The Art of Collection

1

Sniffing his way along a scent trail through the gallery toward the bar, Jim Stedman couldn’t help but wonder if the mix of leather, lingering tobacco and perfume might interfere with his anticipated drinking experience. Not that they were serving real drinks, and not that anyone here, including him, was real. Still, the bottles of wine, all bunched up like they were about to blast off, offered a lot more color than the black paintings.

On his way to the front, he brushed against the artist, an Einstein look-alike who was imbibing his onlookers’ genuflection. As far as Stedman was concerned, this Einstein was one guy whose talent you didn’t want to rub off on you. The only rubbing that came to mind was taking some of the ubiquitous black paint and rubbing it into the old fart’s cataracts. Nip this budding career here and now. Stedman glanced at the black monstrosities and gave his mind over to speculating what could possess anyone to admire—much less commit to canvas—such vacuous shit, and when he finally reached the wine the words discarded foreskin came to the surface. Yeah, the paintings reminded him of the ultimate dive, a journey down urethra land. Who knew? Maybe the guy was a genius.

Hello, Jim, came from behind him. He knew the nasal, whiny voice well.

Now who might that be?

So, what do you think?

I’m wondering how painful you want me to make your death, Stedman said, swinging around until he faced the skinny, redheaded gallery man whose face was so thin it looked like it had been between the doors on the 7 train.

What are you talking about?

I’m talking about the black paintings.

I told you they were black.

Stedman noted that Richard Solo’s hair was creeping higher and higher on his head, approaching Mohawk territory. No wonder he was in the gallery business; he needed the high ceilings. And Solo sure looked the part, with his sporty little Italian blazer hanging from his red bones. He was in the art-opening manic state, Stedman could tell. He wouldn’t mind rubbing a little black in his eyes, too.

Okay, you told me they were black. I admit it, Stedman said. He looked beyond Solo at the hundred or so people packed into the 1,200 square feet he was paying for, some of them already sipping wine he was also paying for.

It’s a good turnout, Solo said. We’ve already had some interest in the smaller ones.

How much are those?

Fifteen hundred.

And the big ones?

Seven thousand.

Not in this life. You would think he’d create different shapes, at least. They’re all squares.

He’s the artist.

Nobody’s going to buy these.

You’d be surprised. I think the Brooklyn Museum is going to pick one up.

As Stedman ogled the ladies, he wondered why the artist didn’t create any triangular canvases. And we make half?

Come on, I want to introduce you to Maxwell.

Soon they squeezed toward the center of the room where Einstein stood alone, revolving slowly, as if he were on a turntable. When they finally reached him, he was facing the opposite direction, and Stedman got a kick out of the thick gray hair hanging down from his earlobes.

Actually, from behind, he reminded Stedman of a Russian tailor who had fitted him for a suit for his friend’s Bar Mitzvah twenty-five years earlier. The kid had ended up a Jew-for-Jesus freak, and Stedman now had an inkling of why. Things had a way of making sense at the strangest times in the strangest places and for the strangest reasons. If a guy could find happiness painting squares instead of triangles, then a Jew could certainly do a switcheroo to Jesus.

Maxwell, Solo said, tapping him on the shoulder.

Ah, Richard, the artist said, spinning. Now that Stedman could see his face clearly, he definitely reminded him of the tailor, although he was much shorter.

I want you to meet my partner in the gallery, Jim Stedman.

Great show. Stedman lied right through to his root canals, but now he was even more pissed because Maxwell hadn’t extended his precious hand. One wouldn’t want to taint one’s creative juices by shaking the feeding hand, would one? Not when you can vomit up pitch-black paintings into your sorry benefactor’s palms.

Now Stedman started noticing the freak’s nose hairs. They were long enough to braid into a ring and begged for the latest high-tech clipper. Maybe they should add a Sharper Image gift certificate to the budget.

I’m glad you like it. You see the different textures?

You might say that.

Good. Good.

Stedman’s eyes roamed to a woman in jeans and a black leather jacket who walked in with a straight-looking guy in a suit. She had flaming red hair, all wanton-like, but her companion was much older and stood out. Stedman stared at the duo as man caught up with them from behind. This one wore a tweed blazer, and his thick, wavy white hair was combed straight back. He was about the same age as her companion, but it was obvious to Stedman he didn’t consider himself older, only more amazing. He had a smug, pig-like face and regarded the crowd contemptuously. Stedman could read people, especially when they had hefty opinions of themselves, probably the one flaw he needed to develop.

