TOO MANY COOKS IN THE KITCHEN
Seven months had gone by and only three works by Fredrick Marsh had sold. The front room was all Warhol, primarily his latest work, and occasionally a Basquiat, which always seemed to fly off the wall. The Warhols and Basquiats were at huge prices compared to Marsh’s cadaver paintings. Bernard kept telling Fredrick to be patient. It took time. Warhol was an established artist and Basquiat was a fluke of nature.
On February 17, 1987, a turning point came in the relationship between Fredrick and Bernard. Fredrick was going on and on about the excess space Warhol received. If his own works would be moved to the front window with better exposure, Fredrick insisted they would sell. It seemed as if it was a Warhol gallery now, not Fredrick’s. He reminded Bernard it was Fredrick’s money funding the gallery and Fredrick’s name on the lease.
Bernard explained to Fredrick that Andy would not be able to give him much work for the next month as his doctors had told him he had to have a gallbladder surgery in the next couple of days.
Andy Warhol had two fears: being poor and hospitals. His fear of hospitals had been exacerbated after his near-fatal shooting 10 years earlier by Valerie Solanas, a deranged 29-year-old man-hater and founder of SCUM, the Society for Cutting Up Men. Warhol had noticed an ad in a newspaper about her organization and thought she was perfect for one of his movies. He didn’t realize she was serious about her hatred of men. Solanas wanted Warhol to make a film she had written. He refused. She shot him twice, once each in the chest and abdomen. He barely survived.
Warhol didn’t like talking about his fear of death and hospitals. Only his dealers knew of the upcoming surgery and he wanted to keep it that way.
What Fredrick Marsh said to Bernard after learning of Warhol’s upcoming surgery instantly concerned Bernard.
“So if I understand you correctly, Bernard, if there is no Warhol work you will be putting me in the front gallery?”
“Yes, if I don’t have enough of Andy’s work then I would be able to put up a couple of pieces of your work. It just depends on how long Andy’s out of commission.”
The next part of the conversation was what disturbed Bernard Phillips greatly.
“I don’t think you will ever have to worry about having available space for my work again. In fact, this I’m sure of.”
Bernard for once in his life didn’t know what to say. He looked at the dark puddles of Fredrick’s eyes, which were darker than he had ever seen, and wondered what he was planning. It was almost as if he was telling Bernard that Warhol wasn’t coming back after his surgery, and he would make sure of it. Bernard didn’t answer. There was nothing to say. He was a businessman not a soothsayer.
Bernard decided to take the threat seriously and protect his asset. He didn’t know what Marsh was planning. Maybe he would frighten his star artist off, or destroy his studio while he was in the hospital. Maybe something much, much worse.
All of the money in The Cutting Edge’s bank account that had been made to date was withdrawn. Bernard visited Andy Warhol’s Factory at 22 East 33rd Street.
“I know you will think I’m out of my mind, Andy, but I have $300,000 dollars and I would like to spend it all today on what you have in your current inventory. I’m afraid it will pretty much wipe you out of your latest work. I’m also hoping for a couple of your early works as well.”
“Now you are freaking me out, Bernard. What? Are you afraid that I’m going to die in surgery? You know I’ve got a great fear of dying and this isn’t helping my phobia at all. Do you have some sort of premonition?” Warhol’s eyes focused on Bernard’s face looking for any sign of confirmation.
“No, nothing like that. I just figure you may be out of commission longer than you think, and I want to make sure I’m well stocked. I would rather have too much inventory than not enough. I figure if you can’t produce, your prices will go up and I’d just as soon lock in at the old price level. I’m hedging the market. Just being a smart businessman. I’m kind of surprised that Brit hasn’t contacted you.”
“No, just you,” Warhol said, moving closer to Bernard, analyzing Bernard’s aura as if he somehow could detect some underlying motive for lying.
Bernard didn’t flinch, even though he was a foot from Warhol’s face. “What do you say, Andy? With $300,000, you can have a lot of fun buying stuff once you’re up on your feet. Nice to be able to take a painting break and just go spend money, don’t you think?”
After a long hesitation and still intently looking into Bernard’s eyes, Warhol cocked his head to one side and replied, “OK, Bernard. As long as you promise me that you’re not feeling some weird vibe that I’m going to die?”
“Nope, scout’s honor. I have the extra cash and figure this is a great investment. I can’t make money if I have empty walls while you are recuperating.”
Bernard cleaned out Warhol’s Factory of most of the fresh work and a few great older pieces. He had a courier pick them all up that day and deposited the funds into Warhol’s account. Bernard felt badly that he couldn’t be straight with Warhol about why he wanted to purchase so many pieces. Bernard Phillips definitely did have a feeling of doom for Warhol. Fredrick Marsh was possibly crazy and there was a strong chance he was going to burn down the studio or maybe worse. But business was business. Bernard didn’t tell Fredrick he now had enough Warhol paintings to keep Fredrick’s work off the main floor for a long time. He figured Fredrick would do what he was going to do and anything he said was not going to stop him. Let the painting gods decide.