The Prize (5 page)

“She said she hoped you'd be back soon. She was feeling anxious and needed to speak to you.”

Georgia filled him in on a few other business matters before they hung up. He debated whether to phone Agnes or wait until he returned to New York. He knew he held more power if he kept her at a slight distance but did not want to take any chances of alienating her. They were expecting her new work not only to boost the bottom line but to revive their cachet. It had been four years since she'd last shown. She was elusive and mysterious about the work in progress. The longer she waited to show it to Edward, the more she upped the ante. He didn't want to pressure her, but he knew that an artist in her position needed to show new work every few years to maintain her star power. The last time he'd gone to her studio she was working on one of her mural-like paintings and was dissatisfied with her figures. She said that Rembrandt together with his students produced thousands of drawings and was convinced they improved his paintings. She asked if Edward would sit for her. She made three or four quick sketches using charcoal until she was pleased with one. When the sketch was done, they looked at it together. It was different from the face he saw in the mirror. It wasn't unattractive or ugly, but it was far from handsome. It had been sketched quickly, with fierce strokes. He could make out the faint dimple of his chin and the slope of his slender nose, but it was the eyes that struck him. They were serious, dark, with formidable circles—piercing and sad. She had captured something, and as he gazed at the drawing it reminded him of the way he'd felt when
he lost his father. Or when he thought too hard about himself. Or when his heart was broken.

Before going into the museum he sent May, the widow of the founder of the gallery, a message to let her know about Henning's work and that he intended to secure a group of paintings to sell at the gallery. Before his success with Agnes Murray, every time he wanted to take on a new artist's work, he had presented an analysis of numbers and market value, drawing comparisons with other successful artists working in the same vein, even though at the end of the day it was all speculative. A dealer placed a price on a piece of art, and since the market was unregulated, anything was possible. He was glad he no longer had to go through that song and dance.

The last quarter, they'd been down, and he'd had a few sleepless nights. He'd been particularly anxious about not being able to get a clear timeline from Agnes. She was dragging her goddamn feet and in the meantime they were losing money. Selling some of Henning's work would help them through the next quarter. He was in the process of selecting a new gallery to mount a show for Agnes in Berlin, and that morning, after a couple of calls before the lecture, he'd made some inroads. Now that he had decided to take on some of Henning's work and was close to closing a deal for Agnes, his time wouldn't be wasted, and he felt he could attempt to enjoy himself.

He hated having to think this way. He wanted to be able to let Agnes take her time, not to feel that his fate hinged on hers.

He tucked his phone in his pocket and walked into the museum. There was a small exhibition of Bonnard he wanted to see and he followed the signs to the gallery. Bonnard was one of his favorites. The paintings evoked a world secure and safe in its privilege and taste—a cultivated bourgeoisie in which, money, security, art,
talent, and new ideas exist in peaceful harmony, a world insulated from catastrophe.

He stood before
Le petit déjeuner
. It was such a peaceful, romantic painting, full of light and mystery. He admired the exuberance in the colors and the afternoon glow from the window. He felt his shoulders loosen. He hadn't realized he'd been tense. The colors reminded him of the warm tones of red and yellow that Julia wore. He thought of her and pictured her inside the painting. She, too, seemed of another world, or in Berlin, away from his own life, she appeared so. He sat down on the bench across from the painting and then imagined himself in it with her.

4 NEW YORK

A
FTER A SUCCESSFUL
studio visit, the thing to do was to invite the artist to the gallery and begin the seduction. Relaxed in turtleneck and navy jacket, Leonard took the seat next to Agnes around a large glass table. Edward sat across from them. Leonard was a small man with soft eyes, a knowing smile, and a reputation for excellent taste. His expertise was not only in spotting young talent but in putting a particular artist with the right dealer. He and Edward had worked together before and were close friends. It was two weeks after Edward's first visit to Agnes's studio in Bushwick, when he had seen her paintings for the first time.

Agnes glanced at Leonard and he nodded for her to proceed. With a sweep of her eyes she scanned the open conference room with views into the gallery, and then, as if pleased, relaxed in her chair. She'd cleaned up for the meeting as if to set in her couture what she demanded for her work, looking more like a starving model than an artist, hair in a twist, draped in an expensive-looking peasant blouse, black slacks, and high short boots, a gloss of blackberry stain on her lips, large apricot-gold hoops in her ears, Prada bag slung over her shoulder. She asserted that her former dealer never understood her work. She didn't like the crowded way he hung her paintings and that in the catalogue he misrepresented her intentions.

“I'm quite frankly hurt by his callousness. I think there were like two reviews.”

“Let's just say Morgenstein doesn't engage in the details,” Leonard conceded. “He's a broad-strokes guy. We're looking for the opposite.”

“You've been painting since you were a child, haven't you?” Edward pointedly asked.

She nodded. “How did you know?”

“It's all there.”

“That means a lot. I never felt that Morgenstein understood me.”

“How can we make the experience different for you?”

She twisted a lock of hair that had come loose behind her ear, glanced at the catalogues and printouts of excellent reviews arranged on the table to impress her, and quickly hid her smile. “I suppose if the work is as brilliant as you say, I should have all of it,” she said, nodding toward the reviews. She pulled at another spring of hair. “Exploit what you need to, that's Nate's motto,” she said. “But it has to be genuine. And I don't want just anyone buying my paintings. It's hard to part from them. I'd like to approve the buyers.”

“Our clients are serious art collectors.”

“It isn't that
I
alone deserve to be taken seriously. It's what every serious artist deserves. Otherwise, what is the point to it all?” She pulled back her shoulders and sat tall.

