“YOU’RE KILLING IT!”
“What?” Hindered by the weight of my heavy load, I twisted my neck around and I looked for the source of the voice. It was Mariyam Ahmed, the program director. I gently eased the heavy stage riser back to the floor and checked my hand for splinters.
“You’re totally killing it!” she said. “It looks amazing! But you don’t have to lift the risers so high. Try carrying them a little lower.”
I rubbed my sore hands. “The problem with that is that my shins bump into the box. And it really messes with my back.”
“I see,” she said, nodding. “Okay, just be safe. It still looks great, Zack.” She smiled. “Thanks for helping. I’ll see if I can get someone else to bring in the chairs.”
“I can get those after I get this last riser into place.”
“Are you sure? You don’t have to.”
“It’s fine. I like helping. It’s like my dad always said: ‘Son, you’re a big disappointment.’”
She gave me a quizzical look.
“… Anyway, I like helping.”
“You’re too good for us, Zack!”
“I know it.”
I was moving furniture at the Grand Trunk Factory, one of the art galleries in town. There was a show tomorrow, and this non-profit relied mostly on volunteers to set up and take down shows. I was one of those volunteers. It was a rare occasion where I had some art on display, so I didn’t mind helping, especially if it ultimately meant more sales for me. Money was tight, but then again, it always was.
So far today, I’d helped with anything that required a strong back. Setting up the stage, pulling chairs out of storage, getting the portable bar from upstairs and finding a spot for it on the main floor. Also, the gallery had these large, movable walls which separated the gallery floor into discrete rooms, and sometimes moving them was tricky. After the stage and chairs, my final task was to move the large stepladder so they could adjust the high ceiling lights. The whole gallery was originally an old steamer trunk factory—part of the city’s textile manufacturing history.
And yes, the old building was in dodgy shape, but it was a Heritage building, which meant there were restrictions on how it could be maintained and updated. As such, you couldn’t just tear walls down or replace windows with newer, more efficient ones. Hence the movable walls and hard-to-reach lights in the ceiling. And there were some modernizations which still needed to be done, such as updated sprinkler systems and fire escapes, which didn’t quite work with the older architecture. Overall, it made the place feel more ramshackle than it was.
The stage was at the back of the building’s main floor. The space was about twenty feet high, with old wooden floors and brick outer walls which let the cold in. Old radiators, cocooned within a dozen coats of paint, ran enough hot water through the building to keep people from freezing solid, but sometimes that wasn’t enough. So they added the occasional space heater to the already overloaded electrical system.
Once I’d sorted the stage out, I moved a stack of nesting chairs out to the floor and started setting them up. I think the idea was for four easels to be lined up on the stage so artists could do a painting demonstration in front of a live audience. Basically, the artists would compete against each other to finish a painting within a time limit. The audience would then judge them based on skill, composition, and theme. To avoid performing on stage, I volunteered for the setup and takedown tasks. I was grateful that I didn't have to be one of the performing artists. Like a virgin at an orgy, I’d just be disappointing many people at the same time.
With the chairs laid out, I wiped the sweat from my forehead and felt a sudden slap on my shoulder. It was Bruce McMillan, the Executive Director of the gallery. He was a big guy, but he didn’t hit very hard.
“Zack, hey, nice work,” he said with a voice much too dainty for his frame. It filtered through a big, bushy mustache, and it made it hard for me to trust him completely. Anyone with that much facial hair over their lip must be hiding something.
“No problem,” I said. “Glad to help out.”
“But …”
“But?”
“But could you put some of those chairs away? We don’t want to block the floor in case of a fire.”
“Yeah, I suppose. I can remove the back row, if you like.”
“That would be great,” he said. “In fact, take two rows out. We don’t want too many people sitting. People should stand during a show like this. That way, they can wander around and see the paintings as they’re being painted. In fact—”
“In fact, what?”
“In fact, maybe the stage should be in the center of the room, so people can circle around the artists. Get a good look at the paintings as they’re being painted.”
I looked at all the work I’d done and sighed. “Sure. Let me put the chairs away, and I’ll move that stage.”
“Thanks, Zack! Fantastic work, by the way.”
“Sure thing.”
My life in a nutshell: work done to specifications, then specifications change. After I put the chairs away and moved the risers to the center of the room, I wasn’t sure it would work with this layout. But, the ED wanted it this way, so whatever.
