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Butler Art Restoration. This is Lori, how may I help you?

sallie from... Yeah. Hi. Hi.

Yeah. Long, long time.

Yes. What's up?

Okay. What kind of work?

Yes, I can't do right now...

but I could do this afternoon.

Yeah, there's a pub near where I live.

Shall I send you the address?

Okay. All right.

- I'm so sorry. - That's all right.

- How may I help you? - Yes.

Can I have Red Lantern's noodles, please?

Yep. Red Lantern noodles.

Look, it's eight unfinished canvases.

- Would've been nine. - Fuck off, Barnaby.

should have been nine.

Ask her why there aren't nine.

Seriously, Barney, fuck you.

She tried to do one herself.

- Whatever. - She nicked one. Hang on.

It's actually why we're not allowed around there.

- I took a photo. - Barnaby.

Whatever, it's on here. 3 million pound dump she took.

They weren't worth fuck all.

Yet.

Look, there were a series of barely finished canvases...

with Polaroids stuck on. They were nothing.

Of which "nothings," we have eight...

from Dad's only remaining good period, which he abandoned.

And these are the third series of Christophers?

The point is, he's not going to be here much longer...

and if when he passes...

they go through his third floor storage...

which he doesn't open and never will...

and they happen to find that he's finished...

a previously undiscovered series...

All the original brushes. All the original paints.

On original canvases, that literally, if someone checked...

contain molecular traces of his DNA.

They can actually do that.

I'm aware.

So?

You said this was a restoration job.

- It is. - It's a forgery job.

- What? No. No, no. God no, no. - No!

All we we're trying to get you to do is merely complete them.

By forging them.

By forging through them until they're completed.

Look, really, Lori though, does it even matter?

What are you talking about? Of course it matters.

Yeah, does it though? Actually?

I mean, Dad has his assistants complete his paintings all the time.

Yes, but these he's hardly even started.

How do you know he didn't already have them...

all mapped out in his head, Lori?

Two months ago, a piece from Dad's first set...

of Christophers sold at a Russian auction...

for 3 million plus. A piece from the second set, 3.5 in China.

His style, as I'm sure you found out...

is unique and quite hard to replicate.

- You can though. - I don't know about that.

Central Saint Martins. Week one. Our very first assignment.

"Come up with a series of works in the style of the artist...

who inspired you the most."

I saw it, Lori, with my own eyes.

Ah, yes. That was a very long time ago though.

And since then, well, you know...

you've seen what I've said about him.

Didn't you guys meet once?

Am I remembering that rightly back when we were at college?

We know why you hate him is the point.

Think of this as a way to get revenge.

Just do the numbers, Lori.

Everybody knows what one original Julian Sklar...

from that period is worth.

Other door.

Hello?

Fragile and timeless.

Let's go with soft lights.

A bamboo shoot, which has pierced...

Adrian's navel and has...

Oh God, I don't know, sprung a rose, at which you then...

stare, transfixed, and so I say...

happy anniversary.

35 years is too long to sustain a relationship...

as we're all designed to be dead by then...

evolutionarily speaking, so kudos...

to modern science for making generations...

feel like failures at love, except, apparently, you...

Adrian and Linda...

and for that I congratulate you both.

Julian Sklar, signing off.

Hello?

I'm here for the four o'clock?

It's up one more.

Antanas. Is that a name?

And does it even matter as it's unpronounceable...

and does violence to the ear.

So I shall call you Tony.

And for your birthday, Tony...

imagine me drawing you a tiger...

upon which you are gallantly perched...

in your sleeveless Tottenham Hotspur shirt.

Which at 48 you are far too old to be wearing.

And I am Julian Sklar.

And here I am signing off.

Tea, coffee, water?

Oh, thank you.

Water would be great actually, yes.

Well, be a dear, and grab me one as well. Just by the front door.

Jeremy.

Jeremy, you again?

Alisa, Julian Sklar here.

Your mother would like me to tell you not to quit art school.

Seriously though, do.

Those clowns at Camberwell will poison you...

with their Sainsbury's aisles and ideas...

processed, packed in plastic.

The stalest up front so that you buy into those first.

Grow your own, I say. Go organic!

Although I hear that's all rubbish too.

Do you know how much plastic we eat in a week?

A credit card's worth.

It's in the water now. It's hopeless.

So happy birthday, stay in school, blah, blah.

I'm Julian Sklar and here I am as I always am...

signing off.

149 pounds.

249 if I sign.

- Oh water? - Yeah.

Thank you. Never get old.

Oh, I'm sorry.

Oh, Lori Butler.

Never get old, Lori Butler.

Yes, would you sit?

It's been a while since I interviewed an assistant.

So, tell me about yourself.

However, if you are a painter...

I don't want to know about it.

And do dispense with the...

"big fan, you were with me through" whatever drudgery...

your life's journey has taken you.

Heartbreak, blah, blah, grieving. Because we both know...

that's a lie as I've done nothing but shit in 30 years.

Nothing at all in 20.

"You made me want to be an artist." No, my dear.

