by Wendy Lee
“And do you have a name for it?”
I said the first thing that came into my mind. “The Three Graces. My great-grandmother’s name was Grace.” It had actually been Hilda.
Solomon nodded. “Listen, I’m not denying that your work is different from a lot of what I exhibit. It’s nonironic in a refreshing way. What you see is what you get.” I felt like he could be commenting on my appearance, as well. “But at the same time, there’s something appealing about it. Like folk art. Are you self-taught?”
“I’ve taken a few classes.”
I must have sounded defensive, because he added, “There’s nothing wrong with that. Outsider art can be very popular. Look at Henry Darger.”
And Grandma Moses, I thought.
Solomon leaned forward. “I have a group show coming up in the fall for emerging Brooklyn artists under twenty-five. I’m guessing you’re age-appropriate, given that you went to college with Kimi?”
“I’m twenty-two. But I live in Queens.”
“We’ll say Ridgewood. If you want to be part of the show, you can have a spot. You don’t have to tell me your decision now. Just think about it and let me know by the end of the month. I’ll need an artist’s statement from you.”
I think I stammered a thank-you to him before his assistant led me out. I walked down the street toward the subway stop, alternately feeling ecstatic and anxious. I guess you could say I was a human version of one of the on-again, off-again neon signs exhibited in the Solomon Finch gallery. In one moment I was beaming, and in another, I was missing something.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Kimi. How did it go? I turned my phone off.
* * *
Back home, I didn’t tell Sam about my offer from Solomon Finch. He didn’t even know about the connection with Kimi, unless she had told him. I had been given an opportunity that anyone my age and with my lack of experience would jump at, so why was I hesitating? Why did I feel like such a fake?
After days of trying to write an artist’s statement and deciding everything came off as pretentious and implausible, I decided to ask Caroline for her advice. She had asked to take a look at my work and I’d chosen to show it to someone else first, but maybe she wouldn’t hold it against me. So one afternoon, I tentatively approached her. Sandro Hess’s failure of a show was in the middle of being taken down, leaving behind stark white walls. I didn’t know if Caroline had anyone else scheduled.
“Sandro hasn’t been calling lately,” I observed. It was true that his once-daily calls had trickled off and he hadn’t contacted the gallery in weeks.
“I think he’s finally accepted the truth,” Caroline replied. “It’s too bad we didn’t get any buyers, but at least he can add this to his CV.”
“Why do you think no one bought anything?” She must have seen something in him. Or maybe it had been him and not his work.
“Honestly, I can’t say. Maybe a lack of connection between the work and the audience. I might end up buying one of these pieces myself,” she continued, looking at the painting that had been visible from the front window. “As a consolation prize.”
“Can I talk to you about something?” I asked.
Caroline turned and seemed to sense my nervousness. “Certainly. Let’s go into my office.”
After we both sat down, I hesitated a moment before telling her about how my old college roommate had arranged a meeting for me with a Williamsburg gallery owner, and I had been given an offer to be part of a group show.
If Caroline was disappointed I hadn’t asked her to take a look at my work first, she didn’t let on. “Solomon Finch,” she mused. “Not sure if I recognize the name.”
“He’d heard of you,” I said. “He had a lot of respect for the Lowry Gallery and its legacy.”
If that pleased Caroline, she didn’t show it. “So, what’s your question?”
“I don’t know if I should be part of the show.”
“You don’t think you’re good enough. That you belong there.”
“No,” I admitted.
“Do you have images of your work that I can take a look at?”
I’d stored digital copies of the slides online, so I was able to quickly pull them up on her computer. Together we looked at them, and I noticed Caroline’s eyes brighten when she saw the one of my mother.
“I used a photograph of the two of you from college for inspiration for that one,” I remarked.
She nodded. “These are very well done, Molly. I can see why Solomon Finch would be interested in your work.”
“You don’t think they’re too simplistic?”
“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that they’re true to you.”
“What about the show?”
“That’s for you to decide. But let me tell you a story about one particular artist. When he was a young artist, he made up a story about his background. Based on some truth about his parents, but stretching it about himself. He maintained this persona for years. He said his first show was based on memories of his childhood. Without them, the paintings would have been competent, but he gave them stories, context. Later in life, he ran out of stories—or rather, his stories caught up to him.”
Belatedly, I realized Caroline must be talking about Sandro Hess. But I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to get out of this cautionary tale.
“All I’m trying to say,” she finished, “is that what you decide now could affect the way you handle the rest of your career. Or it could not. You’re still young.”
I left work that day no closer to making a decision than before. Was this what being an adult was all about, making your own choices, and living with the consequences? How did you know you’d made the right choice? I was beginning to suspect that you never knew. All you could do was forge ahead with what you felt was best, and hope that you hurt as few people around you as possible.
* * *
I asked Kimi to meet me, and we decided on a café in Ridgewood, on the border of Brooklyn and Queens, about equidistant from where we both lived. On the way there I passed by a gallery and a sign advertising artists’ spaces. Remembering what Solomon Finch had said about the neighborhood, I guessed that maybe by the time I was ready to show my work, it would be here instead of Chelsea or Williamsburg.
