Fake, p.22
Fake, page 22
“That’s just creepy,” I said, looking at the door to the gallery. I’d been trying to sell to young voyeurs all day.
Leah shrugged. “Maybe, but their posts are free marketing for the gallery. Somebody will buy something at some point. Oh, before I forget, Evelyn from Christie’s called, and she is desperate for serious Cecily Brown buyers. Has anybody asked for works by Cecily Brown lately?”
I shook my head. “Isn’t the point of the auction to attract buyers? Why does she need to find them before?”
“Honestly, it’s a valid question. But there’s too much to unpack here. Let’s chat after your first auction. I promise it will make more sense after,” she said.
I nodded, wondering if I’d ever have a command of the art world the way Leah did.
The afternoon was blessedly slow, and Florence left early to get changed for a charity event, while Leah followed at five on the dot, leaving me in the chilly space with only my thoughts for company. The familiar dread of evenings alone that I’d felt at Gemini lodged itself in my chest. I was now busy enough that I should have appreciated the downtime, but a solo evening still looked to me like a long, dark, lonely space filled with thoughts of what I wanted and did not have: furniture, an art career, a loving, functional family, a boyfriend.
I scanned my computer for missed emails, unsent invoices, anything. I thought about rearranging the southernmost wall of the gallery, but it was perfect just as it was. I stared out the glass door at the pedestrian traffic; in a city of four million males, there must be one with whom I could establish a relationship, and then the one I wanted rose again to the top of my mind.
I couldn’t go home, so I texted Jules. She immediately responded that she was at a gallery exhibit on the Lower East Side for one of her best friends, Deepthi Madhavan, and that I should join her. Trying to delay my arrival as not to seem too eager, I walked the twenty or so minutes to the gallery and a space full of people and unremarkable clay sculptures of stretched-out people. However uninspiring the sculptures, the people were so effortlessly cool in their silver-studded leather booties and high-waisted jeans that the art also seemed more interesting, though I felt out of place in my business-casual outfit.
“Hi!” Jules ran up to me with a kiss on each cheek, linking her arm with mine and walking me into the crowd, explaining in a hushed tone that her ex-boyfriend was there so it was imperative that I never leave her side. I was fine with that, not wanting to leave the glow of her spotlight, either. I felt the crowd parting for us, and with every group we passed seeming to take more interest in us than the last, my mood improved. We stopped in front of a cast-bronze sculpture of a long, thin figure kneeling, her thighs folded back over her calves as she sat on her ankles, her hands covering her face so I couldn’t tell if she was crying or praying. I looked around, wondering if the sculpture made anybody else in the room feel acutely depressed, but there was no sign of anything but contentment on people’s faces. I shook off the feeling and plastered a smile on my face, falling in line. We took a few photos in front of it, the best of which I captioned Funday Monday with this beauty and posted it to Instagram.
A few minutes later, Fredrick waved at us from a few people away, and Jules slackened her arm so that mine naturally unlinked as she drifted away. I stood alone, waiting for her to look back at me, but she spent the remainder of the night with her lips pressed against his, directly in the center of the room beside the focal sculpture of the show. Without Jules next to me, I felt acutely alone—more so than during my first twenty minutes alone in the gallery. I made my way through the clusters of people, pretending to contemplate the sculptures when I couldn’t have been less interested, and flashing a smile for selfies that I posted to my stories, before arriving at a small table holding wine bottles in the back right corner, its white paper covering stained with crimson rings. The photos garnered me floating hearts and Where is this?? comments from total strangers, and a slew of messages from people asking if I wanted to “collab” with them on the rollout of a product, but not what I was looking for: any indication that Ryan had seen my post and was wondering where I was. I reached for a bottle of red and poured myself a large serving into a clear plastic cup.
