—Is he in there?
—No. There were technical problems with one of his pieces, and he had to go to the pavilion to fix it. He was planning on streaming video of the empty table in Berlin, now the feed from Berlin is snow; he wanted to have a few TVs showing the real table over the replica table. I’m assuming you found Altberg’s note?
—But Kurt is staying here?
—He met some girl. Some girls actually. They may be partying tonight if he can get the work finished. But listen, he’s an asshole.
Owen looked through him. Hal continued:
—Kurt thinks that because he pays me well, he can take all the credit for my work. It keeps getting worse. This morning a reporter from Der Spiegel asked him about my role. What did he say? “Hal’s a graphic designer. Sometimes he takes a picture or two.” Kurt’s seriously hampering my sales. I’m getting no credit for Basel.
—Be careful, Hal. As soon as I give you an ounce of credit for the photos strung up on the other side of that river, you and I are going for a swim and we’re going to find out who can hold his breath longer.
—Point taken. I had nothing whatsoever to do with those images. You remember me yelling at him to stop, right? He’s out of control.
Hal fanned his goatee, then continued:
—I’d have a hard time seeing him pose for any of the Art Basel press stuff if he had, say, a broken nose or a black eye or a knocked-out tooth. I think he would just disappear to a resort for a few months, like some plastic surgery refugee.
—Leaving the press with no alternative but you.
—That’s not my fault. The public needs to hear from its artists to sustain these prices.
—When does he get back?
—This is the wrong place to confront him. The house comes with its own security personnel, and they have pictures of you.
—Everybody does. Thanks for that. Give me an alternative.
—That’s what I’ve been thinking about. Art Basel doesn’t officially start until Thursday. There’s nothing happening tonight. Monday and Tuesday are the select VIP preview, Wednesday is the normal VIP preview. Right now, anyone with any money is in Zurich or Berlin making deals. Most of the good work is already sold. Tomorrow night is when the collectors come to see what they bought and hear about their prescience. Kurt knows the routine. He brought our dining table to Basel so everyone would be hanging out at the Pfaff booth tomorrow. Everything is in place for it to be packed tomorrow night. He won’t be expecting you to be there. It’s perfect. Tomorrow night is when you have to confront him.
—Hal, I don’t give a shit if he’s expecting me. I’m not the kind of guy who sneaks up.
—Fine. But if you can keep calm until Tuesday night, the payoff will be worth it. It’s going to be the biggest night of his career by far. He might stick around for the official opening, but chances are that come Thursday he’ll be stepping onto someone’s yacht in Antibes or Croatia.
—Stepping?
—You know what I mean. Don’t be a dick.
—No one stays for the actual fair?
—The crowd stays. The tastemakers will be headed for Venice on Thursday or chasing after the collectors who flew their private planes to the coast on Tuesday. There’s a party here at Lady Percy’s tonight. After tomorrow night, it’s more about the parties than the art. But right now, it’s all about art. Every billionaire is looking to walk away with the names of five new artists who are going to change the world.
—Can you get me in tonight?
—You’re not listening. Kurt is not going to be there until tomorrow night. That’s when you need to go, when all his collectors are there.
—And you can get me in tomorrow?
—Absolutely. Brigitte will put you on the Timmons gallery list as one of their artists. And hey, look on the bright side, you’ve gone from no one to official international artist.
Owen put both palms to his brow, trying to undo the world.
—We could go through Pfaff, but then Kurt would know you’re coming.
—Fine. It’ll be tomorrow. Take care of it.
Owen left Hal standing outside the iron gate of the Guesthouse.
—So I’ll tell Brigitte tomorrow night, then? Hal shouted.
Owen was already off Mühlenberg Strasse and headed for the river. The idea that Hal could get him into anything but trouble was laughable. But he had met someone else in Berlin who could give him a slight advantage.