Mariyam returned just as I was getting the easels in place. She had her husband with her. I’d seen him around once or twice, but I didn’t really know the guy.
“Zack, this is my husband, Virgil—” She stopped mid-sentence as she looked at the new layout. “Oh my God, what did you do?”
“Bruce came by with an innovative new idea about how the stage should look.”
“No, no, no,” she said. “This won’t do. There’s no room for people to get around that. It’ll violate fire codes.”
“That’s what I thought, but …”
“Can you put it back the way it was?”
I sighed. “Look, figure it out with Bruce, and I’ll make it happen.”
She quietly muttered, “Building’s enough of a deathtrap, already,” then stormed off, leaving me with her husband.
Virgil was a casually dressed Middle Eastern guy. Looked like he had a lot of money, but didn’t like to advertise it. I noticed a very nice watch on his wrist, and his shoes didn’t quite match with the shabby chic look the rest of his clothes suggested. Also, he was sporting a $300 haircut.
“You’re Virgil? I’m Zack Virtue.”
“Virtue? Funny name.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You think so? Virgil?”
He smiled. “Point taken. Mariyam tells me you’re quite the artist.”
“Thanks. Nice to be known.”
“What do you paint?”
“Abstracts. Like Rothko, Newman, or Still.”
“Are they local artists?”
I raised the other eyebrow. “No.”
“Oh, well. Art’s not my thing. But this gallery space is amazing.”
“It’s a piece of history, all right.”
“I’m in the market for a new building, and I was thinking of getting something like this, with the high ceilings and wood floors.”
“You need a new building?”
“My software company. Innovational Systems. We’re growing rapidly, and I’m scoping out additional spaces.”
“Nice. I hope you find something.”
Virgil looked around the room. “It’s like someone disturbed the ant hill around here.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty busy. There’s an art opening tomorrow, and almost nothing’s ready yet. They’ve only just finished choosing the art for the member show. Now they have to figure out where to put it all.”
“Who chooses the art?”
“Each show has a different curator. This time, it’s one of the local art critics and the ED putting the collection together.” I looked up near the front of the building. “There’s the guy now.”
“The one stomping around like he’s angry at someone?”
“Yeah, that’s him.” I laughed. “He gave my last show a terrible review. Said I didn’t have a cohesive theme.”
“What’s that mean?”
I shrugged. “Who knows? Other folks liked it. I sold some stuff. No one knows how to please a critic.”
“Sounds like some of my board members.”
I nodded as if I knew what he was talking about.
After I finished resetting the stage layout, I decided I was done volunteering for one day. They’d left it as a circle (a smaller one) with the easels facing outward, so artists couldn’t copy each other. Can’t have artists copying each other. They also had me set out a few chairs, but nothing close to the stage. Once the last chair was in place, I headed to the staff kitchen, grabbed my jacket off the coat rack, then went to the front.
Volunteers staffed the desk at the front when the paid employees weren’t available. Often, the paid workers were busy running other errands, such as bookkeeping, printing flyers, setting up bookings, or other administrative tasks. In these instances, they found a nearby volunteer and had them sit at the front desk in case any patrons had questions. Most of the time, they didn’t. It was a mind-numbing thing for a volunteer to do, and I’d done it once or twice. I’d rather be lifting heavy things. Honestly, I’d rather be taking my own appendix out.
Today was a busy day, of course, so Anna Papadopoulos, one of the paid administrators, was there. Not sitting, of course; she was running all over the place, printing papers, filling envelopes, writing up tags, and placing paintings and other works of art in organized sections for the show.
“Hey Anna,” I said, placing my worksheet on the desk in front of her. “That’s it for me. Here’s my volunteer sheet.”
“Hi Zack! Thanks. How did it go? Did they figure out what they wanted to do with the stage?”
“Yeah. But they’ll probably change their collective minds before tomorrow’s show. Honestly, I’m not sure why they don’t talk more.”
Anna laughed. “It’s Bruce. He’s only been here a couple of months, and already he’s got some crazy ideas on how we should run things. He’s a real micromanager. I think that’s why Mariyam avoids him so much.”
“I miss Jane,” I said. Jane was the previous ED. She’d left for something in the private sector.
“Jane was great. Very status quo. There were never any surprises. But Bruce …”
“Really got you jumping, does he?”
Anna leaned across the desk. “He used to work for the AGO. Did you know that?”
“The Art Gallery of Ontario? I did not.”
