PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION

 

The publication of my first book, Soho in the Dark, left me with a great feeling of pride. Stuart, my publisher, had done a superb job in putting together the package, and the cover by my friend, Louis Loizou looked great, as did the photos inside by Paul Donnellon.

 

I was generally happy with the quality of the shorter stories too, especially The Connoisseur, Undying Talent and The Forgetting, although I had left a few typos and minor errors even in those. As I continued to scan through the newly-published book, I felt compelled to put those right for the next edition. But when I finally started to look at The Succubus again, I was horrified.

 

I had learned a lot from all the work I’d put into that story, and the benefits have worked their way into all the stories that followed. The Succubus was my first attempt at writing, other than in my day job as an advertising copywriter, and for the comic book industry. But there’s no comparison. Writing the Ring of Roses graphic novel and James Bond comic book series were a breeze compared to long-form fiction.

 

Plotting was not a problem, and neither was character development. It was the actual writing itself. For years I struggled to knock The Succubus into shape. There are many versions of it. I thought the version included in this collection of stories was fine. I was wrong. On analysing it I felt as if I’d left my best buddy on the battlefield to die. This body was in bad need of surgery.

 

I have now spent many days reading through it again, making huge edits, adding new dialogue, new narrative, taking out sections that didn’t make sense. It is now in much better shape. That is why I have asked my publisher to put out a new edition immediately, which he has very generously agreed to do. That is what you now hold in your hand.

 

INTRODUCTION

 

Soho was once a seething hotbed of creativity. Between the seedy sex shops and massage parlours, ad agencies rubbed shoulders with production companies, recording studios, illustration studios, editing suites, and publishing houses. And after working hours, the bars and bistros were full to gunwales with creative types and celebrities from the world of showbiz. It was clearly the place to be seen.

 

Sadly, London’s exciting, dynamic, sizzling quarter that the media world generated in abundance in a once hard-edged Soho (and Fitzrovia) has gone forever. The advertising industry has shrunk, shrivelled and dispersed. The film companies, production studios and facilities houses have gone the same way. All that’s left are the ghosts of a once-thriving, unique and tightly-wound community of creatives on a mission. These stories are inspired by that loss.

 

 

 

PREFACE

 

The first story in Soho in the Dark takes place in LA. But the essence of Soho is totally imbued in the main character, Jason Watts, who appears in many of these stories. Jason is inspired by a phenomenally talented and eccentric individual I knew, who worked in Soho for years, absorbing its influences, drinking in its unique bars, and dining its various eateries, from the down-and-dirty cafes to the pretentious and over-priced restaurants.

 

I’ve tried to convey the spirit of Soho as a thriving media capital, between the early 1980s, through to the late 1990s. This is the Soho I worked in for most of my career in advertising and film. It’s where I met many friends, colleagues, and one or two enemies.

 

Soho as media-land was an ideal, as much as it was a place and a point in time. It belonged to the people who were a part of it, to what they represented and their tastes and their lifestyles.

 

In this collection the spirit of Soho looms over every tale – even the ones set in other locations. It’s where all the main protagonists forged their unique creative skills, as well as their inspiration and personality which they carry with them, wherever they go.

 

 

 

THE CONNOISSEUR

 

Some things that should be obvious are so terrifying; you don’t want to let yourself know them.

 

 

Jason Watts was an artist’s artist. A genius. He owed nothing to the modern system of education, which he considered to be corrupt, pretentious and totally lacking in substance. In an era where modernist subversion and token sensationalism were the norm, Jason could draw beautifully rendered, anatomically perfect, classically inspired figures with stunningly, free-flowing finesse. It was easy to conclude he was born at least a century too late.

A highly-respected figurative artist who taught him in his first year at college declared, “At the age of nineteen he can draw the human figure from his head better than I can from life!”

Even in his early teens he was driven by an obsessive nature, and from that time he spent years in an intense study of such dusty old tomes as Constructive Anatomy by George Bridgeman, Anatomy for Artists by Eugene Wolf, and The Practice of Painting and Drawing by Solomon J Solomon. These artist-authors were the last in their line. They understood what (for them) was the dreadful truth - Modernism was an unstoppable force that would soon suffocate traditional art, wiping out all the well-established Classical values and replacing them by a kind of anarchy. By writing down the long-established methods of their craft they hoped to preserve them, in the same way that the monks of the Pachomian monastery in Upper Egypt buried the sacred scrolls of the Nag Hammadi library after the draconian proclamation by Bishop Athanasius in 367 A.D. banning all non-canonical works.