“So, what do you think?” A petite, alluring woman had appeared next to me, her eyes large, soulful puddles and her long dark hair in a loose braid that ended just above her high-waisted pants as she made a Vanna White–style gesture across the room. I contemplated answering that Giacometti was doing in 1920 exactly what this artist was trying to do, and that he’d done it far better, but instead I said, “Exciting stuff.”
“Thank you,” she said, beaming, and I made a mental note to never say exactly what I thought of somebody else’s art.
“You’re Deepthi? Congrats on the show,” I said, shaking her hand. “Emma Caan. I’m a friend of Jules’s,” I added.
“Who?” she asked.
“Jules Braun,” I explained. Your best friend.
“I’m terrible with names,” she said, laughing, but then her face brightened. “Oh! JustJules?” I nodded. “She’s amazing, isn’t she? We’ve never actually met, but we’re obsessed with each other on Instagram. Is she here?” Deepthi looked around the room.
“She is something else,” I said with a nod. “How’s the show going?”
“We’re sold out as of about two minutes ago!” She clenched her teeth as though attempting unsuccessfully to control her excitement.
My congratulations got stuck in my throat as I wondered how on earth it was possible that such an unoriginal sculptor could be more successful than I was. I resolved to show Florence my portfolio tomorrow and extended my glass. “That’s incredible. Well deserved,” I managed, then took a large gulp before drifting away from the table.
I circled the secondhand ideas throughout the room and stood in a daze before a sculpture of a man kneeling on the ground, almost an exact replica of a Giacometti. I took two more pictures of the art, both with hashtags complimenting Deepthi, followed her and immediately received a notification that she’d followed me back, and visited the wine station yet again. On my way back to the center of the room, I did a double take as I spotted Micaela standing beside an iron sculpture of a woman’s legs twisted around a man, looking displeased as she kneaded her right thumb into her left palm. I wondered if she was in pain, but she wasn’t looking at her hand or at the sculpture but through the triangle of negative space between the man’s bent thigh and calf. I moved behind her to see what she saw: Fredrick and Jules, her thin neck stretched even longer as it craned up toward his, and his head bent low as she spoke into his ear.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I said, sliding beside Micaela and contemplating the sculpture, hoping I could distract her from what I was sure was a painful scene. Micaela nodded but kept her gaze on the statue. I pushed on: “You know, I’ve been feeling really bad about something.” She raised one eyebrow but didn’t look at me. “I didn’t know you and Fredrick . . . you know . . .” I trailed off. “I introduced them in Hong Kong. This is totally my fault.” I gestured to him and Jules.
Micaela turned to me, her eyes sharp. “You must have a pretty inflated sense of power if you think you can cause two people to get together just by introducing them,” she said dryly.
“That’s not what I . . .” I should have known Micaela wasn’t the type of girl who would welcome any words of comfort, however ungraceful, in the wake of rejection. “Enjoy the party,” I said, turning back toward the bar for yet another refill.
“I’ve been encouraging him to go for her for months,” Micaela said, stopping me in my tracks.
“Why?” I asked, rejoining her.
She shrugged. “Freddie is a good person,” she said, as though that explained anything, her sharp edges softening into sadness. “I’m not good for his career. I’m not social like she is, and I have no public presence. I’m not going to help sales . . .”
I contemplated arguing with her, but I didn’t think she was fishing for compliments, so I shrugged.
“Look, um . . .” Micaela shifted her weight. “Lenny mentioned that he’s pulling a Chagall for you. For your mother,” she corrected. I nodded, slightly embarrassed. “If she’s looking to liquidate, she should do it privately.”
I cocked my head to the side, giving her a puzzled look.
“Don’t auction it,” she rephrased. “Got it?” She gave me a curt nod and shoved her way through the crowd and out the door without looking back.
