Read Online The Genius by Jesse Kellerman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jesse Kellerman
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Psychological, Psychological fiction, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective, Mystery Fiction, New York (N.Y.), Psychological aspects, Drawing, Art galleries; Commercial, Drawing - Psychological aspects
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a canvas was little more than an expensive ticket to an exclusive party. I am forever astonished at how men with money and brains—men who control world markets, run major corporations, have the ear of politicians—become dribbling imbeciles in front of a painting. Not knowing where to begin, they run to the nearest source of guidance, no matter how biased or mercenary.
In a spectacular display of poor judgment, Hollister had hired Marilyn as a consultant, giving her what amounted to a private tap on his bank account. Needless to say, she had sold him work exclusively by artists she represented, barking at anyone who tried to step onto her territory. Earlier she had told me, “He doesn’t appreciate that a world-class collection is the product of thought and patience, and cannot be created in one fell swoop. But I’m happy to help him try.”
I’d met him once or twice, but we’d never spoken for more than a few minutes, and never about art. That Marilyn had brought him tonight meant one of two things: she thought Victor Cracke was good, or she considered me and my art no threat at all to her monopoly.
“I’m expanding his horizons,” she said. She winked at me and went to take Hollister’s arm.
I worked the room all evening, chatting up the usual suspects. Jocko Steinberger, who looked as though he hadn’t shaved since his own opening the previous December, came and spent the whole evening staring catatonically at one drawing. We had a surprise visit from Étienne St. Mauritz, who, along with Castelli and Emmerich, used to be one of the premier American dealers. Now he was old, a liver-spotted demigod being wheeled around by a woman in a long fur coat and Christian Louboutin heels. He thought the work excellent and told me so.
Nat brought his boyfriend and they hit it off talking to another dealer named Glenn Steiger, a former assistant to Ken Noland with a dirty mouth and an arsenal of dirty stories. As I passed them I overheard him saying, “…tried to buy a canvas from me with forty-eight thousand dollars… in one-dollar bills… that fucking
reeked
of marijuana… fucking
playground
money…”
Ruby, her hair in a complex plait, had sequestered herself near the Cracke journals. I’d never met her date before, although she’d spoken of him in the past.
“Ethan, this is Lance DePauw.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Same here.” Lance’s eyes were bloodshot and in constant motion. He, too, smelled like playground money. “This is some pretty crazy shit.”
“We’ve been looking at the food journal,” Ruby said. “I find it comforting, the way he always ate the same thing. My mom used to pack me lunches, and she’d always give me the same sandwich, cream cheese and jelly. That’s what this reminds me of.”
“That,” Lance said, “or prison.”
We all looked at the food journal for a moment.
Lance said, “Whack.”
From across the room, Marilyn waved at me. I excused myself and went over to talk to Hollister. His handshake was not at all the masculine vise clamp you’d expect, but dry and wary. I noticed also that he had a manicure.
“We were just admiring this piece,” Marilyn said.
“Good choice,” I said.
“Am I right in thinking this is the center of the piece? Ethan?”
I nodded. “Panel number one.”
“How biz
arre
,” Marilyn said. “What
are
those? Babies?”
“They look like cherubs,” said Hollister.
“Funny you say that,” I said. “That’s how we refer to them. ‘Victor’s Cherubs.’ ”
At the center of panel one was a five-pointed star, its dull brown an uncharacteristically muted note in an otherwise lurid palette. Around it danced a ring of winged children, their beatific faces in stark contrast to the rest of the map, which teemed with agitation and bloodshed. Victor had been a very capable draftsman, but evidently these figures had been important enough to him that he wanted to take no chances:
In a spectacular display of poor judgment, Hollister had hired Marilyn as a consultant, giving her what amounted to a private tap on his bank account. Needless to say, she had sold him work exclusively by artists she represented, barking at anyone who tried to step onto her territory. Earlier she had told me, “He doesn’t appreciate that a world-class collection is the product of thought and patience, and cannot be created in one fell swoop. But I’m happy to help him try.”
I’d met him once or twice, but we’d never spoken for more than a few minutes, and never about art. That Marilyn had brought him tonight meant one of two things: she thought Victor Cracke was good, or she considered me and my art no threat at all to her monopoly.
“I’m expanding his horizons,” she said. She winked at me and went to take Hollister’s arm.
I worked the room all evening, chatting up the usual suspects. Jocko Steinberger, who looked as though he hadn’t shaved since his own opening the previous December, came and spent the whole evening staring catatonically at one drawing. We had a surprise visit from Étienne St. Mauritz, who, along with Castelli and Emmerich, used to be one of the premier American dealers. Now he was old, a liver-spotted demigod being wheeled around by a woman in a long fur coat and Christian Louboutin heels. He thought the work excellent and told me so.
Nat brought his boyfriend and they hit it off talking to another dealer named Glenn Steiger, a former assistant to Ken Noland with a dirty mouth and an arsenal of dirty stories. As I passed them I overheard him saying, “…tried to buy a canvas from me with forty-eight thousand dollars… in one-dollar bills… that fucking
reeked
of marijuana… fucking
playground
money…”
Ruby, her hair in a complex plait, had sequestered herself near the Cracke journals. I’d never met her date before, although she’d spoken of him in the past.
“Ethan, this is Lance DePauw.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Same here.” Lance’s eyes were bloodshot and in constant motion. He, too, smelled like playground money. “This is some pretty crazy shit.”
“We’ve been looking at the food journal,” Ruby said. “I find it comforting, the way he always ate the same thing. My mom used to pack me lunches, and she’d always give me the same sandwich, cream cheese and jelly. That’s what this reminds me of.”
“That,” Lance said, “or prison.”
We all looked at the food journal for a moment.
Lance said, “Whack.”
From across the room, Marilyn waved at me. I excused myself and went over to talk to Hollister. His handshake was not at all the masculine vise clamp you’d expect, but dry and wary. I noticed also that he had a manicure.
“We were just admiring this piece,” Marilyn said.
“Good choice,” I said.
“Am I right in thinking this is the center of the piece? Ethan?”
I nodded. “Panel number one.”
“How biz
arre
,” Marilyn said. “What
are
those? Babies?”
“They look like cherubs,” said Hollister.
“Funny you say that,” I said. “That’s how we refer to them. ‘Victor’s Cherubs.’ ”
At the center of panel one was a five-pointed star, its dull brown an uncharacteristically muted note in an otherwise lurid palette. Around it danced a ring of winged children, their beatific faces in stark contrast to the rest of the map, which teemed with agitation and bloodshed. Victor had been a very capable draftsman, but evidently these figures had been important enough to him that he wanted to take no chances:
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