By Harissa Beaumont
This could have been the last entry in my diary, but luckily I am still here.
There are times in this job when I wonder if I am an art dealer or an unlicensed explosives handler. This week was one of those times.
It started with a call from an eccentric collector—let’s call him Collector D. He has a reputation for wanting pieces that are not just unique but technically dangerous. His collection includes a sculpture made entirely of melted-down Colt 45s , a taxidermy piece that once leaked something suspicious, and now, his latest obsession: a portrait made entirely from different coloured gunpowder.
“I want something with energy,” he told me over lunch, while slicing into a steak that was aggressively rare. “Something alive.”
“Well,” I said, stirring my third coffee, “You might not be if this portrait goes wrong.”
He grinned. “Exactly. Get Harland Moorhead to make it.”
The artist in question is known for using volatile materials—previous works include a drawing made with rocket fuel and an installation that had to be extinguished mid-opening. “Safety is key,” D reassured me. “It mustn’t just explode randomly.” This was not entirely comforting.
A phone call was all it took. Harland loved the idea and said he actually had a cupboard full of gunpowder that he wasn’t sure how to use – so this commission was ideal.
Once the portrait was complete, the next challenge was where to store it. Gunpowder is not something you can just prop up against a wall. No smoking was allowed anywhere near it, and, as an added precaution, the piece had to be kept behind explosion-proof glass.
Fiona, my gallery assistant, looked at the crate when it arrived and then at me. “If this goes wrong,” she said, “do we technically die in the name of art?”
“Possibly,” I admitted. “But let’s try not to.”
The portrait was spectacular—smoky textures, deep charcoals, and fiery reds. D loved it. The only slight issue? He wanted to hang it in his drawing room, over the fireplace.
“Just a couple of small concerns,” I said carefully. “Will there be fires? And… er… candles?”
“Always,” he said proudly. “I love atmosphere.”
There was a long pause as I considered whether it was my professional duty to explain that his new portrait could, under the right (or rather wrong) conditions, ignite and destroy his entire Georgian townhouse along with much of London.
”We don’t want to cause a second fire of London, so maybe-“
”Don’t we? Imagine the publicity!”
“Make sure it’s always behind the explosion proof glass,” I said. “And, maybe no flambé desserts near it.”
The piece was finally installed, behind its protective casing, with a small but noticeable No Smoking sign discreetly placed nearby. D is thrilled. I, however, will not fully relax until at least a month has passed and I have definitive proof that it has not combusted during the cigar and indoor fireworks dinner party that D was having in its honour.
Until next week,
Harissa