Those (now-apocryphal) texts on the craft of drawing and painting were not written in vain because they succeeded in passing the baton. Through their teaching Jason Watts mastered the methods of long-dead Academicians, acquiring a detailed knowledge of human anatomy and perspective, and an encyclopaedic knowledge of traditional painting techniques, including scumbling, glazing and the application of mid-tones, half-tones, washes and highlights. Every specialism he needed to create the kind of art he had always loved – beautiful, figurative, romantic painting – was part of his armoury, and he put these weapons to good use. His pictures were astonishing for their sophisticated technique and flourishes of bold embellishment. On seeing his work people were nearly always shocked to discover that, not only was the artist very much alive, but he was also only in his twenties.

Despite the accolades of the discerning few, Jason achieved very little success in the London galleries. He quickly discovered it was impossible to make an impression as a traditional, figurative, romantic painter in an art world hostile to those qualities. Subverting the long-entrenched principles of the Modern art world was like trying to bring down Everest with a chisel. Things had moved too far along the path of a politicized culture driven by aesthetic theory, and supported by a kind of post-rationalism – leading to a preference for ‘The Shock of the New’.

He kept up the good fight for a while, but in the end, he had to eat, so he wound up entering the commercial art and graphics field, where everybody he worked with understood and embraced his genius totally. Over the next few years he created slickly rendered visuals and beautiful storyboards for ads, building up a phenomenal reputation in the process. Through that he came to the attention of the animation film industry. From there it wasn’t long before he landed a three-year contract as a concept artist in Hollywood.

 

Leaving England to work abroad was not something he had ever geared himself up for – but the offer was too good to turn down. Life in Southern California was wonderful. But he and Rebecca had a habit of spending money like it was covered in lice. For a while, things were going incredibly well. He helped design two major features and created designs for several other productions. But when the time came for his lucrative contract to be renewed, it wasn’t. So that was that. He didn’t see that coming at all. It might not have been such a surprise if he’d stopped to remember how he always failed to sensor his personal views in conversation with colleagues, and even his superiors. Although he liked them all, he generally had a very low opinion of their talents. Jason never meant to upset. He was just honest. He always felt that he had full license to express himself as he pleased, for the simple reason that his astonishing talent was irreplaceable. But he was wrong, and like his great hero Michelangelo, who suffered from a similar talent for rubbing people up the wrong way, he missed out on the proper financial rewards his abilities deserved.

 

As if losing his job wasn’t bad enough, his former employers took things to another level. They let it be known to just about every other studio that Jason Watts was more trouble than even his considerable abilities were worth. That became obvious when he started making enquiries around the different film companies to say he was available. Nearly all those approaches were cut short as soon as he mentioned his name. The two job interviews he did somehow manage to arrange were distinctly uncomfortable, because in both cases he found himself on the receiving end of cold, unsympathetic stares.

Soon it became clear, even to his limited sensitivities about such matters, that he had been blackballed. He felt shocked, humiliated and badly let down. It was so unfair. Who else could have done such original and masterful designs on those two films he’d worked on? Felix Beerbohm and Terry Swift, his art directors, were just jealous, that’s all. Average talents joining together to defeat him, like ants swarming a cockroach. But there was no time to dwell on that now, not with his bank account being so dangerously low. There was no choice. He and Rebecca would have to give up their beautiful, spacious, home (with swimming pool, huge garden, and A-list neighbours) and acquire something more affordable. Rebecca was distraught, and was often seen about the house, in one corner or another, in tears. Nevertheless, Jason had to steel himself to do what was necessary, and within a couple of months, they had moved into a medium size, shabby, semi-detached house in La Crescenta, on the outer edge of Glendale. That bought them a little more time, but even then, it wasn’t too long before they were struggling with bills again. Soon the only money they had left was barely enough for the price of their airline tickets home. They were now seriously considering throwing in the towel.

 

It was about that time when Stan Freeman rang Jason up. Stan was probably the most talented of all the artists still working at the studio. He was a big, burly, bearded Texan, who had been awe-struck by Jason’s work from day one. He said he had a possible nugget to throw Jason’s way, but he needed to explain a couple of things first. Jason immediately felt there was a catch, but they met up that night anyway at a smart bar in Melrose.