Your fucked-up childhood made you want to be an artist.

I'm just what you tripped over as you scurried to freedom.

Lori is it?

If you claim to be a fan of that hideous reality show...

Art Fight, you may show yourself out now.

Even the creators of that pandering pig slop weren't fans.

And I realize this makes it challenging to find a compliment...

that doesn't read like obsequiousness.

And for that you have my sympathies.

Because don't get me wrong, I like my flattery.

I just need to believe it.

So for now, I'll take, "I am a woman, and I don't hate you, Julian."

They hate me, the women, even more than the men.

I was bisexual, Lori...

when it actually cost something to say so.

Are you any good with humidifiers?

I'm sorry.

Well, I'm told that I would benefit from the use of a humidifier...

and the infographics...

they burn a shadow on the retina...

arrows into screw holes, into arrows...

into whatever shapes those are.

Would you like some help in assembling your humidifier?

Well, though I hesitate to take you up on your very kind offer...

begrudgingly, thank you.

So, we've established you are not an artist...

and you're not a fan and you may or may not be bisexual.

Oh, which reminds me...

there are recent editions on the Wikipedia...

quotes taken out of context and one in context...

but spoken while inebriated and thus I can't be held accountable.

Ah, but what I said was true...

over 75% of enrollment in the art schools is women.

And my question was simply a question...

why then are women not in 75% percent of museums, Lori?

You did say it was Lori?

On the subject of Lori...

what did they tell you about this job?

- They? - Yes, my offspring.

The dud Barnaby and the harridan Sallie.

Yeah, they said you were hiring an assistant...

to help catalog some of your things so they can be valued...

by the HMRC or something like that.

And they recommended you highly...

which is frankly why I'm a tad suspicious.

I must be reminded not to carry things.

Oh!

That's according to my osteo...

a smallish man named Cyril.

Interesting tidbit about Cyril...

he smells of radishes.

Why?

This isn't about the unfinished Christophers, is it?

If so, you must tell me because I won't paint them.

I can't paint them. And please don't ask.

Please don't even speak of them.

Yeah, I'm sorry. I don't what you're talking about.

Well, my children are obsessed with them...

and I wouldn't have put it past them if this...

had been somehow about that.

Oh, they're not even clever. Those two, they're wrecks.

She, a train wreck, utterly off the rails...

and he a shipwreck sunken and waterlogged.

Blame their mothers, not me. I had nothing to do with them.

I would not be surprised, Lori...

if this was not so that HMRC may, quote...

"assess the value of my estate..."

but so that my children could get intel on whether...

I was truly leaving them nothing.

Ah, she has risen!

My masseuse Esme, who is a gift from the heavens.

- Hi. - Hi.

Where I apparently have been mistaken for someone else.

She's here at the insistence of Cyril the radish...

who says I must be kinder to my joints.

It's all a faff, you know, HMRC adore me.

I haven't paid taxes in a decade...

but they've still got one of my Garbage Twelves...

in their lobby in Parliament Street.

And, alas, here it is.

A life to be summed up. Itemised.

Julian Sklar: The Spreadsheet.

I don't even know what's up there in the room above us.

And the door's been locked for decades.

So, I shan't know even going forward...

should there be any forward left.

Yes. To the great displeasure of the buzzard Barnaby...

and the hyena Sallie...

I have outlived the actuarial prediction of...

even the direst of those foolish enough to insure me.

At one point that had been the goal to live forever.

And I should have liked to have bequeathed...

that task to my art, but...

sadly my art, not unlike my talent...

departed this life long ago when, apparently...

I was not paying attention.

Excellent interview.

I like you, Lori Butler.

What about tomorrow at the crack of noon?

Yeah, great.

What's up?

Yes, 12:00 p.m. tomorrow.

Well, I have no idea. I don't know what it's like up there.

I don't know if they're even there.

Well, I would need the keys for it first, wouldn't I?

When I know.

Sallie, I will call you when I know...

if he even has the paintings.

Jesus.

- You all right? - Hi.

Perhaps it's simply "The Reason My Therapist Chose...

"Early Retirement Number Seven."

And next time, my dear, you have the urge to express yourself...

why don't you nip down to Boots...

and get yourself a pencil and a notebook.

It's a lot cheaper.

What I can't stand about painting...

is you paint from the heart, from the soul...

you give yourself to everything you can.

You pour it onto the canvas...

and then some bloody agent comes along and takes 45%.

Well no more.

Well, they're quite a bargain.

I do believe someone has walked away with...

a potentially 2 million pound...

painting for 1,100 pounds. How do you feel about that?

It would be a bargain at 2 million...

but whatever they pay, I'm happy with. Thank you.

Well, they are all stunning.

Thank you very much.

Of course the question on everyone's lips is...

will the Christophers be making...

an appearance on the pavement today?

The christophers...

No, they're indoors somewhere.

They're private matters. Private affairs.

Other door.

Hello?

Hello?

Hello.

Oh, coming!

Come in.

Do you mind me in my dressing grown?

Actually, I do.

Okay.

Weinstein has ruined the robe for the rest of us.

