THE DAY BECKY’S ERIC FISCHL arrived she had the gallery assistant who’d accompanied the piece from New York leave it untouched in the Barn’s main level. The painting stayed there, crated, for almost a month until a new set of workers and their van came to pick it up. Gone in a resale deal she completed without thinking too much.
The catch to finally getting a Fischl, it turned out, was to completely lose interest in it. Its only value, Becky told herself, was in the name and context, a blue chip that was fading now anyway. What she could keep was the real reward: a more mature sensibility. The type Mac had always touted. That’s what real players had.
I should congratulate myself, is what I should do, Becky thought. Standing in the space where the unlooked-at painting had been.