Given he was beyond pissed off and didn’t want to say something he knew he would instantly regret, he just stood there and didn’t say anything and tried his best to pretend he was thinking it over.
“What do you think, Brett?” Salina asked, ignoring his body language, what with the smirk on her face like this was a positive business development.
“You want to sell my work?”
“Yes,” Becky said.
“Sure you do. Everyone wants to house what sells. How are you different from everyone else?”
“Because we’ll pay you for it, up front. No consignment. You get paid on every delivery, whether it sells or not.”
He surveyed the mind-numbing crap on the walls, paintings of ballet slippers, the portrait of a cat, countless paintings of flowers. Other paintings were uninspired abstracts, blobs of paint with no thought of texture, color, design or composition.
“Let’s sleep on it,” Brett said.
“We need an answer now,” Becky said. She crossed her arms, obviously under the mistaken belief she had leverage in the situation. Even if he needed their money, he wasn’t about to defile his sacred pursuit by doing business with amateurs.
“Then the answer’s no.”
“What?” the brunette asked, scoffing. Both girls’ faces registered a look of professional disbelief, a look picked up from a boss at a summer internship or their parents. He was suddenly intrigued by what their parents did, purely from an anthropological curiosity, but he had no designs on sticking around long enough to find out.
“He’ll think about it,” Salina said. She winked at the girls. Unbelievable she paid them that courtesy. She pushed him out of the gallery on the possibility charged in the endnote of a maybe.
“You’ve hit a new low,” Brett said as they walked out.
“Those girls are perfectly credible. One of them has a degree in art history, the other one has a marketing degree. I think they’ve got the next hot gallery on their hands. They’re connected all over town.”
“These galleries. When are we going to start selling more of my work out of town?”
“We sell your paintings all over the state. I’d like to sell more.”
“Maybe we need to only sell my art to the greater world, where there’s more money and more appreciation. Why would you want me mass producing crap to pipe through that place?” Brett said, wagging an accusatorial finger.
“I think it would be an attractive, steady source of income. As far as mass producing goes, I’d like to talk to you about that, too.”
“I don’t have much to say on the subject.”
“Artists sell because they’re famous, Brett, not because they’re talented. Shameful amounts of talent passes through life unappreciated. These girls are offering you a chance for appreciation. Why not take it?”
“Because I don’t sell sketches or two-tone squares. Why would I dilute my brand like that?”
Salina led the way through the double doors into Max’s on Broad, a Belgian themed restaurant and, in terms of style and authenticity, a far cry from the Galerie de Supernova. They strode past the hostess stand and parked at the thinly patronized bar. The place was amazing and did a roaring dinner business, but hadn’t found its lunch crowd even though you could eat half price at the bar. This lunch was the city’s hidden culinary secret; you didn’t even need a reservation.
The bartender pulled up and weighed them down with menus, personifying the charm of the place.
“Get you started with a drink?” The bartender asked.
“I’ll have a gin martini in a scotch glass,” Salina said.
“And for you?”
“Coke,” Brett replied.
Salina frowned. “How are we supposed to talk business with you being all sober and introverted? Don’t you know how people behave in society? Don’t you ever watch movies?”
“Not the ones about business, I’m afraid. If I knew anything about business, Salina, you wouldn’t be getting a cut.”
“There are no cuts without me. Without me you’d be painting city skylines, supporting yourself sweeping floors.”
“That actually sounds sort of romantic.”
“Don’t insult me. You need me, and you know it.”
Brett’s mouth moistened as he read the descriptions of all the elegant dishes that he would not order. He needed her to think he was completely dedicated to the austerity required by his cause; otherwise she might sniff out the leverage she needed to corrupt him.
The waiter returned, and Brett ordered a burger, Salina a Niçoise salad.
Salina shifted towards Brett, the legs of her bar stool scraping the floor. Why was she being creepy?
“I think you should take on students,” Salina said, after the bartender had left to place their orders. She really did have a lot to talk about.
“No.”
“Charge them to study, sell the work they produce under your brand. You would make money on both ends and production would increase exponentially.”
“No.”
“All the greats take apprentices. It was how the craft was transmitted before there were schools. It’s how most of the great talents still learn today.”
“Teaching seems miserable, the deal you suggest strikingly unethical.”
“You’d have students pouring paint all over themselves to wipe your brushes clean, hanging in suspense for their next instruction from the young master. Imagine the great artists that would train under you. They might even attach your name to a movement someday. Baleism,” she said, looking at Brett through a right-angled frame constructed of index fingers and thumbs.
“You’ve got a cockeyed view of this stuff. Are you an art cynic, or aren’t you? I thought you were only good at what you do because you think it’s all bullshit?”
“Some of it’s bullshit, sure, but some of it’s divine. The tragedy, or rather the virtue, is I make money regardless of the merit.”
Brett refused to admit they agreed on anything. He kept Salina on because she was making him a lot of money, but he was occasionally haunted by the thought that he had initially agreed to let her represent him over a handful of other brokers because she was attractive and had flirted harder than the rest. Was his art as shallow as his instinct?