You needn't have worried.

I can't bear the sight of it open myself.

Even when alone.

Studio. This way.

The locksmith should--

We shall take the scenic route.

Yep, if he can't find a key for what's up there...

he'll have to change out the whole third floor door lock.

I'll get him to make you a copy as well.

But no copies for the kids.

However hard they beg.

Oh, now that was once an entire dinosaur.

Only had room inside for three, as it happened.

A fact that Ringo found out the hard way.

And oh, not the Ringo you are thinking about.

- No, this one was French. - Right.

So, what is other Lori?

Am I allowed to ask if she has a boyfriend?

I mean, no.

No she doesn't?

No, you're not allowed.

Noted.

Why not though?

Well, firstly, we're at work.

Nonsense. It's not like we cease to be ourselves...

simply by crossing some conceptual boundary.

Here I am at work and here I'm at home. Ask away.

At work. Oh, don't you dare.

All yours.

You can't ask me in either place...

because you are my employer, which means you hold the power.

And I should use it to ask if you have a partner.

If you'll explain its relevance.

The relevance is that I'm curious.

And who wouldn't want to bring their life into their work?

Unless, well, right.

Yes, well, never mind. You said that you weren't an artist.

Actually you said that.

Well, I swear that we had that conversation yesterday.

Well, you know there was speaking if that's what you mean.

Well, did I not ask questions?

My children say that I don't ask questions.

And actually by definition...

"did I not ask questions" is a question.

My children are idiots.

I've no problem with questions, Lori.

It's the answers that I can't be bothered with.

Now you remember that I told you that you were never...

- to speak of the Christophers. - Mm-hmm.

Well, apparently I lied. You are to speak of them once...

when you tell me that they are no more.

No more?

The canvases are buried deep in the back of the third floor...

and you are to bring them down here and shred them to bits.

I'm to shred the Christophers?

What? Oh, they're not Christophers.

They are musings on ideas that could have been Christophers.

And you are to obliterate them and destroy the stretchers.

And then bring me the evidence...

because I shan't go near them myself.

Okay.

Would you like me to leave them here when they're shredded?

Yes.

It's not that I don't trust you, Lori.

The box cutter.

It's just that I don't trust you.

Ah, that'll be the locksmith and the facialist...

whom I find to be nothing more than a 90 minute endurance test.

However, Esme demands that I'm kinder to my skin.

So I shall brace myself and go.

Lockbox is sorted.

Spare front door key...

and third floor set to go with the new door lock.

Oh!

I've changed my mind. They shall not be shredded.

Okay. Okay.

They shall be burned.

All right? Yeah, sure. I will sort it.

It is sorted.

We shall do it together. Which is to say you shall do it...

and I shall watch.

It's a bit early for you though, isn't it?

Well, I have been up all night.

And I shan't sleep until they are smoldering ash.

Yes?

I'm curious, what kept you awake?

Cascading memories of wrongs done to me since my childhood.

They came as if from a kinetoscope.

Hmm.

Look it up, it's with a K.

Now to the fire pit. Follow me or I shall burn them myself.

Have you ever been betrayed, Lori?

Oh, I mean hasn't everybody?

Can be quite painful. Can it not?

No matter what the relationship with the betrayer.

And how were you betrayed, Lori?

I once had a partner who left me.

Oh my God. Your generation does whine about everything.

Left me for my other partner.

Oh, be still my beating heart.

Was this a throuple?

It was a consensual relationship between three adults. Yeah.

Oh my, oh my, oh my.

You know, I was once in a throuple...

back when it was merely called infidelity.

No, that-- Nevermind.

Right, you toss them on.

Oh, you seem hesitant.

Yeah, I mean they're Julian Sklars.

Oh, please.

May I ask what's going on?

Oh, the great, "What's going on?" Yes. What's going on?

That is the question of the day, isn't it?

In the fire pit now, please.

Right. And now we need the turpentine and matches.

So crack on, Lori.

First we have a little chat.

Sit. If you would.

And on the subject of what is going on...

Perhaps you would like to tell me exactly why you are here.

I mean... To pay my rent.

And why did you seek and then take this job?

You did tell me not to mention if I was an artist...

or a fan, but I thought maybe I'd learn something...

by being in your vicinity.

Really?

Learn what exactly?

Perhaps "how a man...

"once a paradigm of progressive politics...

"could morph into the apotheosis of everything...

"that is currently wrong...

"with everything artistically and economically?"

Or how a "bloated ego in yesterday's beret..."

could "squat on property unaffordable...

"and hence uninhabitable for generations to come..."

whose "only outrage at so-called 'cancel culture' came...

"once he had been justifiably canceled himself."

"Justifiably," says his future assistant...

on January the 3rd, 2022.

And she goes on. "Bloviating..."

she says, "in the voice of the very thing, not just his work...

"but his entire being so vociferously railed against during...

"his once impressive ascension..."

which preceded the "artistic immolation..."

"and subsequent "crash and burn..."

into the "soulless junk heap of irrelevance..."

reserved for those who have "exploded our culture...

