“And I have a feeling that if you and I stand in that part of the garden together, you’ll think of an artist who’d never occur to me.”
“Only one way to find out.”
“You’re an angel.”
“When would be good?”
“Well. That’s the thing.”
“What?”
“It’s horribly boring and awful, but we have people coming over. Middle of next week. The Chens, from Beijing, do you know them?”
Fuck yes. Zhi and Hong Chen, real estate trillionaires, who buy art the way kids buy comics, which is not true anymore even of the richest Americans. They’re Chinese, for God’s sake, they’re the hope (and, well, maybe the destruction) of the future.
“I know of them.”
“She’s lovely. He can be a bit of a bore, frankly. I’m going to invite the Rinxes, to help me with Hong. Anne Rinx actually speaks Mandarin, did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Anyway. At the very least, I think the Krim needs to be gone by then.”
“Do you think the Chens are bringing schnauzers?”
Ha.
Okay, not that funny. Remember, Peter: you are some hybrid of friend and hired help. You have latitude, but you can’t get uppity.
“I’d love to have something new in its place by then. If that’s even remotely possible.”
“Many things are possible. The trouble is, I’m hanging a new show this week.”
“Are you?”
“Victoria Hwang. Did you get the invitation?”
“Oh, I’m sure I did. This week is out, then?”
“Let’s think a minute. I could probably run up there late-ish on Wednesday afternoon.”
“If it’s too late in the day, the light will be gone. That part of the garden only gets light until around five.”
“I can get there before five.”
“Really and truly?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re a complete angel.”
“More than glad. I’ll have Uta check the trains, that’ll be faster than a car.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re entirely welcome.”
“You’ll call and let me know about the train? Gus’ll pick you up at the station.”
“Great.”
“I love you.”
“Love you, too. Bye.”
“Bye.”
Peter clicks off, gives himself a moment. Kings and queens, popes and merchant princes, were surely far more demanding than Carole Potter. Funny thing is, he likes Carole, and part of what he likes about her, perversely enough, is her aristocratic sense of entitlement. Without rich people who want it done now, who would animate the free world? In theory, you want everyone to live peacefully according to their needs, along the banks of a river. In fact, you worry that you’d die of boredom there. In fact, you get a buzz from someone like Carole Potter, who keeps prize chickens and could teach a graduate course in landscaping; who maintains a staff of four (more in the summers, during High Guest Season); a handsome, slightly ridiculous husband; a beautiful daughter at Harvard and an incorrigible son doing something or other on Bondi Beach; Carole who is charming and self-deprecating and capable, if pushed, of a hostile indifference crueler than any form of rage; who reads novels and goes to movies and theater and yes, yes, bless her, buys art, serious art, about which she actually fucking knows a thing or two.
The energy these people possess. The degree to which they care.
So, okay. One more job for Tyler. Get up there pronto, and make the Krim disappear.
And what can be magically summoned to take its place?
Hm. A Rupert Groff might be perfect, mightn’t it?
Of course it might. He can see it clearly, instantly: a Groff urn, shimmering in the shade at the far end of Carole’s southern lawn, the least cultivated and most English of her outdoor realm, all lavender and hollyhock and mossy pond. It’s the ideal spot for a Groff, one of the asymmetrical but heroic bronze urns that looks like some sort of pomo classic from a distance but proves, on closer inspection, to be inscribed all over with profanities, political screeds, instructions for building pipe bombs, recipes for eating the rich. This is, of course, what’s troubling about Groff—his satires of wildly expensive, beautiful things that actually are, as it happens, wildly expensive, beautiful things. Which is meant to be part of the joke. Which Carole Potter will appreciate.
She’ll also appreciate the idea that Peter is representing Groff. Admit it: Carole is cooling on you, and the failure of the Krim doesn’t help. Peter has been at this for almost two decades, and has never graduated to the majors. He’s been loyal to a body of artists who’ve done well enough, but not spectacularly. If he doesn’t step up soon, he can probably expect to grow old as a solid, minor dealer, respected but not feared.
It’d be good, it’d be very good, for the Chens to see one of those urns glowing in Carole’s garden. He can probably count on Carole to mention his name.