“Of course it is. Tell me, where does it come from? If we're going to exploit, er, rather, authenticate you, let's begin there.” Edward grinned.

She pulled down her blouse, which had crept up, and shook back her hair, content that he'd taken it upon himself to want to
make her known. She explained that many of her ancestors had died in the Irish Famine or on the immigrant ships. Her father's parents had nothing when they arrived. He had started out as a doorman in a fancy building and now owned a fleet of hotels. Like many children of immigrants, she suffered from survivor's guilt and proving her self-worth through her art was the source of her bottomless ambition.

“That's interesting. My father was a scholar of Romantic poetry. That might have something to do with what I became,” Edward added, more to establish a connection.

“You're Harold Darby's son?” She twirled her swivel chair toward him, impressed. “He was a genius. I read his book on the Romantic period. My father has the soul of a poet too. Our name, Murray, it's Gaelic. It means ‘of the sea.' Sea master. Everything I paint is in a way for him. He's my rudder.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back, pleased with himself. The meeting had gone like clockwork.

A
FTER THE MEETING
, Edward invited Agnes and Leonard to an expensive lunch at the Gramercy Park Café. Leonard bowed out, saying he had another meeting across town. Astor Mayweather, known as May, was the widow of an automobile heir who founded the gallery. After her husband died, she became the principal of the gallery, taking over the business side, and hired Edward to be, in her words, her eyes. Before departing for lunch, she told Edward to order the most expensive wine on the list. “You might not think these young bohemians care about expensive things. But believe me, they're voracious. Narcissism and ambition are not a good combination.” She grinned. Nothing got past her.

At the restaurant, with its wood-beamed ceilings and elegant understatement, Edward heeded May's advice and ordered a penetrating cabernet from the South of France. Agnes stopped the waiter attempting to fill her glass, holding her hand over her goblet and saying she rarely drank at lunch, and then conceded, asking for a little bit. She was shapely in all the right places, but thin, almost anorexic. Food did not interest or excite her. She ordered a salad of macrobiotic greens and a side of asparagus and barely finished either dish. Her sense of pleasure derived solely from her work, as if she experienced the world only to see what elements would go into her canvas. She exuded an atmosphere of unattainability and otherworldly glow. She touched Edward. It was all so genuinely important to her.

“You're sort of a Renaissance man, aren't you? One can always tell. Nate's more of a . . . well, I don't know how to describe him. He's not an intellectual. He's more muscular. Physical. He paints with his body.” She sipped her wine and blinked up at him from the rim of her glass. “If we are going to work together, then I have to be able to tell you everything. I'm worried that I'll always be seen in Nate's shadow. You're the only one I've ever said that to. I feel guilty for saying it. We're very much in love.”

“When I saw your work for the first time, at your studio, I had no idea you were engaged to Fisher. The work was completely your own.”

“You didn't know we were a couple? Really?”

He shook his head. It was true. He hardly read the gossip columns.

“Jesus. You're like . . . How can I say it without offending you? You're a gentleman. There aren't many like you anymore.”

He didn't know whether she meant it as a compliment, but fortunately she wasn't waiting for a response. Once she started talking about her work it was hard for her to stop. Her mania manifested or resulted from her unabashed desire to be known as a complex and singular artist. She explained that her art was nothing like Nate's. She conceded that they both explored 9/11 as subject matter, but that his work was bold and colorful while hers was muted and subdued. She'd been his student, yes, but that didn't mean his work influenced her. The best teachers, she said, encouraged their students to find their own way. She looked at the lit candle sconces on the wall and then back, the flicker of the flame casting light onto her excited face. She strained her neck, flung back her hair, and looked at him carefully to be sure he understood.

“Nate has a son, Liam, from his former marriage. He's my age. I'll be his stepmother.” She laughed nervously, bringing a sprig of macrobiotic greens to her lips. “Be honest. Am I committing career suicide by marrying him?” She leaned in and in her breath he smelled the wine from her stained lips. “I mean, I love Nate. But I can't risk my work for him.”

“Marriage is personal,” he said, because it was the right thing to say. “Your talent speaks for itself.”

She flitted from Nate to give a brief lecture on the difficulty of being a woman painter. She believed it was perfectly natural for women to be the subject of paintings but to have their own work exhibited and taken seriously was another story. She mentioned Frederick Jackson. He'd been Nate's student too, a few years ahead of her at Columbia. “Do you know his work? It's like he's fucking his models with his brush. And he wins a major prize
for idealizing women.” She was referring to the Tanning Prize, one of the most prestigious in the art world, awarded every five years to an American artist under the age of forty. Earlier that week it had gone to Jackson. “Only winning a major prize can change the way women artists are perceived. It's why I stay away from domesticity as a subject. Did you think it was worthy of the prize—Frederick's work?”

“I can see what the judges saw in it. He has a convincing brush.”

“My work is driven by compulsive and neurotic jealousy. It's terrible to admit it, but there you go. You can't imagine how many dinners I've endured with Nate and Frederick going on about this or that European dealer or museum. I need this show to work.” She stroked her pale cheek with her hand and timidly licked her lips. “You understand, don't you?”

Edward eyed her assertively and nodded. “It will work.”

He knew from the minute he met her that she was difficult. But she was worth it. So much of what Edward saw in the art world was good, but little seemed brilliant. Agnes's art was different. He could look at her paintings for long periods of time, continually finding new things in them, the way he liked to plant a beach chair near the waves and stare out to the horizon.

“What inspires you?” he inquired, genuinely interested, after he'd ordered a chocolate dessert for them to share. It was plated meticulously, almost too beautiful to eat, decorated with a mint leaf and carefully arranged dots of raspberry sauce.