“He’s used to the insane amount of money they had. He’s always looking for more ways to beef up our bank account.”
“I thought you guys just wrote grants and got membership fees?”
“Yeah. But Bruce is always looking for something more. He’s got us renting out the upstairs space, and he’s talking about turning some of the small rooms into rentable studio spaces.”
“That makes sense. Those are some good ideas.”
“Yes, except I’ll have to do all the bookings and track all the rents.”
“Doesn’t sound that bad.”
Anna rolled her eyes at me. “You know what else he wanted? To put a coffee shop in here. So people could drink coffee and look at the art.”
“Say, that’s a good idea,” I said. “Assuming it was one of those compact kiosks. He could charge rent and take a percentage on sales of coffee and pastries, or something.”
“Like we need another coffee shop in town.”
“Hey,” I said. “We can always use another coffee shop.”
“You live on the stuff.”
“Yes, and scones. That’s basically half my diet.”
She smiled and picked up my worksheet.
“Speaking of which,” I said, “is there anything you need before I leave? Want me to get you a coffee and a scone from down the street?”
“Thanks, but no. That’s too far.”
“I know. Wouldn’t it be great if there was something right here?”
Anna threw a pencil at me, and it clattered to the floor. “I’m just about done, anyway. I’ve got to open up tomorrow morning, so I don’t want to stay too long.”
I retrieved the pencil and put it back on her desk. “No worries. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As I turned to go, I came face-to-face with an angry-looking art critic. His name was Andrew Neumann, and he wrote for The Record. And The Star. And a few others. Syndicated columnist and opinionated art historian. Looked like his suit jacket went to play hide-and-seek in the building. His collar was open, his sleeves were rolled up, and he had dust on the knees of his dress pants. The bird’s nest of hair on his head was out of sorts, and it looked like he’d fallen down a short flight of stairs, then been punched in the gut. He almost bumped into me while heading to the unsorted art pile. His eyes looked furious as he recognized me.
“You! Virtue! You’re here?”
“Yup. I’m helping prep the show.”
“I should have known it was you!”
“How’s it going, Thunderclap?”
“What?”
“You know, like the musician?” I thought about explaining it further, but he could probably google it later.
Then he pushed me. I wasn’t prepared for this; no one ever took that much offense at my jokes. I stepped back, but he kept pushing me. He looked warily at Anna, then muttered something to me.
“Are you behind this?”
“What, the art show?”
“No, this!” He pulled out a folded piece of paper and shoved it in my face. I took it gingerly, without letting my guard down. I was half expecting another hit.
“Where did you find this?” I asked.
“It was in my coat, in the kitchen.”
It was a printed letter, unaddressed, with no reference to Neumann, nor anyone else. It read:
Your in-depth art review is causing problems.
Time to back off.
We have a friendly art scene here.
You get one warning. Stop looking for meaning.
Go back to Toronto and leave a good review on your way out.
It was signed with the letter “Z.” Is that why he was shoving me?
“It’s signed with a ‘zed.’ Is this why you’re shoving me?”
“Listen, Virtue. You keep this up, and I’ll call the cops on you. You can’t just threaten me.”
“Whoa, bud. I’m not threatening you. I didn’t write that.”
“You sure? You’ve had a beef with me ever since that critical review I gave you.”
I shrugged. “Look, I may have called you a few things, but I never took it personally. It’s your job to be a dick. I’m not about to threaten you and make it as vague as this crap.” I waved the paper in his face.
“What?”
“Sure,” I said. “And I’m not going to sign it with a cryptic letter from my first name. No one calls me Zack. Everyone calls me Virtue. Even you.”
“I do?”
“In your review, you did. And just now.”
Neumann’s anger seemed to diffuse. “I did, didn’t I?”
“Besides,” I said, stuffing the letter back into his hands and pushing him backwards, “if I wanted to threaten you, it would be something very specific and very painful. Like me shoving this letter up your ass and then signing it with a fountain pen.”
Neumann gulped. “Sorry, Virtue. I … I thought—”
“It’s cool. You’re lucky I’m such an easygoing guy.”
Neumann folded the paper quickly and stuffed it into his pocket. He lowered his eyes and walked around me to the stacks of unsorted paintings.
I turned to Anna, and she’d caught most of it.
“Did you threaten him?” she asked.
“No, I don’t know what that was about.”
She shook her head as she put on her coat. “Honestly, the art scene is really weird.”
That’s for sure.