I contemplated her words as I bit at a loose piece of skin on my cuticle, prying until it came free in my teeth and left a bloody streak on my index finger. Why shouldn’t my mother sell the work however she wants to? I searched the corners of my mind desperately for a logical explanation. More than likely, Lenny did not want it publicly known that he was in possession of unknown Chagalls, which might trigger a fight for ownership with the artist’s heirs. That must have been the explanation, and while it didn’t make Lenny seem totally aboveboard, it was one I could live with. That needed to be the explanation, because the only other plausible one I could think of for keeping a Chagall sale out of the auction houses and the ensuing press was that the painting Lenny was giving my mother was, in fact, a fake.
Chapter
16
AGENT GARRITT:
So, your work for Leonard Sobetsky was strictly as a copier?
EMMA CAAN:
Correct.
AGENT TILLWELL:
Do you think working as a copier made you more attuned to spotting fakes versus originals?
EMMA CAAN:
Maybe. I don’t know. More attuned than whom?
AGENT TILLWELL:
Fair enough. While you were copying, did you ever try to sell your own works?
EMMA CAAN:
Yes.
AGENT TILLWELL:
And?
EMMA CAAN:
Let’s just say it didn’t quite go how I’d hoped.
I couldn’t sleep that night, with Micaela’s advice ringing in my ears, and at about three o’clock in the morning, I finally lifted my phone from the nightstand and googled Marc Chagall. I breathed a sigh of relief to see that he had actually lived at 4 East Seventy-Fourth Street with his first wife. Artists stored art all the time in their living/work spaces, and sometimes it came to light only years after their passing. I put my phone away and pounded my fists into the sides of my pillow to fluff it up, reminding myself that Micaela’s advice might have been motivated by any number of things; but sleep still eluded me.
As my mind raced, it became occupied by visions of last night’s sculptures and the obviously recycled ideas that were somehow garnering attention in the art world. When daylight overtook the last of the dark corners of my bedroom, I got up, showered, and headed to work with a new resolve. Once there, I grabbed the flash drive from my desk drawer, inhaled deeply, and knocked on Florence’s door, my knuckles on the wood sending nervous shock waves up my arm. It seemed as though all my artistic pursuits—art classes, college, Gemini—had culminated in this moment, when a mega-gallerist would review my work. I couldn’t stop my brain from barreling forward into million-dollar checks, getting my mother whatever she needed and wanted with no questions asked, buying my own apartment, a glowing review from Jerry Saltz and a full-page spread in the Times Arts & Leisure section. . .
“Florence?” I began. She looked up from her desk, seeming to expect something important. “I have learned so much in the short amount of time I’ve worked for you about what it takes to sell art. I don’t think I quite understood the market before I went to Hong Kong and had the invaluable experience of interacting with customers.” I slipped my fingers in my pocket and wrapped them around the small plastic rectangle, then took my hand out. “I was hoping you could take a look at my portfolio sometime. Whenever you have time. No rush. Of course.”
Florence contemplated me with an inscrutable expression for what felt like an eternity. “Are you quitting?” she asked.
“No! No. Just looking for your opinion,” I stammered. “I’d like to keep working here regardless . . .”
“Good. Glad to hear it. Sure,” she said. Why did her response feel like a dismissal?
“Actually, I have it here,” I offered, extending the flash drive to her.
“Great,” she said, and though she seemed a little stressed, she uncapped the flash drive and shoved it into the port of her laptop.
“I didn’t mean you need to look right this minute!” I said, realizing that until she evaluated it, I could hang on to the hope that she might be dazzled.
“Now is fine,” she said, putting on glasses I’d never seen on her and leaning toward her screen. I swallowed so hard my ears popped, and I was hyperaware of the hiss of the air coming from the ceiling vent and the incessant ticking of the second hand on the clock above Florence’s whiteboard. My eyes grazed every surface of the room to avoid the torturous exercise of attempting to discern her expression.
She finally looked up at me. “These are the same works you submitted a few years ago, are they not?”
Everything stopped.
I no longer heard the vent or the clock, only a faint buzzing in my ears, and I struggled to form words. “I didn’t realize you actually reviewed it last time. I thought . . . I thought maybe you overlooked my submission because you never mentioned it to me,” I managed, mortified.
