1986
The Cutting Edge opened July 7th of 1986. No expense was spared. The gallery advertised in two national art magazines featuring slick professional ads of a Yellow Marilyn, the one great Warhol that Bernard had for the grand opening. Andy had sold Bernard 10 works and given him one set of his relatively new Cowboys and Indians series on consignment, a good luck token. Warhol consigned his western series at 35% off retail; Brit on the other hand always received a generous 50% discount from Warhol.
Bernard was thrilled to get them at any price on consignment as it preserved his capital and he was happy not to have to buy them, especially since traditional western subject matter, even by Warhol, could be a tough sell in the East. Warhol wanted these to move; he loved the series and needed them to get into his collectors’ hands so he could raise prices. He had just ended an exhibit featuring his new Cowboys and Indians series at The Museum of the American Indian in New York City. He hoped by giving the works to Bernard it would continue the buzz he had generated through the museum show. Warhol understood by allowing Bernard a little more margin in the consigned screen prints there was no way that Brit could screw Bernard. It was their secret. Brit would figure it out the first time he discounted 25% and Bernard would match it. No way would any dealer lose money. It wasn’t like a gallery was some grocery store that had loss leaders, no matter how deep the dealer’s pockets.
Bernard Phillips decided to test his limits with Brit right off the bat. He invited every important person in Brit’s Rolodex. It would be quite obvious to Brit his confidential information had been stolen, and Bernard could be sued. What Bernard Phillips counted on was the importance of Brit Currency’s long-lasting marriage. The scuttlebutt was his wife came from money and she provided all the income for the major art purchases.
Bernard personalized Brit’s invitation. It came in a plain brown envelope marked “Personal: Brit Currency, Brit’s eyes only.” Brit Currency was not happy with Bernard’s little welcome package. The 4 X 5 slick card inside the envelope featured an image of a classic early Andy Warhol, a Yellow Marilyn. Printed at the top were the words ANDY WARHOL, and then at the bottom was The Cutting Edge, its location, opening date, and the words “Now representing Andy Warhol.” If this wasn’t confrontational enough, there was an inscription in Bernard’s hand, in neat bold letters printed directly on Marilyn’s face: “Dear Brit, I do hope you and Mrs. Currency can make our grand opening. Please also invite Lilly, as I’m sure we can all have a nice discussion about our common interests.” He signed it Bernard and made a happy face. If his “fuck you, happy face” didn’t cause retaliation, Bernard knew he had Brit scared and would not need to worry about his old boss in the future. The happy face was for his dad. He wanted to staple the stolen Callahan Rolodex card to the invitation, but knew he was already pushing his luck.
Brit Currency was livid. He went directly into Lilly’s office and told her if she ever mentioned their relationship to anyone in the future she would be terminated. Bernard Phillips was not a man to trifle with and Brit knew it. He and Mrs. Currency would not be in attendance.
The gallery had the 14 Warhols in the large front exhibit space. Eight of the 14 had been sold in the initial mailing to Brit’s clients. They all had small red stickers on the price tags, which indicated the piece had been sold. It was a very good sign. The gallery would do well with Warhols. Once the actual opening occurred, Bernard would be able to close out the rest of the pieces. The gallery would need additional artists; it couldn’t prosper on only Warhol. Other good artists would follow, assuming Marsh didn’t scare them all off.
Marsh was a potential big problem and Bernard knew it. He somehow needed to placate Fredrick’s ego. After all, Fredrick was footing the entire bill and didn’t seem to give a shit about any of the money the gallery made. Bernard, like most good salesmen, understood what Marsh was looking for: lots of praise and an occasional painting sale. Bernard would deliver it.
