Sculpting Eliot

fracture_childTue 15/01/08 18:43

SCULPTING ELIOT

By Damian Whittle


In a week's time, he wouldn't even be allowed in here. The doorman would smile and tell him with infinite politeness that the Brothers Excelsior Restaurant was already fully pre-booked and that there were no free tables for the foreseeable future. Even if the place was half empty. His tone would, of course, make it absolutely clear that the management expected a certain level of success from their clientele and that Eliot had now fallen well below their requirements.

The doorman would be quite right. The backlash that had been brewing against L8'ED for several months was now fully underway and being enjoyed by almost everyone. Their songs were formulaic, people said, their image laughably derivative. Even the name was a cliché. Now that both their popularity and profitability were in freefall, the end was inevitable. There was the usual self-congratulatory crowing by internet pundits as they claimed it as another triumph against manufactured music. A further step towards replacing one construct with another of their own making.

Particular venom was reserved for Eliot. That was hardly surprising as he had been the most loved of all the band, though not, as the critics were at pains to point out, because of his voice. He was, quite simply, beautiful. There was no artifice involved. Unlike the other band members, he did not need make up or special lighting. He looked breathtaking on the screen because that was how he looked in the flesh. His androgynous features were still masculine enough to appeal to any number of tastes. The same was true of his lithe body that seemed simultaneously strong and fragile, healthy and undernourished. There were those that refused to believe that he could possibly be real and insisted that he was the result of a new venture in CGI.

Now it was all over. Eliot sat alone at a table in an out-of-the-way corner of the Brothers Excelsior Restaurant, waiting for a girl whose name he couldn't remember and who he didn't care if she ever bothered to show up. Some of the diners at nearby, rather better tables, cast him the odd glance from time to time. He could see in their faces the contempt that was going to become so familiar. Eliot had eaten here many times, but he had never noticed before how big the place was. The floor space could easily have held twice as many tables, but that would have diminished the pervading sense of prestige. Converted from what had once been a town hall, the restaurant still felt as though it were a seat of power. Leaders as well as entertainers came here. The murals painted on the domed ceiling seemed to be glowering down at Eliot as though they recognised him as an unworthy interloper.

He took a sip of water from the glass the waiter had disdainfully brought for him. Soon he was going to have to order a first course. He might just have the soup and go. If whatever-her-name showed up later, he was sure that she'd easily find someone else to share a meal with. His people only ever found him pretty girls. Had only ever found him pretty girls.

'You seem very unhappy'

The voice was deep with an un-placeable, slightly guttural accent. Eliot automatically looked up, to find that the speaker had already sat down opposite him. He was a tall, craggy faced man in his late 30's. The fringe of his thick, dark hair hung untidily across his forehead. His sallow skin seemed dirty and unwholesome. He was wearing a tan leather jacket, a heavily creased blue shirt and scruffy grey jeans.

Before Eliot could open his mouth, the stranger began talking again.

'It seems to me that I know your face. You're a singer, yes? In a band? I forget the name'

'L8'ED' muttered Eliot. How had this guy got in here? Maybe he should call the waiter and have him thrown out.

The man smile crookedly at him.

'Yes, of course. I wouldn't expect someone in your position to be so downcast'

Eliot laughed humourlessly.

'You obviously don't read blogs then'

'True. I never pay any attention to critics'

Now Eliot recognised him. Xavier Ward. Artist, sculptor, photographer. A controversial figure, equally reviled and admired throughout half the globe. No-one could predict his next piece nor fathom what drove him. He had pushed conceptual art into undreamt directions, without concern for taste or taboo and yet he was also responsible for some of the most dazzlingly perfect traditional landscapes ever created. Several of his paintings had been banned. Two hung in the Louvre.

This was all Eliot needed. To have to talk to someone whose star was unlikely ever to fade.

'Please leave me alone' he said.

Xavier leaned back in his chair, making himself comfortable.

'What's your name?' he asked.

'Didn't you hear me?' demanded Eliot, raising his voice. 'Go away!'

'Tell me'

Eliot closed his eyes for a moment. He could still call the waiter, but it wouldn't do him any good. As things stood, he was more likely to be thrown out than the artist.

He open his eyes and sighed.

'My name's Eliot' he said.

'And tell me why you're so sad, Eliot'

'Why?'

'Just tell me'

And so Eliot did. He told him the whole story. About the rise and fall of L8'ED. How he'd loved the experience of being looked at by thousands of people who adored him. And finally, he tried to describe the unbearable despair now that it was all being taken away from him. When he had finished, he realised that he was crying.

'I don't understand why everyone hates me. I don't understand what I've done that's so bad' he whimpered.

'People will always need someone to blame' said Xavier.

'Blame for what?'

The artist shrugged.

'Because the lines between what's real and what's artificial have shifted without their say-so. Because they're terrified of the thought of dreams other than their own. Because of any reason they chose'

'And what should I do?'

'Could you not continue your career without the band?'

Eliot shook his head. He had no delusions on that score. Although he was a good dancer, his voice was weak. A solo career would be short and much derided.

Xavier leaned forward.

'I too have a problem. A special commission has come my way. Unique, in fact. A permanent exhibit at the Kendrick Gallery. You have heard of the Kendrick Gallery?'

'No'

'Soon it will be very famous. Thanks to me. But I need a very particular kind of help. You could be the one'

Xavier explained what he had in mind. He left out no detail. It was a truly audacious idea.

'But how is that possible?' asked Eliot. He already knew that he was going to agree. How could he not?

'The right tools will usually find the right artist. There are technologies so strange that they are not really technology at all, They wait for the hand that can use them.

'And I will know? I'll be able to feel it?'

'Yes. All of it. Forever'

Eliot was never seen again. Some said he'd emigrated to escape the media, others thought that he'd committed suicide. And, of course, a few blamed it on aliens. The story of his disappearance rumbled on for a few weeks before fading from the public mind. It was overshadowed by the news of Xavier Ward's latest creation.

It had a room all of its own in the suddenly legendary Kendrick Gallery. It was the figure of a beautiful boy, half embedded into the wall. The marble body was twisted with what might have been agony or ecstasy. Critics both radical and reactionary

fracture_childTue 15/01/08 18:44

were quick to praise it as one of the greatest sculptures of all time. It could almost have been alive. Over the years, thousands of people from across the world came to see the masterpiece and to try and decipher the expression on the figure's face. Most agreed that it looked like bliss.

By Damian Whittle