Would it be ghoulish to call Bette so soon?
“Hey, Bette.”
“Hello, Peter. Nice to see you yesterday.”
“So, the day after, what do we think about the shark?”
“Personally, I think it’s a dead shark in a big iron box and I can’t wait to get to Spain and start worrying about tomatoes.”
“Carole Potter just called me. She’s been trying out a Krim at her place in Greenwich.”
“Carole is great. You’re lucky to have her.”
“It’s thumbs down on the Krim, though.”
“Can you blame her? I mean, for one thing, they smell.”
“She has it outside.”
“Still.”
“So, listen.”
“You want to show her some Groffs.”
“Were you serious yesterday?”
“Of course I was. I was going to call him today.”
“Here’s the thing.”
“What?”
“Momma wants the Krim gone now and something else in its place, like, tomorrow. She has the Chens coming over.”
“The Chens are murderers.”
“Do you know anyone they’ve actually killed?”
“You know what I mean. It’s robber barons, all over again.”
“Does this mean that I’m foul and corrupt?”
“No. I don’t know. You have to sell it all to somebody. And hey, it’d be good for Rupert.”
“So you’ll call him.”
“Mm-hm. Right now.”
“You’re the best.”
“I’m thinking about my Spanish tomatoes.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
Ugh.
Just do it. Just push on through. Remember: it’s in the service of something. Remember that all this is quite possibly (please, God) leading you to connect with some genius, unknown, unknowable, some Prometheus who is now a child in Dayton, Ohio, or an adolescent in Bombay or a mystic in the jungles of Ecuador.
* * *
The day progresses.
Thirty-seven new e-mails. Answer fifteen of them, leave the rest for later.
Make more calls.
Tyler and his crew arrive, start crating the Vincents. Uta handles that. Peter says a quick hello, hides out in his office.
“Victoria, it’s Peter again, just letting you know that the Vincents are on their way out, you could bring your stuff over any time.”
New e-mail, from Glen Howard. He’s had a studio visit from the Biennial people, clearly his star is ascending, maybe Peter wants to rethink the idea of giving him only the back gallery in September.
Glen, the Biennial people visit hundreds of artists, and even if they choose you, you’d be surprised at how little difference it makes. Look at the Biennial list from ten years ago. You won’t recognize a single name.
Think about how to phrase that. It can wait until after lunch.
“Peter, it’s Bette. I called Rupert, he’s expecting to hear from you.
”
She gives him the number.
“You’re the greatest,” he says.
“Don’t mention it.”
There’s a wry weariness in her voice—has she decided that Peter is, in the final analysis, just another one of the assholes?
Fuck that. He can in all likelihood sell a Groff right away, and that’s what artists need from their dealers, right? They need them to sell the work. Groff’s at a tricky juncture—he’s not yet celebrated enough to command huge prices, but his work costs a fortune to make.
Call Rupert Groff. Get his voice mail. “Hey, it’s Groff, you know what to do.”
“Rupert, this is Peter Harris. Friend of Bette Rice. Love to talk to you when you’ve got a minute.”
Leave the number.
Call out for lunch, for himself and Uta and Tyler and his crew. Uta’s busy—Peter Harris, a Very Good Boss, doesn’t mind making the call. For him, Caesar salad with grilled chicken, or smoked turkey wrap? Salad. Summer’s coming, time to cut out the carbs. (At what age do you stop worrying about things like that?) Then again, there’s his funny stomach (cancer?). Turkey wrap.
Seventeen new e-mails since the last time he checked. One from Victoria—she’ll do anything to avoid a conversation. PETER, IM DOING A FEW FINISHING TOUCHES WILL HAVE THE WORK THERE TMROW 11 AM LATEST, XXX V
VIC, THAT’S GREAT, SEE YOU TOMORROW AT 11, YOU WILL OF COURSE LET ME KNOW IF I CAN HELP IN ANY WAY.
Bobby arrives at noon to cut his hair. “Hello, handsome.” Bobby’s as flirtatious with Peter as Peter is with his middle-aged women clients, and probably for the same reasons. Still, Bobby is good, and he’s willing to make house calls on Mondays, when all the salons are as shuttered as the art galleries.
