipped, and she didn’t care what anyone else thought about her date. Later, as they pushed their way through to the back bar, she noticed a sexy waitress flirting wi
th Milton, who didn’t seem to mind at all. Then, when he struck up a conversation with two girls drinking beside them at the bar, she felt a rush of jealousy. He was amusing and attractive to women, that was clear. Not that those girls would realise that he was famous. However, when a roving photographer spotted Milton and took a photo of him with his arm draped around Kerrie, one of the two girls later asked her, ‘Who’s your boyfriend then? Someone famous?’

  ‘Just my favourite uncle,’ Kerrie said airily, as the girls hooted at her in disbelief.

  To Kerrie’s disappointment when Milton took her home he kissed her ardently then pushed her gently away.

  ‘Too much wine. Get some sleep. I’ll call you soon.’

  ‘Do you feel lighter?’ she asked, nuzzling him. ‘You’re fun. Half the girls there had the hots for you.’

  ‘Lucky for me I had you. G’night, Kerrie-cups,’ he said as she walked into her house.

  Two days later Kerrie found that she was the subject of some interest in class when the photograph of her and Milton appeared in the paper. Her friends teased her.

  ‘Are you taking private classes?’

  ‘Or modelling for the master, perhaps?’

  She merely smiled and kept her head down. It was Sam who suggested that she should be careful. ‘Watch yourself, Kerrie. Remember, you aren’t the first and won’t be the last.’

  ‘Sam, you’re not telling me anything I don’t already know,’ she retorted. ‘Anyway, I’m learning a lot.’

  ‘I bet you are.’

  ‘It’s not like that at all. And I certainly haven’t slept with him if that’s what you’re hinting at.’ said Kerrie. ‘Not that it’s your business, anyway.’

  ‘Bet you do.’

  Kerrie laughed. ‘We’ll see.’

  Kerrie’s mother was pleased that Kerrie was obviously in the throes of a new romance, but she was surprised when a friend at her bridge club showed her the photograph of Kerrie and Milton at the club.

  ‘Kerrie, is this the man you’re seeing?’