“Alone you’re one man,” Salina said, sipping her martini. “With apprentices you’re an institution. Think of Warhol’s factory. Think of how helpful it’ll be when you have another slump.”
“I’ve fixed that problem,” Brett said.
“You haven’t had your last heartbreak.”
“I appreciate your confidence,” Brett said.
“Maybe you’ll appreciate this. Have you heard of Arthur Pinstead?”
“No.”
“Do you ever get out?”
“I get out all the time. I just don’t know who the hell you’re talking about.”
“Arthur Pinstead is an art critic. He’s a double Ph.D. in anthropology and art history from Princeton. He started his career at Christie’s before switching fields to journalism. He’s a regular contributor for the New York Times, New Republic, and The Atlantic. He’s an internationally sought-after art appraiser. One of his passions is to discover emerging artists and review them in a major publication. He’s known to be equally sincere and coldly objective.”
“Sounds like he has an awesome background. What’s any of that have to do with me?”
“I’ve been in touch with him. He’s coming to Richmond to review your work.”
Brett’s stomach twisted in knots. Every artist prays for an opportunity like this. She’d been trying to persuade him to do things all day he had no interest in doing, so he wasn’t really prepared to admit she’d done good by setting up this review.
“My work’s scattered everywhere.”
“He wants to review your work, sure, but what he really wants is an interview. Probe what makes you tick. After all, he’s reviewing the artist, not any single amalgamation of colors.”
/> “So why did he pick me?”
“I don’t want to bore you with the mechanics of my job, but suffice to say that, thanks to me, he thinks you fit his profile: young, promising, cutting-edge.”
“That’s incredible,” Brett said, taken aback, no longer able to conceal his gratitude. He felt the whiplash from the earlier discussions of being distributed by those fresh-out-of-college wannabes, to being offered an opportunity to forge an international reputation. Was he really so close to having finally made it?
“I see you blushing like a bride on her wedding day, but I have to warn you, there’s a downside to the deal.”
“Like what?” Brett asked, skeptical anything could diminish the awesomeness of this news.
“Arthur’s kind of spooky. His blessing can launch the next colossus, but he doesn’t always give favorable reviews. Actually, he completely pans artists as often as he praises them. A negative review from Arthur is like being cursed. He’s destroyed careers. Given his deep background in anthropology, you both have a lot in common, which could be great. But if he even suspects that you’re an imposter, you’ll never get a chance like this again. He’ll banish you from the art world forever.”
Imposter? He didn’t appreciate that damn comment. By his own estimation, the world had never given birth to a more sincere painter. He finished his Coke, pushed his stool back and started away.
“Where are you going?” Salina asked.
“Restroom,” Brett said. His head was over his shoulder answering Salina, so he wasn’t looking where he was going, and when he reoriented his attention straight ahead there was this unworldly gorgeous blonde standing in front of him, wearing a fashionably sleeveless pant suit, and it didn’t take an artist’s eye to observe her thick-rimmed glasses were a prescription-less façade.
He walked past the kitchen. The grill flared, a cook shouted an order, a poor busboy heaved his plastic container of mushy discarded food, dishes and silverware. Brett walked into the single-stall bathroom without knocking, and quickly locked the door behind him. The girl might have been the most beautiful he had ever seen. She would make an excellent model.
There was hardly anyone else at the bar. He had a platinum opportunity to talk to this girl, maybe even use Salina as his wing. Then he had a sinking feeling, like he was flaring into the shallow male chauvinist he was constantly trying to defeat. He had lately become disenchanted with the meaninglessness of hooking up, but hadn’t found anyone rare enough to chase and had spent the last couple of months single, spending his time painting in frenzies and drinking heavily. Work was easier that way. Life was easier that way.
Still, how did anyone get that first interest in anything if his attention wasn’t first grabbed by some immediately desirable quality? Was an initial interest by definition shallow because a preliminary judgment had been made after so brief a review? If so, there was nothing wrong per se with first impressions, as long as he didn’t put too much weight on the one quality and made an earnest effort to get to know the entire person.
He splashed water on his face, but got too much in his hair, so he dried it with paper towels until its dampness was too subtle to notice. A deep breath and he pushed out of the bathroom to rejoin Salina, intent to make contact with the girl.
As he approached the bar, Salina and the girl were already engaged in conversation. Maybe this was going to be easier than he thought.
“This is the artist I was telling you about,” Salina said.
Brett stuck out his hand. “Brett Bale. But I’m a painter, actually. I think the term ‘artist’ is a little vague and heavy handed.”
“Olivia Martin, unemployed,” the girl said.
She didn’t look very unemployed. Even rich girls with a trust fund don’t dress that sharp, and they certainly don’t walk around with a paper called the Financial Times. He imagined people like her were the type whose time on their next deal was more valuable than bending over to pick up loose diamonds on the street.
“Olivia is interested in taking painting lessons, but I told her you were too busy filling orders to take on a student.”
“I am really busy.”
“I don’t even get an interview?”
“Maybe if you’re lucky.”
“How would I get so lucky?”
