From the glazed roof terrace, Cara gazes out over the picture-perfect, pristine white sands of Porthmeor Beach. A turquoise sea extends to the far horizon. At high altitude, powering its way to America, a jet plane draws a white trail across a cloudless blue sky. Summer months are not far away and a strengthening sun beats down upon the pretty town of St Ives, alive with half-term visitors.
Cara closes her eyes and stretches out her legs. Bliss! A rare day off. Her parents offered to entertain the children and Sheila was only too eager to jump at the chance of running the gallery in her absence.
‘One mochachino and one latte,’ says the waitress, placing two mugs on the table.
‘Thank you,’ Cara says, opening her eyes.
‘Do you want sugar?’ asks Johnny across the table. At the shake of her head, he adds, ‘Sweet enough.’
She laughs and sits up. ‘Sweet and sour, I’d say!’
He smiles. ‘Black and white, yin and yang; there’s always got to be a balance. But from where I’m sitting I’ll stick to my first thought.’
‘Too kind,’ she says, sipping her latte.
It’s been an enjoyable morning spent in Johnny’s easy company, and his appreciation of art has added another dimension to their visit to Tate St Ives. It’s nice discussing art with someone who doesn’t make her feel inferior. She knows it’s not Greg’s fault – he is so far ahead of her in that area – but, nevertheless, it’s a relief not to always have to second-guess how her observations will be received. She watches a family set up on the beach below, their brightly coloured picnic rug adding to a view already stunning in its colour palette. A shiver of excitement courses through her. This is why she paints. She is totally caught up in it, drinking in the atmosphere and absorbing it into her bones. As the view hits Cara at a cellular level, her fingers itch to get started on the next canvas.
‘I had no idea Virginia Woolf spent a lot of her childhood in St Ives,’ says Johnny, scanning a leaflet about the exhibition they’ve just enjoyed.
Led by the author’s writing, the gallery is showing works of over eighty artists, exploring feminist perspectives on landscape, domesticity and identity in modern and contemporary art.
‘I particularly liked the Laura Knight and Winifred Nicholson works,’ Johnny continues. ‘So many creatives are drawn to the area. Is that why you base yourself in Cornwall?’
‘Yes and no. My father is a wildlife photographer and was drawn to the region early on in his life. So the story goes, my mother came to Cornwall for a party and forgot to leave! I was lucky enough to be born in St Ives.’
‘So there was no getting away from it – you had to be an artist!’ Johnny says.
‘It was written in the stars.’ Cara smiles.
Johnny glances around the busy café. ‘It’s great you have this important art gallery here. I bet it brings in a fair amount of money to the town.’ He scans the leaflet again. ‘Yes, it does! A quarter of a million visitors bring eleven million pounds annually to the local economy.’
‘A good swelling to the coffers,’ Cara says, finishing her latte. She places the mug on the table. ‘Tate St Ives has recently been transformed. It took about four years from start to finish and now there’s double the space for showing art. For the first time, the gallery can provide a permanent presence to iconic twentieth-century artists who lived and worked in the town, demonstrating the role of St Ives in the story of modern art.’
Johnny gazes at her for a long moment. ‘You’re very knowledgeable, Cara.’
Hmm… Greg wouldn’t think so.
‘I like to take an interest in what’s happening in the arts, especially on my home turf.’
‘The sign of a true artist,’ Johnny says, ‘not just someone chasing fame and fortune.’
‘Goodness no,’ exclaims Cara. ‘In fact, I’ll let you into a little secret, if you promise not to tell.’
‘My lips are sealed,’ Johnny says, running his fingers across his mouth.
‘I’m dreading this forthcoming solo show. I feel out of my depth… totally.’ There, she’s said it. The cat’s out of the bag.
‘But why?’
‘Because the Kaplans are so glamorous and they know all the right people.’ She glances at him. ‘Which I suppose is a good thing,’ she adds, unconvinced. She can hear Greg telling her she must up her game and present herself carefully to these people and their contacts, ensuring she leave only a positive impression.
‘Cara, you’re crazy!’ says Johnny. ‘Your paintings are fantastic! The Kaplans know a thing or two when it comes to art. People “in the know” look to their New York gallery for setting the trend. The fact you’ve been offered a solo show at the opening of their latest gallery is huge!’
Cara gives a nervous smile. ‘It’s all Greg’s doing,’ she says, biting her lip. ‘He knows them personally. I’m sure he had to persuade them to take a risk.’
Johnny contemplates the talented, naturally beautiful woman sitting opposite him. Completely untainted, she has no idea of the emotions she inspires in others.
‘I know Latimer-Jones is well regarded in his area of expertise,’ Johnny says. ‘I’ve read his articles and he is an accomplished critic, but the Kaplans aren’t swayed by the opinion of others. They make up their own minds. That’s why they have such a following. Once they back you as an artist you’re made.’
Cara considers his words. ‘Oh, well,’ she sighs, still feeling unsure. ‘First night nerves will soon be over.’
Johnny smiles sympathetically. Changing the subject, he says, ‘When I’m next in London, I want to visit the Tate Modern. Isn’t it one of the largest museums of modern and contemporary art in the world?’
‘Yes.’ Cara puts aside her concerns. ‘You must visit. It holds not only the national collection of British art from nineteen hundred to the present day, but also international modern and contemporary art.’ She gazes at the young man sitting across the table from her: intelligent, full of enthusiasm, and at the start of a year’s travelling to wherever fate may take him. ‘When do you plan to leave for Europe?’
‘I thought I’d go to London for your exhibition, spend a few days sightseeing and then hook up with my buddy in Paris.’
Cara smiles. ‘Please come to the opening night. It will be such a relief to see a friendly face amongst all the inevitable highfalutin art connoisseurs.’
Johnny laughs.
She glances at her watch. ‘We’ve still got time to visit the Barbara Hepworth Museum and Sculpture Garden, and then I’ll show you the little cottage where I was born.’