They go into the bathroom together, and Bobby gets to work. Bobby is a monologist, Peter drifts in and out.
He’s met an Argentinian, a little older than he but drop-dead gorgeous (Bobby has never, it seems, met any man who wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous), he wants to take Bobby to Buenos Aires for a week but Bobby’s not sure, I mean, I’ve been there before, right, Peter? I mean they seem nice enough but then you get to some faraway place with them and they’re paying all the bills and they expect, well, never mind what they expect (it’s a tradition between them that Bobby implies dark sexual acts but never goes into detail), and frankly, well, you know me…
There’s more. There’s always more (how does Bobby do it, how does he never run out of things to say?), and Peter gets drifty (will Groff call him back, has he lost Bette’s respect?). Then:
“Peter, darling, have you thought about getting rid of some of this gray?”
Huh?
“Just a thought. What’re you, forty-five?”
“Forty-four.”
“We’d do it gradually. Week by week. I mean, you wouldn’t show up one day with the gray all gone. People wouldn’t even notice.”
Something like a trapdoor opens in Peter’s belly.
“I guess I’d thought it was sort of… distinguished.”
He doesn’t tell Bobby he’d thought it was sort of… sexy.
“Distinguished is, like, sixty. You’d look ten years younger.”
Peter is taken by a surprising tumble of feeling. Does he really look that old? Is it pathetic to want to look younger? He couldn’t, really, could he, even if he wanted to? People would notice, no matter how gradually it occurred; he would be a man who colored his hair and he would lose his seriousness forever, though maybe Bobby could just get rid of some of the gray, like half, and people really wouldn’t notice, they’d just think he looked more vital and, okay, a little less old.
Fuck you, Bobby. Why did you bring it up?
“I don’t think so,” he says.
“Think about it, okay?”
“Sure.”
Bobby finishes, pockets his cash. Peter walks him to the front door, past Tyler and his crew, who are not, it seems, in any particular hurry to get the Vincents down. Shaved-headed Carl, one of Tyler’s assistants, gives Peter a look—is it possible he thinks Peter is fucking Bobby? Fine, let him think so.
On the sidewalk Bobby kisses the vicinity of Peter’s face, hops onto his pale blue Vespa, and putt-putts off. Bobby is like the girls in forties comedies, pretty and avid and calculating, still young enough to be confident that the big surprises are yet to come, worried only about whether or not to go to Argentina with some lothario. There he goes, pert and unapologetically trivial, off to the next adventure.
Peter walks back in. Back to business.
Another dozen e-mails. Read them later. Right now, reply to Glen Howard.
HEY, GLEN, HOW GREAT ABOUT THE BIENNIAL PEOPLE! HERE’S HOPING THEY HAVE THE GOOD SENSE TO TAKE YOU. SORRY TO SAY THE FRONT GALLERY IS COMPLETELY BOOKED FOR THE FALL, BUT I PROMISE WE’LL GIVE YOU A BEAUTIFUL SHOW AND WILL GET A ZILLION PEOPLE TO COME SEE IT. YR OWN, P.
Rupert Groff calls back.
“Hey there, Peter Harris. What’s up?” He sounds shockingly young.
“You know Bette’s retiring, right?”
“Yeah. Big drag.”
“I’m a fan of your work.”
“Thanks.”
“Could I take you to dinner some night soon?”
“Sure.”
“What’s your schedule like?”
“Kind of fucked this week. Maybe, like, week from Wednesday.”
“That’d be fine. But listen. I have a very good client who might buy a piece right now, and she’s having a party for some other people who buy a lot of art. If you’re interested, I could handle it as an adviser. It wouldn’t mean I was your new dealer, there wouldn’t be any obligations, no hard feelings if you go with somebody else. But I’m pretty sure I could get this sale for you, and it might very well lead to others.”
“That sounds good.”
“So here’s what I think. Let’s plan on dinner a week from Wednesday, but why don’t I come out to your studio sooner than that, and we can talk about what might be right for my client.”
“I don’t have a lot of work to show you right now.”
“What have you got?”
“I’ve got a couple of new bronzes. And some terra-cotta stuff I’m messing around with, but it’s not really ready yet.”
