TIME FOR A CHANGE
Fredrick Marsh finally managed to get representation in a small second-tier gallery called Proof. The tag line read: “The Proof is in the Art.” Marsh’s intertwining cadavers were at the extreme end of the spectrum of what could be shown in a public forum. The gallery was off the beaten path but it was a bona-fide art gallery, much to the delight of Marsh. He had finally become a professional artist, even if he did have to pay a part of the gallery’s rent for the honor.
Marsh found the only way the gallery owner would consider showing his work was basically a monthly bribe to keep his work hanging. Fredrick Marsh’s paintings had been in the gallery for almost a year without a sale. Money, of course, was inconsequential but the fact that no one had bought a piece was beginning to disturb Marsh. He had assumed once his art was in a respected gallery, it would fly off the walls. Who wouldn’t want his fantastic floating corpses?
Fredrick felt one of the main problems was the gallery was too small and would only hang one piece of his at a time. The art-buying public couldn’t see enough work to appreciate his talent. The gallery had a stable of 20 artists and the owner explained even though Fredrick was contributing to the monthly rent, he had an obligation to the other artists, the ones who actually sold.
Marsh would come by the gallery once a day and look through the window at his one painting. It was one of his masterpieces, almost a year in the making. It was two women, both intertwined to make a heart design. Their strips of flesh hung from their decomposing bodies, dripping to the floor to make another heart design. He had entitled the piece simply LOVERS. It was nearly six-feet tall by five-feet wide. It took up the better part of an entire wall. The owner had pushed Fredrick to price the piece reasonably since he said Marsh was an unknown and that the subject matter was somewhat challenging. They had settled on $7,500, though Marsh wanted to put it at three times that.
Still no buyers. As the days turned into months, Marsh became increasingly upset. Finally one day he demanded a meeting with the gallery owner to discuss the poor progress.
The gallery owner, a man in his mid-40s whose heyday in the art world was well behind him, encouraged Marsh to try New York City. Maybe Boston was just not sophisticated enough for “his type” of art. It was 1986 and the contemporary art scene was on fire in New York. While Marsh’s work was not anything like most of the contemporary art being produced, it was so unusual it could easily be the next hot thing. Or at least this is what Proof’s owner told Fredrick.
Marsh liked the thought. It wasn’t his painting, but the art venue that was wrong. He needed an art-savvy crowd and then he would be discovered. Boston was obviously not the place. It had a great cemetery but no real art appreciation. He would miss his walks at Mount Auburn, but he could come and visit and he ultimately would be buried there. For now it had to be the Big Apple, New York City, the number-one art market in America. Besides, how could he go wrong with a moniker like the Big Apple? Marsh loved fruit.
“I think you are right. I’m in the wrong city. I will keep my painting LOVERS with you because you were the first to recognize my genius and deserve the opportunity to continue to handle my work. I will move myself and the rest of my body of artwork to New York City and find an appropriate gallery,” Marsh said to the obviously relieved gallery owner who wished he would take LOVERS with him as well.
“I think that’s the right move, Fredrick. I’ll give you a list of the big names in New York City. The sooner, the better.”
“Right, I’ll go tomorrow. The faster I get a gallery, the sooner I become famous. You know this will help you, as well. I think we should raise the price on LOVERS to $25K. These pieces will become very sought-after shortly.”
“Sounds like a plan to me, Fredrick. Good luck.”
“Thanks,” replied Fredrick. “I don’t think luck will have anything to do with my success, this was meant to be.”
The next day when Fredrick Marsh had safely left Boston and a year’s prepaid rent to Proof was in the bank, the painting LOVERS was stored in the art gallery’s deepest corner, never to be shown again.