THE EAGLE HAS LANDED
Fredrick Marsh was down to the last major street in New York City. It was his final chance to find gallery representation and it was the most daunting of all, Madison Avenue. All the other galleries were not interested in his work. The comments had ranged from “interesting” to “vile.” None were helpful but all liked his leather portfolio presentation and many recommended he go into marketing.
Walking into Brit’s Fine Art, Fredrick had little hope of scoring a wall in the fancy and obviously pop-oriented gallery. He had a hard enough time just getting the staff to open the front door. The gallery walls were filled with large paintings that were images of famous people or words, like POW. “Nothing cutting edge at this gallery,” he thought as he wandered through the exhibit space.
He had hoped to speak with Brit himself, but was exiled to some pretty young girl whose response to opening up Fredrick’s leather portfolio was a sickly look of disgust. She slammed the book shut after viewing only the first image, making an audible thunk, and replied in a firm voice, “No thank you, wouldn’t be a good fit.”
Fredrick, who at this point was so distraught that another gallery was flatly refusing to even consider his work, countered, “How about if I pay you $5,000 to show my work.”
The flustered assistant answered, “Mr. Marsh, we sell highly vetted art. Either you have what we want or you don’t, and no amount of money you could pay us will ever change that. Good day.”
Alerted by the slammed portfolio, Bernard Phillips, who was standing nearby, had listened in on the conversation and was stunned. This guy would pay $5,000 to have his work shown? He would actually pay the gallery? He must be really bad, crazy, or both.
Bernard quickly excused himself for lunch and followed Fredrick Marsh out, catching the short man with the poor comb-over just as he exited the front door of the building. “Hello there, Mr. Marsh. I’m Bernard Phillips, an associate at Brit’s Fine Art.” Pointing to his shirt tag that said as much, Bernard continued, “I happened to hear your conversation about wanting to show your artwork and thought maybe I could be of some assistance?”
“Do you make the decisions about who is shown or not?”
“Not exactly, but I am always interested in seeing a fresh artist. How about I buy you lunch and you show me your portfolio?”
“Well I guess it can’t hurt, though if you can’t show me, I don’t see what the point is.”
“Mr. Marsh, confidentially, I may be opening my own gallery shortly and I’m going to be looking for interesting artists, something different. You might be just the kind of artist I’m looking for.”
“OK, Mr. Phillips. I’ll be happy to show you my lovely floating nudes. It’s nothing like anyone else’s work, I assure you.”
Fredrick Marsh and Bernard Phillips headed to a local coffee shop to discuss Fredrick’s work. Picking an out-of-the-way corner, not wanting anybody to see him talking to somebody that was basically kicked out of the gallery, Bernard got to the point. “So if I heard you correctly, you would be willing to pay $5K to show your work?”
“Yes, every month if that’s what it takes to get in the front door. I firmly believe once the art public gets to view my body of work in the appropriate setting, I’ll take off. I know it.”
“Hmm. Every month. Interesting concept. How about I look at your portfolio that my uneducated associate so rudely dismissed,” Bernard suggested, as his mind processed the possibilities of integrating Marsh into a plan he had already been considering.
Marsh’s face beaming, he slid the expensive leather book over to Bernard. Marsh observed Bernard’s face intently for his reaction.
Bernard knew he was being watched and was careful not to show his true response. He wanted to say: “No way can I sell this shit.” It was executed well enough, but not commercially sellable. Who wants dead floating cadavers that are partially mutilated hanging in their front hall? Bernard’s Oscar-winning performance convinced Fredrick otherwise. “Yes, this is terrific! Mr. Marsh, this is something very original and extremely thought provoking, the kind of work I was hoping to discover. You have a gift that is quite rare. Unfortunately, few in the art world recognize true genius!”
Marsh’s face smiling ear to ear, his mind racing, he couldn’t help but think, “Finally.” Someone had seen his work and understood it in all its glory.
“Fredrick,” Bernard pressed on, his plan now formulated, “I think you have what it takes to make a stir in the New York art scene, and with your backing I can be the art dealer to get you to the top. I am the top salesperson at Brit’s, which as you know is one of New York’s finest galleries. I have the client connections, the art background, and the sales experience to be invaluable to your career. The one thing I don’t have is the capital and it sounds like you do.” It was true Phillips was the top salesperson, excluding Brit. What he failed to say was he had been there barely a year.
“Yes, money I have. What do you have in mind, Mr. Phillips?”
“I would first obtain a good but affordable space in Chelsea, an up-and-coming location in my opinion and I know just the right space. We can get lots of square footage for a minimal investment, something you can never do on Madison Avenue. Chelsea is where I believe the next hotbed of great contemporary art will be found. I will need a budget for serious advertising. People will need to know who we are and how to find us. Of course the majority of the advertising will be your work. Most of all, I need money to buy Warhol’s work.”
“Why in the world would I want to give you money to buy Warhols? I don’t like his shit to begin with. No originality, just a glorified graphic artist, if you ask me. I don’t want my beautiful figures next to some fucking soup cans.”
“Yes, many would agree with your analysis of Warhol, but he has a following. You can’t deny that. And his work sells. I know this for a fact because I’ve sold the most in this town. If Warhol will sell to me directly, we can make a sizable amount of money and bring his substantial clientele into a location that is still off the beaten path. You will share in the profit as well,” Bernard reasoned.
“Money I don’t give a shit about. I have more than I can ever spend. But if that white-haired, wig-wearing fake gets my work more recognition, I’m all for it. You can take all my profit and put it into advertising for the gallery.”
“Could you come up with, say, $75,000? So we can get this off the ground? I will be giving up my current job security and pissing off a very powerful person in the art world when I borrow his client list and best artist,” Bernard pointed out.
“No problem. I can get you the money tomorrow if needed.”
“Excellent. We will need to put the gallery in your name for now until my non-compete clause is up in two years. Mr. Brit’s lawyers made it quite clear I was not allowed to open my own gallery, but nothing says I can’t work for you.”
“Fine,” Fredrick retorted. “Then I will name it, if that’s OK?”
“Well, a name is very important, no doubt. What do you have in mind?
Marsh’s face started to light up as he thought of viewing humans being slowly dissected: “The Cutting Edge. I believe that’s a name befitting my artwork.”
Bernard repeated, “The Cutting Edge. I like the sound of it, a good choice. We’ll be known for those artists making art history, on the edge of what is known. Very good indeed.”
Marsh thought to himself, “Yes, and also known for paintings of human bodies being cut open with the edge of a very sharp scalpel.”
It might be a devil’s bargain that Bernard was making, but the budding gallery director was nothing if not an opportunist. The next step was orchestrating his departure so he took what he needed with him.