“How did the meeting with Solomon Finch go?” Kimi asked after we collected our drinks from the bearded barista and sat down.
“It was great,” I replied. “I appreciate your setting it up.”
“He’s such a cool guy, right? For an old person?”
“He offered me a place in an upcoming show for young artists.”
“And?”
“I’m saying no. I’m going back to school instead.”
Kimi stared at me. “Tell me you’re taking extension courses at the New School or something, not that you’re going back to Amberlin.”
“I need to finish what I started there.”
Kimi was silent for a while. “Okay, I get that. But why not be in the show, too? It isn’t an either-or situation. Come down on the weekends to prepare for the opening.”
“I just don’t feel ready. I haven’t really figured out what the triptych is about.”
“Make something up. You’ll believe it by the time the show opens.”
I shook my head. “I can’t.”
Kimi gave an exasperated sigh.
“I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you, after all you’ve done for me in setting up the appointment,” I said, a little archly.
“It’s not that. It’s just that if I knew Solomon Finch was doing a group show of young artists, I should have come up with my own project for him.” Kimi paused. “What does Sam think about your decision to go back to Amberlin?”
“I haven’t told him yet,” I said. “But it’s not like we’re engaged or anything. I don’t need his permission.”
“You’d better watch out while you’re gone,” Kimi teased. “One of his coworkers at the urban farm could steal him away.”<
br />
I laughed that off, but also knew that I needed to tell Sam about my decision before he heard it from Kimi herself. When I did tell him that night, after dinner, his immediate response was not to convince me otherwise, or ask about the state of our relationship, but “What am I going to do about the rent?”
A little hurt by his practicality, I said, “I need to find out from Dr. Renfeld what I should do to enroll for this coming semester. If I haven’t missed the deadline, I’m willing to pay up to a month after I leave so that you have time to find a new roommate.” Or rather, my parents would be paying for it, but I was sure they’d be so relieved I was going back to school that they wouldn’t mind.
“Should I sublet or find someone more permanent?”
What he was really asking was whether I was intending to come back to the city, or whether we were breaking up. Funny how so much of this conversation was revolving around housing when it actually had to do with something much larger.
“Let’s say sublet. But if you find someone who fits well but wants a longer lease, you should go for it.”
I could see the trajectory of our relationship already. In the first couple of months, I’d travel down every other weekend to see him, then decide that the trip took too long. We’d make arrangements to spend the holidays with each other, but couldn’t decide with whose family. Then, around New Year’s, when I had gotten my degree, I would tell him I didn’t want to live in New York. Maybe I’d live in Boston. Maybe I’d go overseas.
I could tell Sam was thinking this, too. “You know,” I said gently, “I don’t mind if you and Kimi hang out after I leave.”
He almost looked offended. “Why would I do that?”
“You seem to have a lot in common . . . you both like teaching kids.”
He gave me a sheepish smile. “You’ll be the first to know if that happens.”
Later that evening, I composed an e-mail to Dr. Renfeld telling her I was ready to go back to school. After I sent it, I clicked open an e-mail that had been sitting in my drafts folder for the past couple of weeks. It was addressed to Harold Yu, telling him that the Andrew Cantrell painting he had bought was a fake. I thought of my conversation with Caroline earlier, how delighted she had been when she recognized the portrait of my mother.
I deleted the e-mail.
* * *
Dr. Renfeld e-mailed me back with instructions on how to enroll for the fall semester. Apparently I would be considered on probation for the rest of the time I was there, but I would be allowed to graduate if my record was clean. I was also required to redo my thesis. Maybe I’d choose a more challenging topic this time.
I’d thanked Solomon Finch for his offer to show my work, but told him I needed to finish school first. “Do what you need to do,” was his indifferent, single-line response. Now all I had left to do was give Caroline my two weeks’ notice, but I figured my mother would have contacted her already.
I had an errand to run downtown in the East Village. While I was walking down St. Marks Place and its combination of tattoo parlors, souvenir shops, and Japanese eateries, I spotted Sandro Hess coming toward me. Quickly, I ducked behind a rack of novelty hats. After he passed by, I watched as he continued down the street and stopped at the corner. He took the hand of the little boy next to him, as did the pretty, dark-haired woman on the boy’s other side. I assumed they were his son and ex-wife—perhaps not ex-wife anymore, the way she looked at him.
They waited for the light to change and then the three of them crossed the street together.
Chapter 10
“Who are you?” Harold had responded to the mysterious e-mailer about the Andrew Cantrell painting, but he received a bounce back in reply.
Who could it be? Caroline Lowry’s assistant? Her art historian friend? If either, then why sign the message as “A Concerned Artist”? Was that to throw him off the scent? While the e-mail had not sounded malicious, Harold suspected there was a degree of personal revenge involved. He went so far as to ask an IT person at work to trace the IP address, but all that could be found was that the server was located in New York City.