"and imploded their legacy."

"And will his work even last?

"Or will it go the way of the lava lamp and the leisure suit?

"And if it doesn't, shouldn't it?"

Not even "should it."

"Shouldn't it."

Never underestimate the internet prowess of a man...

who has spent decades googling himself.

So, why are you here?

I was hired by Barnaby and Sallie...

to complete the unfinished Christophers.

- Really? - Yeah.

Why?

So they could have something from you. I guess, when you die.

- You mean to sell? - Yeah.

Just to sell?

So the idea would be...

I would return them to the third floor...

where they would sit.

- Until I died. - Yeah.

And you know them how?

Sallie and I met in art school.

You know, she went by a different last name...

but we all knew.

Well, the school knew. She would never have got in on her talent.

She said that she and her brother had a job for me.

Well, it is the smartest thing they thought of in decades.

I'll give them that. And your cut?

A third.

And what makes you think that you could do it?

Well, they said that you were never up there.

No!

What makes you think you could actually do it? Do it!

Well, the original brushes are all up there.

The paints, the palette knives, the linseed, the rags.

Those Kendall Plushes have been deadstock for decades.

The microfibres alone would vet huge.

Well, you must know that your very premise...

that it is the correct equipment which makes the work...

the work, is bollocks.

I guess that's where the art of it comes in.

Art?

That's the part I am most interested in, I guess.

The art of what?

Becoming someone else.

Oh, poo.

Get yourself your own mindset, Lori Butler.

You inhabit that. You don't squat in mine.

It takes guts.

It takes blood.

It took my blood, and don't you think you can bleed for me.

Oh, and it seems that you are not the only person...

in this room who wishes that you were someone else.

I understand. I'm going to go.

You are in my home. You have lied to me.

You have betrayed me.

And you are, at least for the time being...

still in my employment.

So do an old "bloviating bloated ego" a kindness...

and grab a stretched blank canvas from upstairs.

- What? - Any size.

You've seen yourself, there are dozens.

Why?

Because I have one more question for you.

And believe me, I shall pay...

particular attention to your answer.

And after that, by all means, you are free to leave.

On there.

My question.

You say you can paint in my style.

Do it then.

That's not a question.

Will you paint what you believe I would paint...

were I whomever you think I was...

whenever you think I was whatever you think I was?

- No. - No. Because you can't.

- Case closed. - I'm not going to do this.

Thank you for the job. And I'm sorry.

How would you know...

how I would've painted them when even I don't know...

how I would have painted them?

I actually am truly sorry.

The first Christopher series, 1994 and '95...

have a very distinct trajectory in my mind.

The marks on number one are tentative.

There's a delicacy verging on a kind of inadvertent pointillism.

At least in the undercoat.

The colors warm with each successive layer.

The bottoms are all Prussian blues, cherry reds...

but as the layers rise, the reds get rustier.

You even used ochre, a shade you told David Sylvester was...

"sentimental slop."

In the third and fourth the lac got denser...

and the oils thickened.

There was a liftedness, almost like you were dancing.

The paint was literally coming off the canvas...

and there was more light around his face...

as his look moved more and more to the center.

Towards his creator.

What are you saying then?

You were falling in love...

and for the first time you were free.

I believe you came out then.

At least publicly.

But in the second series, 1997, '98, it shifted.

By the fifth in series two...

you can see the hesitation in the line.

The pressure becomes uneven.

Heavy darks start to appear up top. Patches of blank.

And Christopher's gaze...

drifts further and further off the canvas again.

And you started retouching.

Sometimes eight layers, ten.

Like you were trying to grasp an image that wasn't there.

Number six looks like it was restarted 12, 13 times...

and by eight there's a wooden quality.

Almost as if you were painting by rote.

And the blanks spread like they were metastasizing.

Thomas McEvilley said they had a joyful lightness...

a spirited lyricism.

McEvilley was wrong. Graham-Dixon was wrong.

Marina Vaizey was wrong.

The lightness was forced, and the joy was a lie.

It was obvious in the seventh...

and by the eighth it was glaring.

It was over.

It wasn't very good, that last one.

No. It isn't.

Some sap in Chicago paid two mil for it during Covid...

- I heard. - Yeah.

Well.

- Hence? - Here we are.

Here we are then.

Grave robbers crawling through the mud to exhume...

a trinket from some already rotted coffin.

And this third series...

Am I-- Sorry, "I," to have painted them recently or...?

No, back then was the thought.

Of course when they were actually worth something...

and then "I'm" to have buried them upstairs.

Didn't want them seen would be the story I guess.

Too painful.

Something like that.

Yes. The breakup was hard.

Hmm.

It wasn't. I'd done with them.

Sure.

- I had. - Fine.

I must say I found your prep impressive.

I've got to give you that.

There was no prep.

That could be some bloody package I've forgotten...

I've ordered.

Oh, they're so impatient, Amazon.

Oh, bollocks!

It's Barnaby.

Unless... Oh Christ.

It's Sallie too. Oh, oh, fuck me, it's both of them.

