BECKY WAS DEEP IN CONVERSATION with a German painter and his translator. The man wanted to switch to larger works—or was it that he had already switched? The translator didn’t seem certain about tenses. Becky, interrupting in half-German phrases, set him straight. Nein. She had contracted for the full set of smaller canvases. She wouldn’t take one if she couldn’t have them all, and if he moved now to larger pieces she’d be forced to—
“Reba,” Michel whispered, urgently, at her side. One half of the duo she’d spent the past two days with at the Milan Art Fair.
Tom and Michel were a twin-like NYC couple in their late twenties who seemed to spend their days drinking Campari and making up scandals and gossip. The three of them fell into an instantaneous best friendship, strutting through the galleries and the parties, texting each other good night at dawn. Tom’s father—or was it Michel’s?—was an SVP at Lehman’s. Becky called them “The Babies” to their faces; they hung on Becky’s every word, making purchase after purchase on her advice. It didn’t hurt that they looked like Calvin Klein models and turned heads of every type and age.
“You must come,” Michel said. Becky apologized to the Germans and extricated herself. She allowed Michel to take her arm and steer her through the twisting crowds and walled dividers. Around every corner another person to greet, fend off, promise to call—I know, so sorry, we’ll talk later—in this thunderous gathering of money and power. And art.
Eventually they reached Tom, beaming, sweating under the display lights. He threw his arms open at the work, and Michel crossed himself. Besotted, they waited for her blessing.
Two nights ago at their suite at the Oasis—technically by then it was morning—Tom and Michel had invited the bellhop who brought up more ice to stay for drinks. And drugs. Soon they were cuddled close together on a divan, murmuring and touching, these three beautiful men. Tom—or was it Michel?—had asked Becky to stay, to watch.
She demurred, amused. Showed herself out.
Over insalate puntarelle at lunch the next day both Babies trembled behind their Tom Ford sunglasses, appalled at their bad behavior, and asked her to forgive them. Becky had just laughed and laughed. They were so grateful, so abashed.
Now she looked at the great discovery they needed her to sanction. It was a video piece, on a small TV monitor. A repeating loop of about four minutes of film: a woman (the artist), giving speeches as George Bush. She was slight, brown-haired, and dressed in a simple black shirt and jeans. But each clip had her at the presidential podium, or at Ground Zero, or in the Rose Garden posed exactly like Bush. Speaking his words, surrounded by his advisers, without a single knowing wink. Becky watched the loop once, and then again. She pronounced the artist’s name in her mind, Caitriona Molloy, slowly, without speaking.
“Interesting,” she said at last, in a loud but utterly flat voice, which had the desired effect of quelling the hovering gallery assistant. Then she drew Tom and Michel aside. She let them go on and on: the doable prices, the promising show in London, the way the piece mixed politics with humanity, how funny it was, how weirdly heartbreaking.
Becky heard them out. And then, as gently and thoroughly as she could, deflated their every hope. She named half a dozen other video artists on the market with similar projects, she told them the gallery was a bit player, a JV house trying too hard. She reminded them to build on their strengths, a parent’s Barbizon holdings, a very nice Ashcan purchase, instead of chasing every whim. She urged focus in the face of distraction, and sure, if they wanted to they should make an offer but frankly she’d seen better work at a recent student show, not that they had to care about her opinion, of course . . .
No! They did, they absolutely did! The Babies were utterly chastened. She’d been ridiculously generous all weekend and they hated themselves for wasting even a moment of her time.
Becky held an indulgent smile, forgiving, understanding. What everyone needed was an Amaretto, was she right? She was right, she was always right.
After twenty minutes at the bar Becky excused herself. She doubled back and bought the Molloy piece for asking. She bought up the gallery’s entire Molloy holdings—videos, a large-scale photo, comics, sketches—most of it sight unseen, hurrying the assistant, using two different credit cards and more than a thousand in cash.
That night she let Tom’s calls go to voice mail, watched Michel text until 11:30, midnight, one. She changed her flight and went back a day early, collecting grateful messages from Molloy’s agent, manager, and New York dealer, all of whom sounded a little stunned.
By May Caitriona Molloy had shows scheduled for later in the year in Tribeca, Toronto, and Berlin. Artforum ran a Top Ten column, and Vanity Fair posed her in Marc Jacobs, high-heeled boots hooked over a metal stool rung in a grungy studio. Becky sold selected works fast, to top collectors. But she kept every Molloy video piece, and struck a deal for first option on each new work. Stills sometimes reminded her a little bit of Tracy Moncton, although she’d heard through the grapevine that Tracy was now moving into feature films.
Becky archived all but one of the Molloy videos and for her own viewing displayed only George Bush, C’est Moi, streaming it on a perpetual loop against a bare space on the wall in between a decent Max Weber and a nearly photographic Richard Estes. She could look at it for long stretches of time, taking immense pleasure from the intelligence, the creativity, the vision, the Babies who found it for her intentionally forgotten.