“So still no luck with the studios then?” asked Stan.

Jason pursed his lips and shook his head.

Stan nodded sympathetically. “Ok… well, you might find this interesting. Back before I got into the movies I used to have an illustration agent. Nice guy, but a bit of an asshole, if you get my drift. So, this guy, Greg, he rings me up yesterday with a job. Well, you know… it would’ve been great if I wasn’t so snowed under. But, I got to thinking, it could be so perfect for my good friend Jason Watts.”

Jason picked up his glass, took a sip, put it down, and wiped off the foam moustache with his sleeve. “Sounds interesting.”

Stan wiped his lips and ignored the comment. “It don’t pay the kind of money you’re used to. But it’s not too bad.”

“Pff. I can’t be too fussy at the moment. Work is work”

“Damn straight, Jas. And it’s not just an itty-bitty illustration. It’s a goddam mural. I mean, we’re talking large, fuck-off panels, they want painted in the classical-style. And wait till you hear the subject matter: stories from ancient Egypt, Rome, Greece – all that shit. Maybe nine or ten paintings – I can’t remember exactly. This is a job you were born for.”

Jason couldn’t help feeling there was a catch. “Is it outdoor?”

“No. It’s up in Gladstone Pines. Place called the Wynand Centre – sort of gallery and arts education centre for the local community. Not even a half hour from here.”

“Could be good.”

“I reckon.”

Jason did his best, but he couldn’t help looking glum. It was hard not to be like that after all the disappointment he’d been through since leaving the studio. Stan leaned forward and gave Jason a pat on the shoulder. Not knowing his own strength, it gave Jason a jolt.

“Hey man,” he said. “Relax. There ain’t nothing to worry about. Way I see it, you go and talk to the guy over at The Wynand and you’ll be sitting pretty - guaranteed. You just need to hear what the fellow has to say. Remember, the devil is always in the detail.”

 

The next morning, after a sleepless night, Jason plucked up the courage to call the number Stan had written down for him on the stained napkin. The phone rang for quite a while before it was answered by a secretary, who seemed friendly enough. She seemed jovial and worldly wise, and was probably a grandmother. She checked through her diary and fixed up a meeting for Jason with Greg. That Friday Jason was sitting on a sofa in Greg’s ninth-floor offices in Studio City. To cut to the quick, Greg joined him on an adjacent armchair and was knocked out by Jason’s work samples, which he went through on the glass coffee table. He said that the work was perfect for the job spec at Wynand. But he did say that Howard, the guy who was in charge of the commission, was a tough, no-nonsense fellow – although his bark was worse than his bite.

Howard Donnellon, the administrator of the Wynand Centre, had made his way up the pyramid through hard work, a no-nonsense attitude to life, a tough hide, and a strong, natural business sense. His father was a tailor in the garment industry. As a schoolboy, he made extra money working at a grocery store. Leaving school without qualifications he began selling radio aerials for cars and other electrical goods out of a truck he purchased from a neighbour. He eventually founded a general import/export wholesale company. In just a few years he had set up his first venture, manufacturing cheap sound systems using clever techniques to achieve lower production costs to undercut the competition. Manufacturing capacity was soon expanded and he became a millionaire by his mid-twenties. Despite his lack of formal education, by his mid-thirties he had developed a very personal taste in figurative art that began to occupy him more and more. Through it he built up an impressive, if eclectic, art collection over the years, which included pieces by the French Impressionists as well as a few lesser-known works by John Singer Sargent, Édouard Manet, Joseph Sickert, Bernard Fuchs, Dean Cornwell and others. Eventually he indulged himself further in this diversion by founding the Wynand Centre.

The place didn’t particularly stand out as an architectural masterpiece, being a pretty standard piece of stunted, block-like, 1980s California architecture, with a very plain white frontage. Jason drove just past it, parked up round the back and then walked around to the front entrance. Inside the small lobby a girl receptionist, who was far too young to wear glasses attached to a neck cord strap, dropped her pen as soon as he announced himself. Recovering, she stood up beaming and leaned over her desk holding out her hand. “Vanessa Hutchinson, Mr Donnellon’s personal assistant.’

“Jason Watts.”

Pleasure to meet you Jason. Would you follow me please?”