Hang on!

Hang on!

Buzzards on the buzzers.

Hi, Dad, I know what you said, but may we come in please?

Why?

We need to speak to your assistant.

Oh, I forgot what her name is.

Do you know I can't recall it either?

Barney, any ideas?

- Lisa maybe. - Yes! Lisa Maybe.

Why?

We just got a form that she urgently needs to fill out.

- Tax related. - Very.

very tax related.

Yeah, we've been trying to call her...

but she's not been picking up, so...

So, is she here?

Yes. Lisa Maybe is here. So do come in.

As there's something I need to speak with you about as well.

The Christophers.

The...?

Sorry, Dad. Which are those?

Oh, have I got the name wrong?

Oh gosh, Dad. I mean, you've painted so many.

Christopher. Christopher.

Why am I so fixated on that name then?

Which was the one that I said, perhaps you can recall this.

Which was the one that you took a whack at...

at some point last year accidentally thinking...

that it was not in fact an egregious...

act of dishonesty and betrayal?

Oh right. Yeah, those, those.

Dad, what about them?

Well, I have asked Lisa Maybe to destroy them.

- What? - Wait, why?

Well, she can't, Dad.

Oh, I already have.

- What the fuck, Lori? - Yes. That's her name. Lori!

- And she has burned-- - Shredded.

- She's shredded them. - Fuck off.

Bullshit, even he knows you're bullshitting.

- Yeah. Where are they then? - Hang on.

Dad, you can't.

Well, apparently I did.

But they're not yours.

Well, meaning that they are the world's.

- The world of art. - But not, of course yours.

No, no!

The furthest thing from our minds.

Well, you should get out and give them to the world.

And to do that, you should get out now and get started.

You stupid, stupid man.

Get out of my house now.

The two of you.

Great. Now you've shredded each other.

So I hope you feel very good about it.

Shredded each other?

What does that mean?

Nothing.

- Nothing? - Nothing.

And these, what are these?

These are fakes, which I shredded.

The real ones...

the ones you were about to incinerate...

are outside in the fire pit.

Right?

So?

So, let's go.

As you are still, for the moment, my employee...

I'm ordering you to come out to the fire pit and burn them.

Well, as your employee has now quit...

I wish you good luck with that.

Well, I'll go and do it myself then.

Oh, really?

Really.

"Crack on," then.

How's the bonfire going?

What did you mean, "I'd imploded my legacy"?

If you were to ask my cousin who Julian Sklar is...

he would say the guy that yelled at kids...

and housewives on Art Fight.

Yes. Well, they get off easy. Yes.

I was the one being tortured.

I was waterboarded by a deluge of kittens, Lori.

Each one more hideously adorable than the next.

Bopping at yarn. In acrylic.

Watercolor. Watercolor, Lori.

Peach tones, lavender, lavender.

Well, no, I did them a favor.

Did you?

Yes.

I saved them from a lifetime of heartache and rejection...

and grasping at something that they would never achieve.

And worse. Clawing back at something...

that they would never recapture.

Because success, Lori, is worse.

Okay. Okay.

Let's just stop this. Yeah?

- What are you doing? - You're not going to burn these.

What? I most certainly am.

There is a reason you've kept them for 25 years.

If you really didn't want them, you would've sold them...

for shit at your stupid jumble sale.

Oh my "sidewalk salon."

Oh, that was a bugger off to an industry...

who needed someone to say it to them.

It was a move that gave you cover to pretend it was you...

who was in control of his own downfall.

No, but no, I'd done with them. Lori.

Yeah, because they were done with you.

It was a corrupt industry...

in a corrupt world.

Investments and tax shelters...

and trophies for the Billionaire Boys' Club.

So, I left.

No, you mean you quit.

- No, I left. - You gave in.

I left. And on my own terms.

And how do you know if it's even art now...

anyhow, it's all online?

Oh, you get nothing...

when you stare at something through a screen.

You know, I get yelled at now from passing cars.

They call me a hack, a pig even.

Offended somehow as if...

we've got some sort of personal relationship.

You don't think it's a personal relationship?

Art?

No.

It's a man alone in his room.

Me in this room.

I have a relationship...

with the canvas.

And when I've said what I've got to say to it, then it goes.

Where do you think it goes?

Do what you want.

You can take them out. You can burn them again.

Don't leave me.

Why...

did you even care?

And you were so livid with me...

in those writings.

Why?

I was 12.

It was pissing down rain.

I ditched school and snuck into what happened to be a museum.

Yes.

Yes, what show?

It was the one with the famous artist's...

work from when they were kids.

You saw "Enfant Terrible."

There was one you'd done my age that was the easiest to copy.

By which you mean it was the one...

that hit you most profoundly in your soul.

By which I mean it was literally called...

Anyone Can Do This and Call It Art.

Yeah.

Mrs. Hanley...

she failed me for that one.

"Oh, this is nothing but a spiral of words, Julian.

"You have desecrated the canvas with everything...

"that the assignment is not."

But I said, "Yes!

"Because it's more interesting."

Yeah, and there was a second piece of yours.

