Masterworks
The Overbach gallery glowed with carefully placed spotlighting. The beige carpeted room was crowded with elegantly attired beautiful people sipping champagne and playing the game of recognizing and being recognized while a few outrageously costumed individuals tried to steal the attention. It was the artist Ben Bengal’s first show of new canvases in almost two years, an event eagerly awaited by many of the new group of collectors who were the financial backbone of the art community. Bengal was In. His works were very much in demand.
Bengal himself, resplendent in a black velvet suit and oyster shell silk shirt open to the navel over a tangle of gold chains, circulated easily through the crowd. He chatted with everyone, calling most by name. He was a professional and a master of the craft.
The exhibit included twenty new oils and a scattering of prints. They were well done in his typical style and he was proud of them. They were also all sold before the evening was half over.
Louise Overbach cornered him for a moment. “Ben, everything in the show is gone and I have just dozens of people besieging me to give them some idea of when there will be more available. I don’t mean to be pushy, darling, but the tide is rising and you, we, should be on it. Give me some kind of an idea of how long it will be. Let me start to schedule some private showings in the next couple of months. I don’t need a whole show. Just a couple of pieces but something to keep the momentum going.
“Louise, dear, you know how I work. When the inspiration comes I work day and night. But I never know how long it will be before that happens again. I really can’t promise you anything in any particular time period. I can’t work under the pressure of a deadline. It dries up all of my creative juices. It makes it all so mercenary.”
Louise brushed a speck of cigarette ash off his velvet sleeve. “I wasn’t trying to put you under pressure like that, dearest. I know only too well how you react to that. What I had in mind was things that you might have tucked away some place. Perhaps early things or things that you really didn’t like when they were finished. I’m told that most artists have closets full of things like that. Or sketches and partly finished pieces. I know you well enough to know that the initial idea is the stumbling block for you, not the mechanics of actually doing the piece. That part is automatic. Maybe you have some things in progress as it were, canvases you can finish up even if no new inspiration comes along. It would really help us both out a whole lot, darling. There’s a narrow line between keeping the interest high by not overdoing it and swamping the market. If your works become too hard to find those people give up trying.”
“And you think that could happen in my case?” he asked.
“It’s a hard thing to predict, dearest one, but there are an awful lot of disappointed people here tonight with perfectly good money in their pockets. They’re eager to invest that money in some promising contemporary art works. It will burn holes in their pockets pretty soon. If Bengals aren’t available then they’ll have to invest in somebody else. The promise of another opportunity in the foreseeable future can put asbestos linings in at least some of those pockets though.”
“My dear, has anybody ever told you what a marvelously persuasive person you are?” Bengal said as he smooched an air kiss in the general area of her cheek. “I do have a few things that I could pull off the shelf and touch up. A few that just need some time. The inspiration is already there. Since the response to this show is so good, I’ll break out a favorite or two that I have been saving for myself. I can always paint another for my own wall. Is a month good enough?”
“Perfect, I would say. Sooner would raise questions about how you could pull it off if this show is the lot. Longer and they drift off in other directions. Thank you, dearest. I think that you’ll be happy with of the results.”
Bengal moved through the crowd, champagne glass in hand, answering questions, acknowledging introductions and generally accepting the accolades of the appreciative audience. When the situation required it, he would solemnly declaim little lectures on art history, the meaning of art, and his own style.
In the course of the evening he received several dozen business cards, hundreds of congratulatory remarks, three sexual propositions, and a proposal of marriage. All in all a fairly typical night for this sort of thing.
The crowd thinned out early since the opening was competing with several formal parties and the opening of the new opera season. Also, he reflected, because these people didn’t particularly like to look at other people’s art acquisitions. When they know that the canvases can’t be theirs, they lose interest rather quickly.
In the packed house earlier he probably wouldn’t have noticed the young woman intently studying the works. Now he was drawn to her. “See anything you like?” he asked.
“Oh, you startled me,” she gasped.
She had long red hair and deep green eyes. She was pretty but not quite beautiful. Part of that, he thought, was because she was so serious and old beyond her years. She looked middle-aged although she was probably only thirty.
“This fellow does nice work,” she said pointing to one of his paintings. “But I don’t quite understand why they’re making such a big thing about these being the first new canvases he’s exhibited for two years. Why I saw several things of his just last week. I’m quite sure they were his work. They were exactly the style. It’s quite distinctive, don’t you think?”
“Indeed it is,” Bengal agreed as he quietly removed his name pin from his lapel and pocketed it.
“But these are new works. What you saw were probably some of his older pieces. He has several works in each of the major museums in the area and in a number of the better private collections.”
“No, this was in a gallery. They were for sale. And a good cut cheaper than the asking prices on these too, I note.”
“Are you an artist or an art student?” he asked conversationally.
“No. Nothing professional. I just like to wander around in art galleries to see how other people see the world. I have neither talent nor money. Only a casual interest and some time on my hands once in a while. That and a sharp eye. It’s kind of a game with me. I go from gallery to gallery and try to identify the artists without looking at the tags. I concentrate on their styles. I’m very good at it. Probably better than most of the so-called experts. For local artists, that is. I don’t want to go making claims about knowing the whole world of art. But I’m good at local contemporary painters in oils.”
“So you’re sure that the works you saw in the... What did you say the name of the gallery was again?”
“I didn’t. But it was the Chestershire. Over on Market Street.”
“Yes, okay. You’re sure they were done by this artist?”
“I’m not absolutely sure but reasonably sure. There are a few differences. It’s the differences that have me fascinated. Trying to categorize them. I haven’t seen that much of Bengal’s work so I’ll have to study it all closely.”
“Indeed, you do that. It’s been very interesting talking with you.” Bengal walked off rubbing his chin and trying to concentrate.
Squirrel Bait and Other Stories Page 13