They passed through two sets of glass swing doors into a modestly sized exhibition hall, with a smooth wooden floor, pristine white walls, oak panelled up to about shoulder height. A narrow, arched skylight ran the full length of the ceiling. Jason immediately knew that this would be a really great space to create a mural.

At the far end, she led him through a wooden door into a small stuffy office.

“Please take a seat,” she said. “Mr Donnellon will be along shortly.”

She left the room with a friendly smile, closing the door behind her.

The room was poorly lit and slightly airless. He settled onto a 1970s, fabric-backed office chair. Between him and an oak swivel chair opposite was a large mahogany desk, with an ancient computer, four neat piles of paper, and an ink blotter next to an antique King James Bible. The window to his right had the blinds slightly open, creating striped shadows on a snarling fox’s head, which was mounted to a small wooden plaque on the wall to his left. Behind the empty chair was an oak bookshelf crammed with antique hardbacks. He could make out a few of the titles from the spines, such as Darkness Visible, Lucifer and Ahriman, The Ontological Proof of the Devil, and Paradise Lost.

A gruesome but impressively executed engraving hung on the wall to his left, clearly a scene from Dante’s Inferno, and probably by Gustave Doré. But he was unfamiliar with this image. He got up to get a better look at it. Some small type below the image revealed the title: Dante and Virgil Encountering Lucifer, from Canto XXXIV of Dante’s Inferno. It also explained that the engraving was by Cornelis Galle the Elder, after a drawing by Lodovico Cardi (both unfamiliar to him). Jason looked closer at the gigantic, leering, wide-eyed Devil, with three hideous faces, encased in ice, right up to his chest and gigantic bat-like wings spread out behind him. Staring madly, he ravenously devours three naked human beings, as if they were chocolate bars, and on the ice in front of him are the tiny, tiny figures of Virgil and Dante.

Jason considered how odd it was that people of extraordinary business acumen, with all their logic and hard-nosed pragmatism, were often suckers for this kind of fire-and-brimstone, superstitious mumbo jumbo.

His cousin, Rita was a typical example of that. She was an incredibly smart and very successful lawyer, ruthless in her business dealings. But she would spend thousands on things like palmistry, mediums and astrologers.

Just then a deep, gravelly voice broke his concentration.

“Ah! Jason Watts?”

Jason turned to see a fifty-ish man with military moustache, and slicked back, slightly greying hair. He walked over from the door to take Jason’s hand with an extraordinarily firm grip.

“Howard Donnellon. Pleased to have you on board.”

Howard gestured for Jason to take the chair he had been sitting in before, and walked around to the large chair on the other side of the desk.

“Excuse my timing,’ he said. “Meeting at my corporate HQ, over-ran. Had to drive back like a maniac from Orange County. Mind you, my wife says I always drive that way.”

He sat down and then nudged his chair forward in a series of bumps. Satisfied with his perfect positioning, he moved a few papers around on the desk, and then rested his arms on it, and looked at Jason for what seemed an unbearably long time. Jason did his best not to look pensive. Finally, he spoke.

“Well Jason, soon as I saw those pictures of your work your agent sent over, I gotta tell you…” he held out his hands with raised palms, like a statue of a saint, “They blew my mind. Couldn’t help thinking of all those Renaissance greats – you know who I mean: Titian, Michelangelo, Raphael and so on.”

Jason coughed in embarrassment. “Well, uh… thank you. It’s a great honour to be associated with...”

“No really.”

There followed another long silence, as HD tugged at his moustache, still looking challengingly at Jason

Jason tried to retain his humility as best he could, much as he loved compliments. His thin moustache curved down in a thin dark line to a small beard that grew below his jaw, and just hugged the upward curve of his chin. It added poise, refinement and a sense of the dandy. Vincent Price would spring to mind, but he had cultivated it in honour of Velázquez. His small nose and calm intensity in his stare added to the look. His mouth was closed, thin and relaxed.

Howard gave up trying to analyse the expression. He decided to pick up where he left off.

“It’s good to know that there are still people around that have the ability to create beautiful art. I can’t tell you what a relief that is. Too much junk is being held up as art these days. When we look around we can see it clear as day - civilisation is becoming debased, culture distorted, roles inverted, standards eliminated, materialism and greed celebrated, and the moral tone is close to debauchery.”