For the opening night, four actors were hired to help stroke Fredrick’s fragile ego. They were told not to ever let on they were anything but serious collectors and now fans, and to fawn all over him. They could bring a few friends to do the same, but these extras were not to say much. Let the professional actors do their job. The friends could eat and moderately drink and most importantly make the little igloo-like back room feel full and happening. Lots of head nodding and cooing when viewing the art. Bernard knew the Warhol room would be all abuzz, especially since Andy had decided he would make a quick appearance. Once he had come and gone, Marsh’s room would seem the more active and this was important to Bernard. Keep him happy.
Bernard made all the actors sign legal agreements that they and their friends would never divulge any of the privileged information. If they ever were to run into Marsh accidentally, they were still just fans. The contracts had stiff penalties for breaking the stipulations, and Bernard paid well and promised additional gigs for a long time.
The opening was a huge success. Marsh was thrilled. He had never had an admirer before. To have so many individuals who were so interested and genuinely impressed by his work was gratifying. It was apparent to Fredrick after his first opening even if it wasn’t a solo exhibit he would be a star. He was surprised none of his works sold, but Bernard told him this was not unusual with a new artist on the New York art scene. He would find his own collector base once the word disseminated through the Warhol admirers. Marsh was relieved to hear Warhol at his first opening of Soup Cans in L.A. had not sold a single work the run of the show. Dennis Hopper, the actor, had bought the group, but returned them later, or so the story goes. Finally the gallery owner had to buy them all on layaway, which of course turned out to be a great move once Warhol found his audience.
After the great opening in which all the Warhols were sold, and to Brit’s clients, Bernard went back to refill the walls. Bernard knew he would have to find additional artists to cultivate. He hoped to be able to spot some young star before he or she hit. Bernard was a better salesperson than he was a finder of original talent. He realized this was a weak part of his art dealer’s skills but figured it would improve with time. He hadn’t had his own gallery before and it would take exposure to refine his eye and understand what makes an artist sing to an audience. Bernard asked Warhol’s opinion when he came to filling the second $100K order earlier than scheduled.
“Andy, do you have any suggestions for an important artist to add to my stable? I know there is only one Warhol, but how about a close second or third? Who would you like to hang next to?”
Warhol thought carefully about the question, his eyes darting back and forth like a pinball machine that had a ball stuck in a bumper. As he continued to contemplate the obviously intriguing question, he scratched his white wig, moving it ever so slightly with each twitch of his hand.
“I love Jean-Michel Basquiat’s work. He is a terrific artist; in fact he’s brilliant. I used to be very close with him but I’m afraid we are very much on the outs. I know he likes me but I doubt we will be speaking much again and this bothers me. Maybe you could act as a kind of mediator between us? Tell him I was hoping he would show next to me, that I recommended him to you. It may help mentioning my name or could make it worse, I couldn’t say, Bernard. He does have original thought, which is what I love about him. You know he started by doing graffiti around town and used his God-given talent to turn it into something else. He was even on the cover of The New York Times Magazine.”
Andy continued, “You know, I do very much believe in God and I think he has spoken to Jean-Michel. It shows in his work. I’m afraid he does have a major issue that will be a problem for you sooner or later. He is addicted to heroin and I’ve heard it’s become serious. I am afraid I will outlive him, and he is not even 30 yet. I won’t tell you how old I am, but you probably already know. You dealers make a nasty habit of knowing all your artists’ little secrets. I guess I’m too vain when it comes to my age.
“If I were you,” Andy advised, “I would try to approach him—either sober or very high—if you want to get his work, probably high. He might find my concern amusing enough to sell you something.”
“Thanks, Andy. I’ll give it a try. How does he sell?”
“As far as I can tell, he sells pretty much everything he makes. He doesn’t need dealers. He’s lucky in that respect.” Andy smirked as his dissed his art dealer.
“Excellent. That means he’s just like you at least when it comes to selling everything you make, and I appreciate the fact you let me handle your art as I know you don’t need an art dealer either.” Bernard, the concerned salesman, never missed an opportunity to sell. This time he was selling to Warhol’s ego. The artist enjoyed the compliment and simply replied, “You’re welcome.”