Once more, Owen walked through the lobby of the Hotel Trois Rois to the back bar. He needed a strong drink before confronting someone who may or may not have pending legal action against him. But he couldn’t afford any of the hotel’s strong drinks. So he found a seat and drank an Amstel. A 500-watt light bounced off a Mylar umbrella. Kurt hadn’t diffused anything for Owen. Straight heat and glare.
One young man, apparently some art-world oracle, was delivering his assessment of the run-up to Art Basel to a mic-wagging interviewer from CNNMoney. Half of the crowd pretended not to be listening, but they weren’t fooling anyone. The room clearly belonged to the one who drew the light.
—Did you see anything noteworthy?
—I saw Dave Cohen looking at a Richter like he was going to buy.
—I thought he only bought Impressionists.
—That’s why it was interesting.
—What’s his net worth?
—Two-point-four billion.
—And who’s his buyer?
—He buys himself. That’s the secret to being a major collector. It’s not how much money you have, it’s your taste.
—John McEnroe.
—Exactly. John McEnroe.
Owen only knew of one John McEnroe and wondered if this was some sort of code.
—I’m hearing that some of the galleries have already sold out. So tell us, who’s selling?
—Gagosian, but his booth is mostly Kiefer, so that was a foregone conclusion. The big surprise so far is Jacques Lacroix’s work at Lawrence Timmons’s space—those pieces are really out there. It reminds me of Yves Klein’s imagined paintings more than anything else. Lawrence was kind enough to show me slides of the pieces last month. The first two were the types of performative reconstruction we’ve come to expect from Lacroix; the third work in the catalogue was “Titled, 2002, $285,000.” It was the only work that didn’t have a slide. I asked Lawrence if the work wasn’t finished yet, or what.
—What did he say?
—Well, he scowls at me and says, completely deadpan, “The listing is the piece.”
—Fabulous! I’m sure it will go in the next few days.
—And maybe it should. Yves Klein has never been more relevant.
—Is there anything else you’re interested in?
—Biggest question mark of the fair is what’s going on over at Pfaff Galleries.
—Kurt Wagener’s new work.
—It’s a mess. Apparently there was a technical problem with a video installation piece. The rest is kind of all over the place. There’s a scratched-up piece of wood that looks so much like a Keith Haring that it must be a tribute. There’s a performance piece, yawn, of models behind acrylic glass taking pictures of the people who walk by. I hate to say it, but Kurt Wagener is making painting seem relevant again—just as an alternative to this fiasco. There’s a full bar. There’s a smashed-up piece of drywall, huge cardboard box, and a triptych of Abu Ghraib torture photography called Spooky Action at a Distance.
—Torture photography? That took all of a month.
Owen shot from his chair before his waiter arrived for round two. At the front desk he asked for Todd Zeale. The desk manager looked annoyed that someone as disheveled as Owen could name one of his guests. He took his time dialing Zeale’s room and then passed the phone to Owen.
—This is Todd. And who exactly are you?
—I’m the tall guy with the eye patch who stood by while Kurt destroyed your gallery. Sorry about that.
—Oh, the naughty Olympian. Well
, what do you want?
—I want to offer Kurt a choice.
—I have fifteen minutes or so. Pass the phone back to the nice man at reception. They’ll show you up.
Todd Zeale was wearing a brown chenille robe that made him look like a plush toy. The white towel coiled like a turban pulled tight his shining forehead. Unwrapped presents took up half the floor space. A three-wicked lavender candle the size of a flowerpot burned on the table at Todd’s side.
—Please. Do take a seat.
—I’m fine standing.
Owen parted the curtains to be sure no one was waiting outside on the veranda.
—All of the suites were sold out years ago, but I’ve always thought an average room in a great hotel is far better than a great room in an average hotel, wouldn’t you agree? But it must be bizarre walking around with your head raking the ceilings. Should we go downstairs? Do you feel trapped?
—By the time I was fifteen, I realized the world was built too small.
—Talk to me in twenty years. The world only seems small when you imagine you have all the time in the world. But we don’t, hence these little microcosms.
—Like Basel.
