The Last Samurai

The painter had had a studio in an old warehouse on Butler’s Wharf across from Tower Bridge. Then the site was redeveloped—this was before he had started making millions of pounds out of the death of colour. So he had moved to an old factory off the Commercial Road, and he had found the bathtub in a skip and had taken it there and plumbed it in himself. Then the property market fell through just as Let Brown = Red came out, and by the time of Let Blue = Blue repossessions were falling thick and fast. So now the painter was able to buy a whole warehouse off Brick Lane which a developer had been planning to develop. This was where the painter went when he came to London, although most of the time he lived in New York. Sometimes he flew to South Africa or Polynesia, but it never seemed to help.

I had read that he was back in London for a retrospective of his work at the Whitechapel Art Gallery.

I took the Circle Line to Liverpool Street and ascended to the street.

First I went to the exhibition to be on the safe side. It was one with an entry fee—that was how big he was, and that was how fast things were in the art world. He had been exciting and promising at St. Martin’s and in his early twenties, but if he had not done Let Brown = Red when he was 27 he would now have been disappointing and forgotten, and because he had they were already doing a retrospective and comparing him to Yves Klein.

After I had seen the exhibition I went up to the desk and I said: Where’s Mr. Watkins?

The girl behind the desk smiled at me.

She said: I don’t think he’s here. He came for the opening of course but he doesn’t come every day.

I said: But I’ve got a message for him from Mr. Kramer. I thought he’d be here, I’ve been looking for him everywhere. Do you know where I can find him?

She said: If you want to leave it with me I can see that he gets it.

I said: But it’s urgent. Mr. Kramer told me to put it in his hands. Isn’t his studio just up the street?

She said: I’m not sure I can give you that information.

I said: Well, call Mr. Kramer’s office and I’ll get it from them.

She dialled the number, and it was busy. She tried a few more times, and it was busy. Some people came up to ask her for help. She helped them and dialled the number and it was busy.

I said: Look, I know you’re just doing your job. But what’s the worst that can happen? On the one hand, Mr. Kramer sent me, and Mr. Watkins loses a million-dollar deal. Or he didn’t send me, and Mr. Watkins gets a strange kid asking him for an autograph. I mean, is that so terrible? Is it a million dollars terrible?

She laughed.

You’re terrible, she said.

She wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to me.

All right, she said. You can tell me the truth now. Did Mr. Kramer send you?

I said: Of course he sent me.

I pulled an envelope out of my pocket.

See? So I’d better get going.

She said: No, wait, and she handed me another piece of paper.

I ran out the door.

The factory had a big rusting double gate, big enough for lorries to get through, and a little door cut into one gate. It was locked. I rang the bell a couple of times and I banged on the gate, but no one came.

I went up to the side street and turned right, and then I turned right again on the street behind. This had also been bought by a developer and now a wooden fence closed off a row of terrace houses. The name of a security firm was on the fence, but there were gaps in the wood where boards had been torn away; and bushes growing through the gaps. I slipped through. There was a hole where a house had been, and the houses to either side were propped with metal scaffolding. I climbed through to the back. There was the back wall of the factory with glass at the top.

There was an old apple tree at the back of what had been a garden. I climbed up until I could look over the wall.

I was looking down on a concrete-paved yard, with dandelions and grass growing in the cracks. At the back of the warehouse was a metal fire escape, and a lot of broken windows.

The ground on the other side of the wall was at a lower level than on this side—there was probably a 20-foot drop from the top of the wall. But the wall was of very old bricks, and a lot of the mortar had come out.

I worked my way out the branch until it was dipping down on the other side of the wall, and I swung down to hang by my arms and tried to find a toehold in the wall. I found something for one foot, then the other, and then I found holds for my fingers. I worked my way down, going from brick to brick. Then I went over to the building.

Getting in wasn’t so hard. I went up a drain pipe to the fire escape, then went up a flight of stairs and in a broken window.

I was beginning to wonder if I was in the right place. Maybe the girl at the Whitechapel had tricked me after all. I was in a room with a concrete floor, and piles of rubble in the corner. I went from room to room, and all were the same.