It was a drawing from when you were six.

Boy Under cloud.

Boy Under cloud.

An oozing excretion of maudlin treacle, that title.

You were six.

And did you find that easy to copy as well?

Not at 12.

It was...

impeccable.

But?

I quit, is that what you're saying?

Please God, don't feel sorry for me.

To be honest, I'd rather have your rage than your pity.

And now, if you'll excuse me.

I need to pay for tonight's meal.

You are a quitter yourself, you know, Lori.

No one goes to art school to become a restorer or a critic.

I came in early this morning.

Really?

Yeah. 4:00, 5:00 am.

Well, I'm sorry if such industrious assistantism was...

wasted on what turned out to be an errant if dramatic misfire.

- What it tells me-- - Excuse me.

Good morning, Mario.

Now you told me that you want me to paint something...

appropriately romantic for your fiance.

And I presume by "appropriately..."

that you want me to paint it in vanishing ink.

- Lori. - Oh my God. What?

I am not going back there.

- But you have to. - Because?

Because you need to start them from scratch.

You've still got old canvases and paints and brushes up there.

Yeah. That's not going to happen.

Well, we think it is.

Isidore Clemens. 1927.

Sold for 25,000 in that Kent art house in 2017.

Split between that corrupt gallerist...

and the person opposite me.

Maybe you shouldn't write angry notes to exes.

Especially those who still speak to other...

old college friends of yours.

Sometimes people say things.

I'm curious if the person who paid the 25k might be...

interested in knowing it's a fake.

Well, when you find out, let me know.

I don't think you want to challenge this.

Yeah, but you may need to because you know...

and I know that no one benefits from that being exposed.

Not the gallery, not the artist...

and certainly not the person that bought it.

Was that a confession we just heard?

No, but this is.

I forged that painting.

And I forged Astley's In-Between.

And I forged Panagatacos' Six Shapes in Red.

All of that was a long time ago.

So you'll do what we say then?

No.

Well then, perhaps we'll see you in court.

Yeah, because perhaps, Lori, we've been recording this.

And does that include your fraud bit before my confession...

and your blackmail bit after?

Because you'd need both for context.

We'll give you 10,000 pounds in advance.

- Wow. But no. - Fifteen.

- No. - Oh, come on mate.

20. 20 grand, okay? But that's it.

We can't go higher than that.

Do you even have this money?

Yeah.

- Really? - Yes.

How?

Because...

It doesn't matter.

Two hundred thousand.

- Pounds? - Quid?

You must be out of your bloody mind.

We haven't got that sort of money.

The number's 200.

Look, I love you Lori, but this is piggish.

Two hundred thousand.

You are being a cunty pig-cunt.

Two hundred thousand.

21,400 pounds, right, please accept this.

That's all the money we have.

Please, please, Lori, please. It's really, really important.

Oh my God.

You've sold them already.

- What? - No.

This is...

This is fabulous.

The answer is no and definitely not for 21,000 quid.

He's dying, Lori.

It's called Aplastic Anaemia.

Okay, he's been refusing treatment for years.

Our time is running out.

Everyone's is.

The answer is even more no.

- Did you forget something? - Can you close the door?

I believe your dignity is just along there...

and you'll find your pride upstairs somewhere.

Close the door.

I've just googled a rare blood disease called Aplastic Anaemia.

Ah, yes.

Well, much to the impending dismay of the Heirs Abhorrent...

a genius in Stuttgart has reionized y stems cells...

and thus, like everything else that used to be inside me...

it has amounted to nothing.

The only thing dying, I'm afraid...

is the dream of Lord and Lady Vulture.

Well, they've sold them already.

- Sold? - The Christophers.

They took a down payment of a million quid last year.

That's why Sallie tried to do it herself.

Oh, oh, what glorious idiocy.

Well, for what it's worth of that...

they only have 21,000 quid left.

Well, I'm surprised they've got anything.

How many paintings?

All nine. Even Sallie's.

To a fan?

To a 28-year-old tech bro...

who's going to donate them for the tax credit.

Oh, to the Royal Academy?

Well, at least?

Maybe?

To a place called Museum of the Desert...

just outside of Las Vegas.

Oh.

And this tech bro, does he even know who I am? Or was?

No. But I'm told after some googling.

Yes. And I assume my children want you to resume...

your task of faking these somehow?

Same plan, new old canvases.

I think I should do it.

You paint them?

Yeah.

Paint them, but very, very badly.

Imagine the look on the tech bro's face...

when he sees what he's bought.

Oh, it's almost worth staying alive for.

And I shall be alongside you...

for the entire time as your assistant.

You're going to be my assistant?

Yes. And I'll be a very good one too.

And now my first task is to assist you in getting paints.

- And there's an art shop... - Yeah?

...on Bronton Street, which is quite dreadful.

Perfect.

Oh, but, oh, on this particular occasion...

I shan't be able to help you in person...

as I'm not allowed in...

due to a thin-skinned proprietor...

and an overreaction to a simple statement of fact.

Okay, I'll get this one then.