We’ll catch you later, okay? Solo said to Maxwell, and pulled Stedman back toward the wine. I want to show you something.

Along the way, Stedman was forced to listen to a litany of phony congratulations directed at Solo and his wonderful new gallery. First, some woman with a buzzed head and pewter cross the size of an erection stopped for a hug. She was followed by an assortment of wine-toting freeloaders.

Anybody have money here? he asked Solo, as they went behind the pedestal of wine into the private office that was reserved for bigwigs such as him. He followed Solo through another door and into a small workshop. On a wooden table that practically filled the tiny room sat what looked like a basketball under a large multicolored cloth.

They’re mostly artists.

Now, why am I not surprised?

Be cool. You’re an owner. You’re supposed to be excited about the show.

Oh, I’m excited, alright. I thought maybe you had even a slight chance of making money. Now I know better. Low odds and odd balls. What’s that noise up there, casino rats?

It’s the fencing center. I told you about that. That’s why we got such a good deal on the rent. The only reason we can hear them now is because it’s quiet in here.

Yeah, WE got a great deal, didn’t WE? Watch your black paintings bounce off their hooks.

The walls are thick.

Just like my wallet, huh?

Hey, Jim, it’s opening night. Be cool.

Maybe I’ll take up fencing, Stedman said, looking at the various sculptures and paintings pressed into the tiny room. I get the feeling you already have.

What that’s supposed to mean?

Nothing.

Will you relax? I want to show you something. Solo pulled the cloth away, and Stedman found himself facing a white marble bust of woman with a chipped ear and half a nose. It’s a Caravacio.

I knew it the second I saw it.

Yeah, sure.

At least it’s not black.

I keep telling you, it’s the aftermarket I’m after. This place is just for press, a way to get the critics in. Maxwell will do that.

What’s his last name?

He just goes by Maxwell.

How much is it worth? Stedman asked, picturing the nose hair remover working its way through the bust’s remaining nostril.

Six hundred thousand, after it’s authenticated.

Then why did you need me?

It’s not mine. It’s on consignment. Man, you went into this without even listening to me.

You gave me collateral. Speaking of authentication, I’m still waiting.

I’m working on it.

Work harder.

Jim, you’re like a mad dog. Enjoy yourself. Come on, I want to introduce you to some people.

You’re lucky I like you for the moment, Stedman said, trailing Solo back to the office and into the gallery where he finally hit the wine. Immediately, Stedman spotted the redhead talking to Maxwell. She was at least a head taller and the way she held up her drink, it almost looked like she was force-feeding him.

But at least Steadman was no longer seeing black. Red was everywhere, from Solo’s long, bristly pubic head, to the flamethrower, to the wine in his hand, and to the fact that this gallery was going to be in the red, big time.

She’s a critic, Solo said over the voices of a sweaty-looking twosome that were literally leaning on Stedman.

A critic, huh? Stedman suddenly had the coolest fantasy in the history of his Bar Mitzvah-less life.

"I shouldn’t really call her a critic, but she writes for Art Week."

Sounds like a critic to me, Stedman said, remembering that Orenstein would be showing up pretty soon to collect his payment, which would be fine because the wad of cash in his front pocket was getting annoying.

Let’s go say hello, but you have to be positive about the show.

Don’t worry, dude. I’ll be in the black.

You’re something else, Jim.

Stedman downed the rest of his wine, poured himself another glass right to the top, and swallowed that one, too.

Take it easy.

I’m a gulper.

Now the hum of the voices felt right. Even the Mohawk’s whine was less stinky, more familiar, like a relative at a wedding—no, a Bar Mitzvah. Things did come together if you kept on digging. Hey, Richard, now that I see what I’m in for with you, I want to at least have some fun.

You know, Jim, you should meet one of the fencing instructors upstairs. I met him last week. He’s old, but he’s like an acrobat, must be in his eighties, but he’s as calm as it gets. And he’s got a dozen kids jumping around him.

Point being?

You could use a calming influence.

Calm this, Stedman said, stabbing his hands into the pockets of his bomber jacket and meandering through the artsy crowd, tossing an invisible nod toward Maxwell and the critic on his way outside.

Downstairs, he wasn’t surprised to see Orenstein parked in front, sitting in his shiny BMW, which, of course, also was black. Orenstein had the inside light on, and he was reading a newspaper. Stedman let the nippy air hit his face for a while before approaching the car. It was about 10:00 p.m., and 11th Avenue was quiet. Looking, across the Hudson, at New Jersey, his eyes roamed to a freight ship docked in the harbor.