“I’d be happy to see a couple of new bronzes.”
“Okay. Want to come by tomorrow afternoon?”
“Sure. What time is good?”
“Like, maybe, four?”
“Four is good.”
“I’m in Bushwick.”
He provides the address. Peter writes it down.
“See you tomorrow at four, then.”
“Right.”
Three new e-mails. One from Glen.
PETER, M’LOVE, NO SECRETS BETWEEN MEN OF HONOR, I’VE GOT AN OFFER FROM ANOTHER PLACE WHICH I’D RATHER NOT TAKE CUZ YR MY GUY BUT THESE PEOPLE ARE VERY HOT ABOUT MY STUFF AND NOW THE BIENNIAL AND, YOU KNOW, I FEEL LIKE THINGS ARE STARTING TO HAPPEN FOR ME WHICH I CAN’T QUITE BELIEVE CUZ YOU KNOW, SELF-ESTEEM ISSUES AND ALL 6 ANYWAY I LOVE YOU AND I WONDER IF YOU AND I COULD GRAB LUNCH SOMETIME SOON AND TALK, WHAT DO YOU SAY, MANFRIEND? XXX
Hm. So, Peter is someone to whom a young, semi-obscure artist thinks he can apply pressure.
Don’t panic, not even a little. Glen is a good painter who’s probably attracted the interest (assuming he’s not bluffing) of some storefront in Williamsburg, and really, he’s an unlikely candidate for the Biennial—rumor has it the curators are doing almost nothing but sculpture, installation, and video this time.
HEY, GLEN, I AM IN FACT YOUR MANFRIEND, LET’S ABSOLUTELY HAVE LUNCH AND DISCUSS YOUR BRILLIANT FUTURE. I’M HANGING THE NEW SHOW THIS WEEK, WHAT ABOUT SOMETIME NEXT? YRS., P.
Okay, Glen. Let’s see if a nice lunch and some reassurance about my lifelong devotion will carry the day. If not: go with my blessings.
Or…
If you really do land Groff…
Face it, opening the season with Groff in the front gallery would
be big. There’s the piece on him scheduled for the September Art in America, and it’s at least half likely that Newton at MoMA will buy one, Groff is MoMA’s kind of thing—substantial, and dead serious.
Peter can feel it happening—he’s getting psyched about Groff. Yes, right, there are reasons to question the monumentality, the preciousness (in the literal sense); the whole idea of a return to art as treasure, to that which is hammered and encrusted, beautifully made, meant to stand in palaces and cathedrals. The work is, however, genuinely perverse—your aunt Mildred might say, from a certain distance, now that’s a lovely thing, but when she looks closely she’ll see the incised names of every African worker who’s died in a diamond mine (Groff must invent at least some of them, surely accurate records aren’t kept); she’ll see excerpts from the Unabomber’s diary and autopsy reports of prison suicides and perfectly rendered fetish porn, both gay and straight; all neatly ordered as hieroglyphs. Meant by implication to be dug up in ten thousand years.
And besides, aren’t we getting a little tired of all that art made of string and tinfoil, which, by the way, sells for insane sums? Haven’t we drifted into a realm in which trash is treated de facto as treasure?
If he lands Groff…
How shitty would it be to reschedule the Lahkti show? Or ask him to take the back gallery? Peter could free up the back gallery by encouraging Glen to grab the offer from this start-up in Williamsburg, I mean, Glen, you’re on the fucking cusp, you should be with someone edgier than me…
It would be shitty. Word would get around, too.
And the word would be…
That Peter Harris turns out to be a man who can make things happen. Peter Harris can pluck a young star from Bette Rice’s defunct operation and give him what would in all likelihood be one of the fall’s more spectacular shows. Yes, it would hurt Peter’s reputation among some artists. Some artists. Others, some of the more ambitious ones (Groff, surely, among them), would be impressed. If you’re hot, if you’ve got potential, Peter can do what it takes to get you out there now.
This funky stomach just won’t quit. What are the symptoms of stomach cancer? Does stomach cancer exist at all? Okay, take it a step at a time. All you’ve got from Groff at the moment is a studio visit and a dinner date.
By Nightfall Page 8