A Connoisseur of Beauty by Daphne Coleridge Page A

think I had a point to prove,” said Hunter thoughtfully. “I suppose that I thought that I had to show that I could make my love of art – my love of beauty – into a financial success. But I've made my point and now I want to be a bit more creative. Perhaps I'll look for the art that speaks to me personally , rather than works I think will be popular or attract attention or cause controversy. I suppose my criteria before was picking things that would make the business successful rather than those I thought had value in themselves, even if they wouldn't be a popular success. I will find it an interesting experiment. But tell me, what have you been working on in your studio?”
    “I suppose I have been experimenting a bit and painting what I love – but James has been nagging me because he thinks I don't pay enough attention to building up a profile as an artist. I certainly don't have your business acumen.”
    “But you have integrity, Amy, you do what you believe in and what you love,” said Hunter, his cool grey eyes showing sudden warmth as he looked at her.
    “Artistic integrity is important, but everyone has bills to pay. I guess it's a case of each person finding the right balance for themselves.”
    “You mean you don't want to starve in a garret?” said Hunter with a smile.
    “Not if I can help it,” replied Amy.
    “Well, I'd like to come back to your studio and take a look around if I may? You made it sound much nicer than a garret!”
    “Of course, but James will probably want to show you all his work too. He's all right, though – just a bit enthusiastic,”
    “I reserve the right to be jealous of him – he gets to see more of you than I do.”
    “You're not missing much,” Amy reassured him. “We mostly ignore each other when we are working, and the only things we share are tubes of paint when one of us runs out of a particular colour.”
    They chatted a little more on the subject of painti ng before tidying up the plates and shoving them back in Hunter's bag. Then they walked along, commenting on the people and the sights they saw, as relaxed as they had ever been in each other's company. Back at the studio Amy was relieved to find that James was out. She showed Hunter the painting on her easel of the roses, but there was no stopping him going through all her canvases.
    “I like the atmosphere in here,” he commented. “It's a mixture of mess and creativity – creation emerging out of chaos...”
    “The atmosphere is mostly turpentine fumes,” retorted Amy. “And more than two-thirds of the mess belongs to James.”
    “Well, it makes me want to try my hand at painting – do you know, I've never so much as picked up a paint brush. I'm too frightened of finding out that I’m no good myself, even though I can appreciate the works of others.”
    “You can do no harm by trying,” said Amy. “I can give you a blank canvas and a brush.”
    “I'm not brave enough today: but one d ay...what's in this lot here?” He had reached the pile where Amy had hidden his portrait. Before she had a chance to stop him, he had flicked through and pulled it out. “You put this one in with the paint still wet – let's take a look.” He placed the painting on an empty easel and stared at it silently for a space of time that seemed to Amy to go on forever. She felt awkward and anxious, yet still wanted to hear what he thought of the portrait. Finally he spoke. “You've not painted the successful business man; you've painted the man who knows that he really wants something else. How is it that you could see that side of me when I could hardly see it in myself? You've taken what is inside and put it on the outside. Do you know that I've never allowed anyone to paint a portrait of me because I thought that I would hate what I saw. But this I like – although I'm not sure I want anyone else to see it. It almost reveals too much of me. Can I buy it?”
    “No,” said Amy so quickly that it sounded