All right! And while you are out...

shall I rustle us up something...

little omelet?

You're going to make me an omelet?

Yeah. Don't sound so surprised.

All right then, I'll have a cheese omelet.

Yeah. Cheese omelet.

That's an omelet with cheese.

Yeah.

Actually, how do you introduce the cheese into the omelet?

I'm just going to pick something up for us. Yeah?

Excellent team work.

- Hello. - Coming. Coming!

I thought you might enjoy this as a kind of inspiration piece.

- Is that Sallie's? - Yes.

I keep it in her old room to ward off future visits.

It's affixed to the wall along with garlic and a wooden cross.

What's crazy is she's actually improved since art school.

Well, that's another first.

An instance of where a child of mine...

has actually inspired me.

Right. And this shall be your metric.

Can you top it?

By which of course, I mean, can you go under it?

This is fun! Assisting.

This is delicious, Lori. Mm!

Consider me poor but happy.

Okay.

I'm going to start.

This was to be his.

Well, they were all to be his, as a matter of fact.

His? Christopher's?

Oh, was I blustering fool.

Messages on the answering machine.

Gifts, gifts, gifts.

"Let me paint you one more time, Topher...

"and all this should be yours."

Nothing.

Actually, let's start with a different one.

I made him. I literally created him.

He was the boy who did my stretchers.

I gave him his life, his fame.

Everyone knew who Christopher was.

He was invited everywhere. And then one day...

He never came back.

I actually did want him to have them even after all of the mess.

I should have liked to have lasted in his mind.

You see, that's the thing, isn't it?

To last in the mind of others.

First instincts, Lori!

I never joined the Royal Academy, you know.

Oh, the R.A. I refused to play that game.

The others were rabid about it.

Every last one of them more competitive than the next.

But not me, Lori. I was the least competitive of them all by far.

Why are you staring at me?

I don't think you want to do this.

I am ordering you, Lori Butler...

to desecrate that painting with that brush.

Well, as my assistant, you don't get to call the shots.

Oh, very well then. I resign as your assistant!

Okay, okay, okay. You win, you win, you win.

Look, I will do it. I'll do it.

But let's pick a different one.

That's right, pick a different one.

It's already dreadful.

Oh, well this is monumentally hideous...

so...

Glue.

Yes.

This glue and then feathers.

No, no. We'll have the glitter first, and then feathers.

And that.

Oh take that!

Feathers.

You would think at 85 I would know you can't throw feathers.

Have you called my children?

Not yet.

Oh, well you must, you must...

because these Christopher Threes will hang in the pantheon...

of the worst art of all time...

along with Dogs Playing Poker...

Velvet Elvis, and all of Warhol.

Yes, yes. I'll have masking tape.

You see there should be a through line of awfulness.

Each one worse than the rest.

As if the...

As if the destruct was the construct.

I can't, oh, no, no, no.

Lori...

Something's happened.

Are you okay?

I'm struggling. I'm struggling to make the strokes run.

It's physically impossible to make it bad.

Look.

Yeah, you're right.

It is not uninteresting.

Wow.

So what do I do?

- Maybe keep going. - Hmm.

For who though?

Well, you seem like you were having a good time.

So why not just keep having a good time?

Because why?

Because it is fun for you, isn't it?

Because I'm fun for you?

Julian.

So here I am. Yes, I am the entertainment again.

This is what you wanted all along, isn't it?

To wind up the old fool...

and have him clutter about and bang his cymbals.

Oh, is it interesting being Jane Goodall...

to the old dancing monkey in his natural habitat?

And how am I faring as the anecdote you'll tell all your...

laughing friends about later.

This isn't what I meant when I talked about living...

in the minds of others.

Julian, where is this coming from?

No. Well, where are you coming from?

"Oh, it's not uninteresting." And how would you know that?

To judge art, you must possess the various skills...

it takes to make said art.

And do you really think you possess those skills?

Well, I don't. And why not?

Because of three words: Untitled. Number. Seven.

I saw it on your website and I didn't need to see it...

because I'd already seen it.

And when I say I'd already seen it, and I might as well have...

because it rang with the familiarity...

of all those other foul, existential...

impressionistic landscapes by all the other wannabe artists.

I think...

I think maybe, Lori...

it was a healthy thing that you quit.

Christopher.

I will take 21,000. You can keep the 400...

but I get 50% of the final sale, including the down payment.

- 25%. - 50.

- 30? - 50.

- 35? - 50.

Good. I'll call you with a plan.

I was right.

You can't judge art by looking at it online.

This is good.

Untitled Number Seven.

You know, there's a power to it that I missed...

on your website.

So you came here to tell me you were right.

Yes. About many things.

Including having seen that before.

Which explains Lori, why I thought that I'd seen it before.

I got a hunch when I looked at you just as you were leaving...

and that I'd seen that specific look before...

on your specific face.

And then I remembered you.

Art Fight.

So I looked up season three, episode five...

and I was right.

You must have been what?

- 21? - I was 19.

And the truth is, at the time...

I'd really only glanced at the painting.