Florence looked at me over her glasses for an uncomfortable moment before taking them off. “I try not to mention submissions I pass on because I figure it might be painful,” she said evenly. “I give careful consideration to every single submission that comes across my desk. It’s very brave for any artist to share their work. I’ve been in the business quite some time, and I still feel honored any time an artist asks for my opinion.” She paused. It was the most empathetic, kindest version of Florence I had ever seen, and I resented her for it, as though her thinking I was weak made me so, her thinking she was crushing my dreams made it so.
“And it’s important to remember that my opinion is just that—an opinion,” she continued. “Everybody has one. I’m one of millions.” I heard only a few of her words. “Brave . . . I would suggest . . . Perhaps a different medium . . . really advanced technically but somehow . . .” She trailed off there, searching for the word.
“Detached,” I reluctantly finished her sentence for her.
“Yes. Exactly.” She paused and furrowed her brow. “If you knew that these weren’t quite there—”
I shrugged before she could finish. I didn’t know why I had hoped she’d see the brilliance in what nobody else did.
“If you love painting, you should keep painting. And in the meantime, you’ve become an invaluable member of the Florence Wake team,” she said, and I tuned out as she continued flattering my sales capabilities.
Eventually, I choked out a thank-you to her for taking the time to review my portfolio (again), apologized for wasting her time, and escaped out of the studio. I closed the door behind me and stared out into the gallery. One of the tiniest bones to be thrown from the universe: Leah still hadn’t arrived at work, so at least I had a moment to myself.
I stood and considered my options. I could cry, or apply to other gallery jobs so I didn’t have a daily reminder of my humiliation, or just suck it up. I chose the last option, spending the next few hours rearranging the wall abutting the Starbucks and making two sales in a manic, vibrating state. Leah sneaked in quietly around eleven, far too preoccupied with her own tardiness and the night before to ask any questions about my mood. The afternoon was busy with a steady flow of customers, and it was still light outside when Florence and Leah took off for the evening. It occurred to me that I didn’t have a television or even a couch, and all there was for me to do in the enormous place where I now lived was contemplate my own inadequacies as an artist.
I pulled out my phone and texted Sienna to see if she wanted to get a drink, and then pinged Lenny to say that my night had freed up in case he had any work. I willed an ellipsis to appear beneath his name and then a project to fill my time—preferably something post-worthy. I opened Instagram to keep my brain occupied. My feed was filled with news sources and celebrities posting about the chemical plant explosion in Illinois that sparked a fire that was currently ravaging a small town. My heart rate quickened as I attempted to scroll past them. The art community had posted photos, sending well wishes and links for donations. I closed my eyes but still saw the flames, the scorched earth and devastation. Then I saw her, and I could practically feel the heat of the flames. I tore my eyes open, thinking that would be somehow better.
I looked down at my right hand as my left held my phone at my side, and I fanned my fingers apart, watching them shake and jump as though the concrete beneath me were vibrating. Suddenly, I saw a small spark of light appear on the nail of my right index finger. The spark ignited and traveled up my arm, bursting my sleeve into flames. I jumped backward and dropped my phone to the floor and swatted frantically at my forearm to suffocate the fire, but it was gone. I ran my hand over my forearm, and it was cool to the touch. I exhaled shakily. Memories of the fire always seemed to seep out of the cracks that formed when things fell apart.
I placed my palm over my heart, begging it not to pop through my ribs, and watched as my phone mercifully distracted me by glowing from the floor and dinging out into the empty gallery. Though the screen was now cracked, I could see that Lenny had responded, and I bent down and picked up the phone, blowing the sparkling shards into the air around me.
LENNY: Micaela will be in touch with a number of projects before the weekend. I will pull the Chagall ASAP. But if you’re still free tonight, come to Balthazar. Sergey and I are here waiting for a buyer. We’d love you to join us for dinner.