—Precisely. Now what was this about offering Kurt a choice? You do realize that in this world you’re still a commoner, someone who is offered a choice, but never gets to present one.
—I need to get into the preview tonight.
—And why should I help you with that?
—Because you are the only person I can think of who wants to harm Kurt as much as I do.
—Stick around. Few people in this town haven’t been fucked or fucked over by Kurt in the past four years. As you pointed out, I’m one of them. As far as wishing him harm, you’re alone there. I’m heavily invested in Kurt’s success. I have several of his works in my private collection, and the gallery was built on the back of Kurt Wagener. So no, I have very little interest in destroying the career of the biggest artist I’ve represented. Nor do I wish him more suffering than he’s already endured.
—After what he did to your gallery?
—Did you ask him which gallery is representing that video art piece? No?
—The same gallery he tore apart.
—Precisely. I haven’t found a buyer yet, but once he proves his price point at Basel, I can get it sold for $5 million. He is the King Midas of the moment. Even in the act of destruction, he creates. I think that piece, which I’m urging him to title Midas, is his most significant work to date. The loop is closed: Kurt destroys the gallery that stood behind him his entire career, and in that moment of destruction he creates a monumental work—represented by the very gallery he just razed. He proves the institutional theory of art with an elegance that would make Duchamp smile. Art is whatever you find in a gallery. The gallery is whatever you find in art.
—I’d be a lot more amenable to this kind of talk if I had a VIP pass in my hand.
—There is no “pass,” my dear. There is no badge you can wear around your neck, no ticket to be collected, no secret handshake I can teach you. I’m sorry. I’d love to help.
—I’m sure you would.
—There’s a bottle of Scotch in the armoire. I’m going to smoke this. You’re welcome to join.
Owen left Todd Zeale rolling a joint on a mirrored drink tray.
—Suit yourself. I’ll be telling Kurt about our chat.
The lock hit the strike plate and slapped shut. He walked down the green carpet stairs to the street.
On the other side of the revolving doors, Basel exploded with early summer: violet heather and the last of the cherry blossoms. He followed the hook of the swift-running Rhine until he reached the copse of alder trees shading the Guesthouse.
A footworn path through wild hazel shrubs and smooth-barked poplar ran from the cars parked along the riverbank to the mossy stone wall guarding the house. From the safety of trees, in the luxury of dappled sun, Owen looked for guards and listened for a clue to what was on the other side of the wall. The rusted iron door, cut deep into the thick stone wall, belonged at an industrial facility, not a residence. The wall itself was built to brace against eighteenth-century floods. The top of the wall was almost fifty feet above the water table. Owen struggled to imagine how a river could rise that high. The wall’s present function was clearly to keep people out. Curiously, the buttresses were on his side, forming stone ramps he might scramble up. But the ramps stopped far short of the wall’s lip. The ramps would leave him stranded and exposed. He would have to scale it.
If Owen adhered to anything as inflated as a philosophy of conflict, his underlying precept was: get as close as possible to the most dangerous thing in any environment. Constrain options through proximity. Get close or get hit. Right now, the most dangerous object was the security camera. His plan was to sprint straight for it. If he was standing beneath it, they’d only see the top of his head. They might know he was there, but they couldn’t inspect him. And there was some comfort in that.
The wind shuffled the alders. A red catkin fell in his tangled hair. He bit his fingernails so they wouldn’t catch on the stone and tried to talk himself out of what he was about to do. He listened to more laughter and clinking glasses. The murmur could be music or it could be a trick of the river, throwing its voice into the walls of the Guesthouse and then casting the entire backyard in a rustle.
As the wind rattled the trees more forcefully, Owen dashed for the stone wall. He stood directly below the security globe. Now he could hear the sound of silver against porcelain, the meeting of glasses against side plates. Scores of people were waiting on the other side of that wall. A ring of red LEDs lit up around the globe, bright enough to overpower the setting sun and light the hackled hair of his arms.