I was merely thinking up my next joke...

while I was telling the last joke.

Did I cause you to quit?

I haven't quit.

I just quit showing.

I'm a broken man, Lori.

I believe I always have been.

And you know, it wasn't you that I was mad at earlier.

Yeah, I know.

It was...

What do you mean, "You know"?

Seriously?

Who am I kidding?

Oh the lies that I've been telling myself my whole life.

It's exhausting, and...

I didn't give Christopher his life.

I gave him mine.

I suspect I ruined his.

I know I ruined his.

When you think of me, Lori, I should like that...

you remember me as the person you thought I was...

who did that very first drawing...

who gave you the courage to start.

Not the man who you actually know me to be.

Why are you here, Julian?

Because I want to have an exhibition.

And if I do actually get a show, and...

Perhaps it could be called...

"Julian Sklar..."

I can't tell whether this says "revived" or "reviled."

Exactly.

Is this a retrospective?

Oh no, they'd be new.

And people can judge them however they judge them.

And I would be grateful, Lori if you'd be so kind as to...

perhaps just be there while I try.

Yeah. Yes.

Yes, of course.

- Yes. - The crack of noon?

Precisely.

Oh, except, oh, I should, no...

I've got Esme and she is pretty insistent that...

I don't cancel last minute.

- We could do 2:00 PM? - What if we did Monday?

Julian.

I'd like, I think I should like actually...

to just dream about these actually...

for a week, tops.

Yeah, all right. Fine.

Yes. Yes.

Okay.

Thank you.

Yeah. Yeah.

This is where you leave.

Oh yes. Yes, of course.

Yes, yes. Goodbye.

Whose is this?

It's mine, sir.

It's absolute shit.

Julian?

Thank you very much.

Thank you very much indeed.

Welcome back to Art Fight.

The show where everyone's a critic, particularly Julian.

We've got Lori Butler...

and she studies at Central Saint Martins, no less.

Another one. Lots of those.

And she is showing us today...

her painting Untitled Number Seven.

Julian, what do you think?

Untitled Number Seven?

Well, it's a fitting name given there are...

no actual words to describe...

what exactly it is I'm looking at.

And oh please. Oh God, don't tell me.

I'm going to have to look at the previous six...

in order to understand this one.

It's not a painting, Lori.

It's a cry for help from the paint itself.

"Why am I here?" it screams.

Perhaps there's a title, Lori, and perhaps it's simply...

The Reason My Therapist Chose Early Retirement...

Number Seven.

Hello, I'm calling for Owen Appleton, please.

Personal.

Okay.

Can you please tell him that I have something...

he may be very interested in?

Thank you.

Hi, I'm looking for Mr. Appleton.

I'm Owen. How can I help you?

I'm Lori Butler.

I told you on the telephone...

I don't want to talk about any of that.

I understand that and I respect that.

But I wouldn't have come all the way here if there...

weren't some things that...

I think you might want to hear me out on.

All right.

First, I have a question.

Why did he call you Christopher?

These are technically ours now.

Well, they're literally yours.

Everything in there, all yours.

Sort of weirdly feels like a Julian Sklar museum.

It's actually a good idea.

This whole floor could be the gift shop.

This stays exactly as it is.

Even this exactly as it is, you want to keep this?

Yeah, just keep this here?

Just maybe that could be the poster for the museum.

Blow it up on the side of the... No?

It's the bathroom at the back.

- Holy shit. - Oh my God.

Did you do these?

- Barney. - Tell me. Tell me now.

Honestly, Lori, if you did these, we will fucking fry you.

Barnaby, does it even matter?

Of course it matters.

If she did them, they're worth fuck all again.

And if I didn't, what would they be worth then?

"Schedule C1, I, Julian Sklar hereby confirm...

"that the eight artworks identified below...

"herein referred to...

"as the Christopher Series Three consisting of acrylic...

"watercolor, glitter, feathers, axle grease, masking tape...

"are all authentic artworks that I have created and gifted to...

"recipient, Owen Christopher Appleton."

christopher was his middle name. Hmm.

Julian told him that Owen sounded like...

the pained bleat of a mooing cow.

You forged this, haven't you?

Why would I do that?

Well, let's think, you know, to maybe, I don't know...

stop us from having them.

Plus you called me before dad died...

and said that you would forge the eight Christophers...

as long as we shared 50% of the profits with you.

Okay, sorry. Let me just get this straight.

You are accusing me of forging a legal note from him...

which would give me 50% of nothing.

Now why on earth would I do that?

- Lori. - Hi, Sallie. Barney.

- Fine. You won. - Congratulations.

Dad is famous again. Yay.

But, look, you've got to tell us.

Who painted them? Really?

The truth.

Really? Does it even matter?

It's good.

Really captures his essence.

- Esme? - Hmm.

Hi.

I tried to get this to you at the memorial...

but you left so quickly.

When I found him, I also found this.

It belongs to you.

- No, no, this isn't mine. - It is.

I took it because I didn't want you know who to see it.

Okay, thank you.

Good luck, Lori.

Thank you.