He wanted to pounce on the moment, agree to take her on immediately, but was she even being serious? He desperately wished he knew what to say, but be was stifled by a crushing avalanche of emotions: he was attracted to her, but he was scared of girls, scared of being superficial, scared of not being able to paint, while being torn by the compulsion to take chances in these pursuits.
“Show me the strength of your imagination,” Brett said. “What’s the most imaginative way to get lucky?”
“Wish on a shooting star?” she said.
“It’s been done.”
“What if I stole pennies from a wishing fountain?”
“That would be selfish and greedy.”
“What if I did the opposite?”
“If you threw pennies into a fountain? Then you’re back to unimaginative.”
“No. What if I went to the bank and took out like a thousand pennies, then walked all over town leaving them on heads? Would that create enough luck with my imagination to score a lesson?”
“I think that would qualify you,” Brett said with a grin. “Tell me, why do you want to take art lessons? Have you ever studied painting?”
“I used to paint,” she said. “I was obsessed with finger paints when I was a little girl. When I grew older, my parents bought me a toy easel, then a proper easel, then art lessons. I wanted to be an artist, but when I became a teenager my parents pushed me towards more worldly interests. I went to college not quite knowing what I wanted, so I signed up for some art classes and thought I might major in art, but I got good grades in business classes and seduced by the siren’s song of the capital markets and fat paychecks.”
“I’m waiting for the part of the story where you either had an epiphany or you suffered some tragedy?”
“I went all-in on the business track, and was living in New York for a few years, living to work. I thought I was getting somewhere, but when I recently created a very valuable financial model for my firm, my boss stole it. So, I quit.”
“So now you are?”
“A feather in the wind.”
“Until the next offer comes in the mail?”
“You’re awfully cynical for a creative. I thought your friend here said you were an artist, but perhaps I misunderstood, and you’re an art critic?”
She had some fight in her. It would have been easier to say yes if she wasn’t so damn alluring; easier to say no if she didn’t have this lifelong interest. She was imaginative, he had to give her that: scattering heads-up pennies all over town. It would be good for him to be in the company of a sparkling mind. Even if she turned out to be a poor student, she had the potential to make a fascinating subject.
“Okay, I’ll give you my number. You can call me about starting when you’re ready,” he said.
“When can I start?” Olivia asked.
“As soon as you want.”
“How about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow works fine.”
Chapter 7
In search of Brett’s studio, Olivia wandered through the abandoned streets and fallow warehouses of Scott’s Addition. This was the type of place people were murdered. She reconsidered her desire to learn to paint. Did the activity have the same grip on the woman as it did on the child? The boy’s art broker had seemed so cosmopolitan, but Olivia began to wonder whether she had conflated the businesswoman with the artist. Brett had a thick beard, a tattoo sleeve and a hungry look in his eyes. The shine in his hair, given the rest of his overall unkempt appearance, was more likely grease than product. Moreover, before they had been in a public place, but now they would be alone in his studio in a bleak, industrial section of town. She recalled a scene from one of her favorite Morgan Free
man movies, The Bone Collector, when the female detective was lowered down into the pitch-dark subway looking for the next clue in search of the serial killer. She laughed at how ludicrous she was being, but still the question lingered in her mind: why was she doing this?
She banged on the sliding steel door, took a step back, and considered the enormity of the warehouse.
“Come in,” Brett yelled from the depths of the place. She wrapped her fingers around the welded handle, and gave the door a dainty little tug, but it didn’t budge. She took a step back and quickly reevaluated the situation. She was going to have to put some elbow grease into this. She took hold of the welded handle once more, rocked her body back and forth, counted to three, and put all her weight into the thing. It gave way easily, sliding across the doorframe until coming to an instant halt, sending her tumbling onto her backside. She sat there for a moment until the touch of shock wore off, looked around to make certain no one had seen her make a fool of herself, then stood, dusted herself off, and marched inside.
The warehouse studio wasn’t anything like she had imagined. It was a colossal, empty space with natural light flooding through a skylight in the center of the roof. In the middle of the room was a sofa and some stools, stacks of magazines and newspapers, and three different easels, each facing a different staging area: one towards a captain’s chair, another towards a long wooden table filled with a myriad of curious objects, and a third towards nothing, positioned to look out into the vast emptiness of the space.
She didn’t see him at first. Despite the bright sun bursting through the skylight above, the edges of the facility were draped in impenetrable shadows. He had invited her in, so where was he? In a moment of unknowing and apprehension, she shuddered. She took a few more hesitant steps towards the center of the room, but stopped in her tracks. This was too creepy. What the hell was she doing here? She was about to turn around when she saw a puff of smoke rise up from a sofa situated in the middle of a cluster of artistic wares and inspirations. Then she saw another. She inched forward.
“I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time,” she said, close enough to look over the sofa, to see Brett lying there, smoking a cigarette and reading a worn copy of E.H. Gombrich’s The Story of Art. He wore a faded grey tank top that revealed his shoulder-to-wrist tattoo sleeve on his left arm. At Max’s, she hadn’t noticed that the only ink on his right arm was on his bicep, a tattoo of a phoenix taking flight over the desert. His jet-black hair was greased straight back. His cigarette dangled naturally from his lips.
The Medium of Desire Page 5