THE NEW HIRE AT BRIT’S FINE ART
Brit Currency’s gallery had continued to flourish in the art world during the last couple of decades since Jim Callahan’s demise. Pop art had arrived and Brit had seen the writing on the wall, literally. Brit’s Fine Art moved heavily into the pop scene, specializing in such artists as Warhol, Lichtenstein, and Basquiat. Picassos were very hard to come by and exceedingly expensive. The switch to pop had been risky, but it paid off in spades. Brit Currency now had one of the largest galleries in New York and he was one of the most successful dealers in the country in modern art.
The gallery was known to have a staff of 10, large by New York standards. The big sales were all handled by the maestro, Brit Currency, but there was plenty of opportunity to meet other important clients and make good sales. Bernard knew that Brit Currency had been the main reason for his father’s downfall. His father had explained how the arrogant Brit Currency had belittled him. Jim Callahan blamed Brit for his incarceration and so did Bernard. If it hadn’t been for Brit Currency, his father would still be on Wall Street, Bernard would already be wealthy, and his father would be alive. As much as Bernard craved wealth, extracting reparation for his father’s misfortune was his true motivator.
Bernard Phillips had his degree in hand, salesmanship skills honed from years in the trenches, and it was time to venture into the art world and make his mark. Taking some of his fruit savings, Bernard splurged on a custom-made suit in all black with gray trim. He wanted to look the part of someone with taste and money. Bernard understood people want to buy from those they can relate to. Acting and looking rich was important.
Walking into Brit’s Fine Art was an experience in itself. To get through the first floor entrance required being buzzed in off Madison Avenue. The receptionist would inspect the individual waiting outside and make sure they were of sufficient merit to enter the rarified air of Brit’s.
Once through the door, a gorgeous woman in her 20s would greet, meet, and triage the client. Was this a Brit client only? A looker? A wannabe collector? A few questions could usually filter out the important from the average. The VIPs were all known by name and face, no mistakes made when dealing with these individuals. No questions asked, just straight to Brit’s office. For all others it was a game of 20 questions.
First: “Have you visited our gallery before?”
If the answer was yes then a follow up was, “Have you worked with anyone in particular?”
At this point if Brit’s name was mentioned and if they had bought before, then it was a quick shuffle to the back room. Wine, champagne, or fruit juice was offered and the wooing process began.
If the answer was, “No, my first time,” and they did not own work by any of the artists and were just looking, these individuals were forgotten and told, “Let me know if we can assist you with anything.” These so-called clients were dismissed as looky-loos, just wasting time using the gallery as their personal art museum.
Bernard now entered Brit’s as an adult. He could still remember being a child and visiting here at his father’s side. There was an odd déjà vu when seeing it again so many years later. The smell was unchanged: sweet perfume and oil paint. The room appeared smaller than he remembered; he wished his father’s hand were still next to his as emotions flooded in.
The sound of Brit’s voice in the background brought Bernard back to the present and focused his mind on his task at hand. He hoped to be able to land a job and begin his plan to undermine the gallery that broke his father. He said he was looking for a position and was quickly told nothing was available, but after the young lady decided he was dressed well enough and quite handsome to boot, he was allowed to fill out an application.
Bernard took a seat and filled out all the pertinent information, using his stepfather’s name under family ties. If Brit Currency had known it was Jim Callahan’s son filling out the application, he would have been shown the door. Only in the art world would an application actually solicit information regarding who you were and possible connections. Selling art often was as much about who you knew as what you knew. Bernard realized after filling out the worthless application if he hoped to land a job and not have his paperwork simply thrown in the trash he would need to up the ante. The front receptionist simply wanted his phone number and would never show the application to Brit.
Then an opportunity presented itself, and Bernard knew instantaneously he would be hired. It was the stroke of luck he needed, and damned if he was going to let it slip by. Andy Warhol walked through the front door with his troupe of closest friends. Anywhere Andy went in New York there was always a small scene; he had a palatable vibe that was undeniable. Bernard had actually met Warhol at his fruit stand and knew this could be his ticket to a job.
Warhol was much more cautious since nearly dying on the streets of New York at the hands of one of his disturbed fans. After that shooting incident, he didn’t let people into his inner circle of friends except those whom he knew very well. But being in his gallery, he felt comfortable even when approached by Bernard. Warhol figured Bernard was some rich collector who had been properly vetted. Warhol, who had been greeted by Brit and his own personal handlers, had stopped in front of a large portrait of Geronimo that he’d done.
Warhol’s latest series was of the West. It included Chief Joseph, Indian shields, cowboys, and, of course, the most famous Native American, Geronimo. The series had not been very successful in comparison with his early work of Marilyn Monroe, Elvis Presley, and, of course, his Campbell’s Soup Cans. Warhol collected everything. This included Indian art, photographs of Geronimo, and Navajo rugs. He was proud of his latest series even if the world hadn’t figured it out; the East was always prejudiced against the West, even if Warhol did it.
Bernard walked right up to Andy as if they had been best of friends, standing directly between Brit Currency and Andy’s little entourage of “yes” people and said, “Hi Andy, it’s been a while. Do you still love pears?”
“Well, yes, they’re my favorites. I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten how we know each other?”
As Brit looked on with a suspicious glare, Bernard took an apple out of his coat pocket and adroitly juggled it with his one free hand with the final throw landing in Bernard’s mouth.
“Ah,” said Warhol. “I remember you; you’re my handsome fruit peddler. Do you still have my little drawing I traded you for?”
“I most certainly do,” Bernard replied. “I always keep it close as it reminds me of what great art should be.” With a dramatic flair, Bernard pulled out his wallet and retrieved a small clear envelope which contained one of Andy Warhol’s cards with a drawing of a pear with the words PEAR/FRUIT on it, and then a pear drawn in simple but clean lines under Warhol’s lettering. The drawing was undoubtedly executed by a brilliant artist who could make the simple stand out; even a pear on the back of a business card.
“I’ll be. You really do still have it. I’m impressed, and I don’t impress easily these days. What brings you to Mr. Currency’s lovely surroundings today? Looking to add to your collection of Warhols?” Andy smiled as he teased his fruit peddler, knowing that it was highly unlikely Bernard was buying his work.
“I do hope to add a piece soon, but until then I will do the next best thing. I’ve just finished my academic training in fine arts and my first job application had to be to Andy Warhol’s gallery, and thus the visit. I want to sell your art.” Bernard then lifted up his application, still in his left hand, showing it to Andy and Brit as proof of what he had just told them.
“You don’t say,” Andy responded. “I hope Brit here is going to give you a job. I can’t imagine anyone I would rather have act as my agent in selling my work. Other than you, of course, Brit. So Brit, what do you say? This kid got me to trade him an original Warhol drawing for a single fifty-cent pear. I would say he’s a pretty good salesman, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, Andy, if this young man’s credentials are as he says, and you approve, I’m sure we can have him selling some of your lithographs,” Brit agreed.
“Oh that would be peachy.” Laughing to himself for using the word peach to the fruit vendor, Andy said, “I would like that. But let’s make sure he gets to sell the good stuff, no lithographs. I have a feeling about this young man’s talent.”
With that, Warhol and his troupe moved to Brit’s inner office, Brit looking back over his shoulder wondering who the hell he had just hired.