The containers were piled high, and Stedman knew they’d just left Elizabeth because he’d once done a deal at a deadbeat cargo company located at the Elizabeth Port. Deadbeats were his specialty, and this guy had been no different, with the exception of having a wife who was every bit as sleazy as her husband. She was probably worse, in fact, since she was the one who’d doctored the receivables for the lender.

Approaching the car, Stedman thought of his father, the master of due diligence; the cargo duo never would have gotten the better of him, never. Factors knew what they were doing, and his father had been one of the best, purchasing invoices as well as a business owner’s life. When you did business with Stedman’s old man, he owned you.

Open the door, Jeff, Stedman yelled through the window. Two seconds later, he was looking at the plugs on Orenstein’s head—transplant central. Why don’t you park and come up?

Do you have the money? Orenstein asked. Although Jewish, his voice had a touch of Irish tenor that always surprised Stedman.

Come on; park. You can leave it right here. I see you still have your phony handicap thingamajig hanging from the mirror.

Triple bypass, pal. Orenstein started opening his shirt. I never showed you the scars. They’re down my leg, too.

Stop, stop. I believe you, dude. Stedman pulled the five thousand out of his pocket. As usual, he felt at once the comfort of removing the lump of bills and the discomfort of parting with them. Not that he minded splitting the profits with the accountants when they gave him a deal. Orenstein was one of the more interesting ones. He had a bit of brain, although he could be particularly gross at times.

Got any more losers for me? he asked, watching Orenstein stick his pinky deep into one of his nostrils. It was an improvement over the scar tissue he’d just had a glimpse at before closing his eyes.

Not at the moment, but I’m sure they’ll come along.

We attract the dregs of humanity, Stedman said, but he wasn’t really talking to Orenstein.

That we do. I guess I can come up.

Good. We’re going to need a sleazy accountant. I’ll make my esteemed partner use you. Ever handle a gallery?

No, but it’s all the same.

Stedman watched a hooker about half a block away approach a yellow Mustang that had just pulled over. This was 11th Avenue—hooker land—but also panache land for the gallery scene. You like black?

Women?

Paintings.

Say waaa?

You’ll see.

Let’s drive around for a while, Jim. I like to look at hookers.

They’re men, I think.

They look like women. That’s all I care about.

Your wife would be happy to hear that one.

I need my wife to take care of me. I’m never playing around, Jim. Just looking.

Yeah, I wouldn’t want to have to take care of myself.

Like me, right?

I’ve got twenty years on you.

I don’t know if it’s twenty.

It’s enough to where you can at least think you can take care of yourself.

One of these days I’ll introduce you to my father, Stedman said. He found the perfect solution for getting old.

Sounds like you could learn something from him.

I’m sure I can.

You were just his sperm, once.

Let’s move on, shall we?

Sorry, my son likes bio.

So your sperm’s going to be a doctor.

There was an egg, too.

Hopefully not yours, but it sounds like you’ll have someone to take care of you.

With my luck, he’ll be a gynecologist.

2

It was more fun walking into the gallery with Orenstein, but the crowd had already thinned. Still, Orenstein was a fun guy to hang with. You never knew what he might say. To find out, he led him toward the wine and Solo.

I’ll take them all, Orenstein said.

I guess we know what his favorite color is, Stedman said.

Hey Jim, some very famous artists have done black paintings before, Solo said. Do a search, you learn something.

Maybe he’s got subliminal messages buried in the black, Orenstein said. I know I would.

I hope your partners are easier than Jim.

I don’t have partners anymore, but when I did I hoped they died painfully, Orenstein said, and this time he used his index finger as well as his thumb to extract something from his nose. Maybe a boogie sculpture, Stedman thought.

Meet your new mob accountant, Richard. Get to know each other, Stedman said, and walked toward the other end of the loft, where the critic was standing near a group of women, but not really with them, just leaning against their little force field, hiding by their bubble, like he would. He got a kick out of this one, all right. They shared the same dichotomy. Confident like him, but an insecure basket case, too—he’d put money on it. But did red and green match? Stedman visualized flags as he glided closer to his prey. He saw stripes, circles, empty spaces, and good old triangles. Red and green, the story of his life. You handed the green to the red, and you put the white man in the black. Shit, now he was a white guy making believe he was black. The next thing you knew, he’d be dunking hundreds through the hoop and braiding his hair.

Maxwell was thinking of donating them to the School for the Blind, he said, searching her fingers for the gold circle of love, happy he hadn’t