Jason was a bit shell-shocked by this barrage, having arrived there expecting to be quizzed about his suitability, education, qualifications and so on. He was not ready for Donnellon’s personal view of the decaying values of artistic taste in the modern world, although he did his level best to hide his discomfort. Jason had his own views about all that, and he wasn’t interested to hear anyone else’s. Luckily, Howard was not known for his ability to empathise, so there was no danger of him picking up on Jason’s disinterest.

“In the final analysis,” he continued, “when a people can no longer distinguish truth and beauty from falsehood and ugliness, they are ripe for all manner of deception, oppression and enslavement.’

He took a large cigar out of a drawer and lit up from a desk lighter, taking in a deep puff before continuing. Savouring the moment, he closed his eyes, exhaled, smiled and continued.

“Tastes today are dictated by cultural vandals. And it’s no accident. Not at all. It is my belief that this decay of our civilised values has been meticulously planned.”

Jason coughed nervously. “By who?”

Howard answered his question in a roundabout way.

“That picture you were looking at over there,” HD pointed towards it with his chin. “Fantastic piece of work, don’t you think?”

“Uh, yeah. I guess it is. At first I thought it was by Dore, but it’s not.”

Howard continued, oblivious to Jason’s last remark. “What it shows is the devil, let’s not beat around the bush. Is that an accurate representation of him – or is it just a visual metaphor for what he represents? That stupid idea they ram down our throats of a red guy with the little horns, tail, pitchfork, you know; fire and brimstone - that we all grew up as the standard version of the devil… paaah! Who knows what he really looks like?”

Jason wasn’t sure if he was supposed to say anything, but Howard freed him from that necessity.

“One thing’s for sure, he wouldn’t stand out in a crowd, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to do what he’s been doing. We’d know it was him. Think about that for a moment.”

Jason was starting to feel nervous. Was he actually implying that the devil exists? It certainly seemed that way. Was he an obsessive, or just a crank?

“He’s elevating and exalting public lewdness and vulgar anti-social behaviour to a place of respect,” Howard continued, “while vulgarising and lowering every higher moral value for the sake of convenience and personal gain.”

Jason didn’t have the courage to express an honest opinion. “Right.”

“The way he’s worked it, the sacred becomes a punch line. The sordid becomes a sacrament. The minister is a monster, but the sex worker has a heart of gold. He – I’m talking Satan, Lucifer, the devil, he’s the one who profits from this celebration of self-contamination.”

Jason was starting to wish he could wriggle out of this job, but he reminded himself of the money.

“Most people don’t believe in his existence – the devil, I mean. That’s fine. You may do, you may not. Me, I observe his influence everywhere.”

Jason tried to look convinced.

“He’s screwing around with our understanding of the world. Everything we see and feel has become warped and twisted: our loves, our freedom, everything. Especially our appreciation of all that is good, including the appreciation of beauty that we’re all born with. Do you like what passes as art today? Huh? Huh?”

“Uh… not particularly.”

Jason felt a bit cornered, but he wasn’t being dishonest in his answer. He hated most modern art in galleries and museums. But he couldn’t see why you had to attribute that to the devil, or any other supernatural entity. It was random. Maybe it was down to failures in the education system, or even the impact of mass production and consumerism, and the faster pace of life. People don’t have the time to think clearly and weigh things up in their heads.

“Come on, Jason. Be a bit more committed,” said Howard. “These are important issues. Soon we’ll all be living in a delusional fantasy world, where the devil and the dark elite who are nurturing his schemes, those ‘intellectuals’ who are supposedly smarter and more objective than the rest of us, rule from on high, with scientific precision and wisdom – dictating what reason is, what morality is, what beauty is. We have to call time on all that. And you’re going to help us.”

That really did put Jason on the spot. He couldn’t help crossing his legs, interlocking his fingers around his knee, swinging his raised foot, and tensing up. Was he going to have to be a part of some kind of religious ritual, or exorcism, or something?

Howard’s cigar had gone out. He lit up again and carried on where he left off, using his cigar as a gesticulating tool.

“It’s my belief, Jason, that every time something truly beautiful is created in this world, the devil suffers a little defeat.”

Jason raised an eyebrow.

“We want you to create something wonderful, an unquestionable masterpiece – a stunning mural that will glorify the magnificence of all that is great in the civilisation we inherited – and are in danger of losing.”

Jason cleared his throat and said, “Well uh, it’ll be an honour, sir. I’ll certainly do my best.”

“I’m sure you will, my boy. I’m sure you will.”