I’m not about to sit back and do nothing while we wait for Mary to get back to us,” I said to my brother-in-law as we whizzed along the 401 back to Toronto. “I’m going to pursue my own inquiries.”
“I don’t see how we could do better than Mary.”
Leslie braked as the Mercedes glided up to a transport trailer clogging the passing lane, then breezed past as the truck returned to the slow lane.
“I suppose. But I got the distinct impression she didn’t want to dirty her fingers on such a mediocre artist, so I’m not sure how much effort she’ll put into it.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way. But you’re right, Mary can be a bit of an art elitist. However, I know from experience that when she agrees to something, she always carries through.”
“Maybe, but she’s running a gallery. It may be some time before she can make her inquiries. In the meantime I want to see what I can learn on my own.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Mother mentioned the art gallery where Father used to buy his artwork. Although it’s no longer in business, there must be other private galleries that specialize in Inuit art?”
“Yes, I suppose. There’s also the ago, to which your mother donated your father’s collection. I’m sure she still has the contact information for the people she was dealing with. I would start with them. They’re bound to have a more in-depth knowledge of the field than a private gallery would. Here, use my cell.”
A quick call to Mother produced two names. She’d been quite impressed with their knowledge, and since they’d been so helpful during the lengthy negotiations, she felt certain they would be quite willing to extend their help again. Unfortunately, when I called, I learned that both curators were away at a conference in Europe and wouldn’t be back until the following week.
“I don’t want to wait that long,” I said as I snapped the phone shut. “I’ll check the phonebook when I get home to see what private galleries might be able to help.”
We were passing the looming abutment of the Niagara Escarpment through a break in the mountain-high ridge that extends northward to Georgian Bay. It brought back a memory of a weekend, I think it was the autumn before Father disappeared, when the two of us had hiked a short section of the Bruce Trail that meanders along the top of the escarpment. The fall colours had been glorious, the fallen leaves fun to walk through. We’d laughed and sung as we ambled, only keeping quiet when we thought we saw deer.
I supposed it was one of the last happy memories I had of Dad, particularly since I hadn’t had to share him with anybody. Afterwards had come that dreadful Christmas when the shouts of their arguments and Mother’s door slammings had rung through the house.
“Meg, Meg, you with me?” Leslie’s voice cut through my thoughts. “I said, I’ll have my assistant find out for us, okay?”
I shook the conflicting images from my mind as he hit the speed dial on his cell.
Although Leslie didn’t have a job per se, having more than sufficient funds from his family’s trust to support his own family, he did keep an office to handle a foundation he’d set up many years ago to handle his philanthropic interests, which were oriented around cultural and environmental concerns.
“Just a moment, Claire.” He turned to me. “Meg, do you mind grabbing a piece of paper from the glove compartment and writing down this info?”
He recited the names of two galleries and their addresses.
“Punch the first address into the navigator.” It pointed to a side street in Yorkville.
Within thirty minutes we were standing in front of expansive windows with Schmitt’s Fine Art Gallery emblazoned in gold across the front. But despite the keen interest of the manager, he was unable to provide any more information than Mary had. After thanking him, we set off for the Jasper Izerman Gallery, which was further downtown on Queen Street. Unfortunately, he couldn’t help us with the identity of the artist either.
“However, I do know the name of a person who might be able to help you,” said the impeccably dressed grey-haired Jasper Izerman. “Carter Davis.”
My ears perked up at the name. “Did he own the Davis Gallery on Prince Arthur?”
“Yes, his was one of the first galleries to handle Inuit Art.”
“My father used to deal with him. In fact, we’d been hoping it was still in business.”
“Sadly, he had a heart attack a few years back and was forced to sell. But given his years of experience with Inuit Art, I’d say he is one of the foremost experts in Canada.”
“Great. Do you know how we can get in touch with him?”
“Most assuredly. He comes by my gallery frequently to keep apace with the latest. There has been a tremendous change since the 1990s with some of the younger Inuit artists wanting to break away from the more traditional themes. Take this piece, for instance.”
He showed us an Inuit sculpture that was markedly different from the traditional polar bears and seals I was used to seeing. Carved out of whalebone and soapstone, it depicted a head wearily leaning against a hand with a liquor bottle sticking out of the top of the head. The face wore a befuddled expression and sported the large bulbous nose of an alcoholic. It was obviously a comment on the alcoholism that was reported to be rampant in Inuit communities.
While I wrote down Carter Davis’s contact information, Leslie continued to stare at the sculpture. Finally he asked the price. By the time we left the gallery, Jasper was lugging to the Mercedes a large wooden box with the carving carefully wrapped inside and a promise to let my brother-in-law know when the next collection of sculptures arrived. Knowing my sister’s penchant for ultra-modern minimalist art, I wondered what her reaction would be to her husband’s impulsive purchase.