With wings stretched wide, he snagged two handholds and kicked his left instep into the wall. Pushing hard off his left leg, he swung and found a foothold for his right. With one kick, he leapt and caught the camera’s anchor. The ring of red lights started blinking. In seconds someone would be through the iron door. Owen’s hips were flush against the stone; his lace-up moccasins smeared across the face of the wall. To make it over the ledge, he swung from the security camera, sacrificed his grips, and punched up to catch the overhang. He dangled there for a breath and then pommeled around so his back was against the wall. He looked north to the river and took another deep breath. In one fluid motion he vaulted backward, somersaulting over and once again facing the wall.
He skidded down the face and dropped onto the lawn. He dusted the grit from his arms and shirt, expecting that when he turned around he would find a group of outraged socialites. He would have to say something dramatic.
He stood tall, and the murmur flowed on. Two dozen tea candles danced on a waiter’s cocktail tray. Tablecloths billowed and shawls cascaded over elegant necks. White cocktail dresses, white linen suits, white-rimmed sunglasses, and the whites of a hundred eyes all turned to face Owen. Most of the guests looked slightly perturbed, vaguely amused at the gate-crasher, as if a raccoon had dropped from a tree. But they were thoroughly assured someone would soon take care of the situation. The waiter smirked, but continued placing white candles on white tables for white people.
Altberg, in a white panama hat, came tumbling down the hill in grass-crushing heaves. Green blades cowered before him, and he was at Owen’s feet in a bounding instant, never spilling a bubble of his champagne.
—He shows up to the white party in a black T-shirt. You have to love Americans. Rebelling against whatever we’ve got, ladies and gentlemen, the famous Olympian-turned-artist, Owen . . .
Owen scanned the crowd. Half the expressions were flat—presumably the half with money. The most amphibian of toadies smiled politely. The more savvy looked to their hostess, the stately Lady Percy, to determine whether they should feign action or even gallantry. Lady Percy motioned to security.
Watching all this play out and reckoning the inevitable loss of face that would come if the man he’d just a
nnounced were accosted, Altberg ushered Owen to Lady Percy’s table.
Altberg pulled Owen through the sculpture garden. Owen scraped his hip on a rusted iron wedge jutting from the grass hill like an oversize canoe. He passed a recumbent woman, ten feet long and white marble, lustrous with long-wave reds that had made it through the setting sky to graze her knees and glow her arms.
Then Owen’s gaze was pulled to the two most startling people he had ever seen: matching shaved heads, matching white embroidered jackets over matching white embroidered dresses and ropes and ropes of pearls. They raised their eyebrows, stretching a canvas of matching multihued multilayered eyeshadow painted with the exact blue, green, pink, yellow, and orange of a flame about to drown in a pool of melted wax. The couple leaned in and craned their necks. Their movements uncannily, nearly telepathically synchronized.
Owen turned away to find a pair of children on bronze orbs that cut into the grass like snail shells. At the top of the slope one table glowed with a solitary sunbeam, possibly the last direct light in all of Switzerland. That this table should happen to be Lady Percy’s was no coincidence. Two security guards, wearing white polo shirts awkwardly collared around their tree-trunk necks and tight in the biceps, leaned in at her side. Neither guard visibly wore a gun, but neither appeared to need a device to inflict lethal harm.
Conversation still clinked and tittered, but everyone was watching what could very well turn into a violent scene. Lady Percy’s gloved hand was staying the guards for now, but the overbound men snarled as Owen and Altberg approached.
—My lady, may I present one of the most exciting young artists in the world today. We discovered him only recently in Berlin. He is Myron Pfaff’s newest talent. I assure you, when I mentioned he might be dropping in, I had no idea I was speaking so literally.
—Owen, was it? What led you to our little fête in Basel?
Rumor had it that Grace Kelly shadowed Lady Percy to prepare for her role in The Swan. Listening to Lady Percy speak was listening to the template of European aristocracy. She left Owen awed. He managed to stutter something out:
A Brave Man Seven Storeys Tall Page 21