Still, the seed of doubt had been planted. Now, when Harold looked at Elegy in his office across from his desk, he wondered about its authenticity. All he could go on was Caroline Lowry’s word and the art historian’s subjective analysis. The art historian himself had told him that the three things necessary to determine whether a painting was real were provenance, connoisseurship, and forensics. Caroline had provided the first two. Harold had forgone forensic authentication, figuring it would only place the painting’s materials in the right time frame. Now he wondered if he had subconsciously not wanted to know the truth.
The more time Harold spent in the same room with Elegy, scrutinizing and thinking about it, the more uncertain he became. But it was a welcome distraction from what was happening at work. The day after the press conference, the papers had breathlessly published his statement about severing ties with the Shanghai factory, ranging from calling him a champion of workers’ rights to setting a dangerous precedent for Chinese-Taiwanese relations. He knew there had been a shareholders’ meeting without him that Charlie Lin had been privy to, although Charlie would not reveal to him what had happened. Harold felt like he was a prisoner on trial, awaiting his sentence.
Then late one Saturday afternoon, Charlie paid him a visit at his home. First, Charlie greeted Vicki and Adrian, kissing Harold’s wife on the cheek and tickling the little boy, who clung to him like a vine.
“Leave Uncle Charlie alone,” Vicki admonished, then turned to their visitor. “How is Serena?” she asked, even though Harold was sure she’d seen Serena within the past couple of days.
“You’d probably know better than me,” Charlie said. “I’ve been busy cleaning up the mess your husband’s made.” Although he made it sound like a joke, Harold could sense the underlying truth beneath his statement.
“Well,” Vicki said in the awkward silence that followed, “I’ll leave you two alone,” and she headed into the interior of the house with Adrian.
“Let’s go outside,” Harold suggested, motioning for Charlie to precede him through the French doors onto the deck.
“This is a great view,” Charlie said, indicating the green curtain of trees that immediately fell before them, providing a veil for the mountains of Yangmingshan National Park beyond. It gave a sense that they were isolated in a forest, even though the neighbors were located just a few yards away. Charlie and Serena, Harold knew, lived in a luxury apartment complex in town—still very nice, but privacy in a city of two million people was hard to come by.
“You didn’t come here to compliment my view,” Harold prompted.
Charlie shook his head. “You must be wondering what went on in the shareholders’ meeting.”
“That I wasn’t invited to, yes.”
“I don’t know how to put it any other way. The shareholders are insisting that you step down from your position. You can’t be surprised,” Charlie added. “What you said at the press conference caused the company’s stocks to plummet to the lowest they’ve ever been. They still haven’t recovered.”
“So what are the shareholders suggesting?”
Charlie said softly, “They aren’t suggesting, they’re ordering. You’ll be taking on a consultative role.”
“And who do they want to take my place?” Charlie was quiet, which told Harold everything. “You?” He gave a shout of laughter. “Did you make the great sacrifice and offer yourself up?”
Charlie spread his hands. “I’m in the same situation as you, my friend. I have to do what I’m told.”
“Why don’t you take my house and wife while you’re at it?” Harold demanded, in the moment before he understood it was already happening.
Charlie refused to look at him. “You know Vicki and I have a history.”
It was true that many years back, when Charlie had introduced Vicki to Harold, he had referred to her as an “old friend,” wh
ich he’d admitted after a night of drinking too much meant she’d actually been his old girlfriend. But how many times had Harold and Vicki joked about Charlie, his “little third” in Shanghai, the way he treated Serena? Harold couldn’t believe she had been putting on an act the entire time.
Even Charlie seemed to realize he had gone too far. “I’ll leave now. Let me know when you want to talk.”
“About what?” Harold asked pointedly.
“The shareholders’ decision. I’ll let Vicki handle the . . . other thing. In the meantime, I’ll see myself out.” Charlie paused, his hand raised as if meaning to pat Harold on the back, then thought better of it. Harold was glad he had; otherwise he would have been tempted to try to push Charlie off the deck.
After Charlie had left, Harold stepped closer to the edge of the deck, his hands unconsciously gripping the railing. Ironically, he thought that even if he were the kind of person who would throw themselves off a building in despair, the deck wasn’t high enough to do much damage.
He heard a tentative step behind him. “Harold?” Vicki asked, and he knew Charlie had updated her before he’d left.
“How long has it been going on?” he heard himself say.
“Not long.”
“During my trips to New York?”
“Yes.”
He turned to Vicki, expecting her to be ashamed, pleading, close to tears, but she appeared resigned. “You know he has a mistress in Shanghai,” he said, purposefully trying to hurt her. “I’ve met this woman. She’s gorgeous. He’ll never let her go.”
“As long as he never brings her to this side of the Taiwan Straits, I can live with it. After all, Serena did.”
“Does Serena know?”
Vicki nodded. “She doesn’t care. She’s given up Charlie a long time ago. ‘You’re welcome to him,’ she says. She’s moved on.”
“And you’ll be okay with people talking about you behind your back, the same way they talk about Serena?”
“I can take care of myself when it comes to gossip.”
Harold couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. “It sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.”
