TIME PASSES QUICKLY
Seven years had passed since The Cutting Edge first opened its doors. It had become known as a top-flight gallery for contemporary art. The Warhol mystique was still the golden touch for its reputation. Bernard had been very careful in doling out the Warhols he owned, making sure he always had one for the wall. Unfortunately as with all good things, they have to come to an end, and for Bernard that was in 1994. He would be out of Warhol’s art by the end of the year no matter how he priced it. He still had one of the two Basquiats he had purchased but never paid for in 1988. He could get a great premium for it now.
The art market had been in the doldrums for the last three years but was poised for another bull run. Bernard had managed to sign a couple of fairly important established artists, but he knew they just wouldn’t ever have long-term staying power. Even Fredrick knew it. They were easy on the eye and priced at a level one could sell. They just weren’t exceptional.
Fredrick, like a prisoner in jail, had adjusted and become comfortable with his exhibit space. He got the entire back wall of the gallery and every so often a painting would go away to some unknown collector who always wanted to keep their identity secret. His work had evolved into even a more graphic nature, with intertwining lovers having transgressed into vicious death scenes of decapitated bodies in grotesque positions. Marsh called his latest series “Final Embrace.” Bernard heard one of his clients refer to it as “pornographic gore,” a term he found fitting.
Bernard had made it clear the work could not be shown in the front window. He had tried it in the past with less disturbing work and had too many complaints from passersby. One mother’s child was so upset they had threatened a lawsuit for emotional distress. Fredrick’s response was, “Let them sue. They don’t have taste. I would love to have the press coverage.”
Bernard finally convinced Marsh he could lose his gallery and all the good press he had received, so The Cutting Edge’s back wall became the Fredrick Marsh death wall. Fredrick could handle it as long as none of the other artists were superstars and unfortunately for The Cutting Edge, this was the case. At least it was until Craig Lendskip surfaced. Ironically, it was Marsh who alerted Bernard to the remarkable talent.
Lendskip had been showing for seven years. His fame was starting to be noticed by the art world at large, with numerous pieces in museum collections. He was only 27, yet was obviously going to be an artist for the ages.
One day Marsh was complaining about the gallery space to Bernard as usual. This time the problem was that the gallery interior seemed to be missing something. It was too one-dimensional, except for his paintings, of course. Marsh blurted out, “Why don’t you get a sculptor to fill the holes? Maybe Lendskip’s little twine balls would fit nicely. You know he’s having a group show this month at that sculpture gallery. RAD. I believe his floating twine sculpture would contrast well against my intense paintings, like magnets pushing against each other somehow. Those unseen forces inspire people.” A lack of intelligence had never been Fredrick’s problem.
This was a golden opportunity for Bernard to acquire a new artist for whom he didn’t have to fight. Marsh had handed him a great artist on a silver plate, and one he had pre-approved. Bernard had heard of the artist Lendskip, who had been receiving great accolades in contemporary art circles. He was apparently a modest person. That was a rarity for a soon-to-be-superstar; undoubtedly Craig was someone of whom Bernard could take advantage.
How to steal an artist away from another gallery can be a delicate process. Sometimes it requires years of schmoozing the artist, leaving clear hints every time you run in to them, like, “I love your work. It’s so fresh. It would really be great in my gallery,” or, “If you ever decide to leave your gallery, I would love to show your work. I know I can sell it, it’s just magnificent; my cup of tea.”
Then there are the less subtle ways, more in line with what Bernard’s method would be, such as submarining the opposing dealer using deceit as the main weapon. A couple of possibilities he had seen used effectively included: “I heard he’s in trouble—something about not paying his artists. There’s talk of artists jumping ship,” or, “Apparently the owner has a significant drug problem,” or, “Don’t tell anyone you heard this from me, but supposedly the gallery you’re showing in is up for sale, very quiet and all. That’s what the word is.”
Then there was the best way of all, the use of pure brute capital mixed with massive promises and lots of praise for the unsuspecting artist. Nothing gets the attention of an artist so much as when a dealer collects their work and keeps it in their own house. Spending money to collect rather than for resale shows an even bigger commitment.
Bernard decided this would be his plan of attack. First he learned everything about his prey: where the artist was from, what he cared about, and his weaknesses. Once well informed, he was then able to go in for the final kill. Bernard decided the ambush would be the group opening of RAD. Bernard brought along his personal secretary and his gallery’s longest employee, Sally Smith.
Sally was as plain as her name. Bernard didn’t want to ever be attracted to his secretary and screw up his gallery like Brit had done. This would never happen with Sally Smith.
Her out-of-proportion bangs were meticulously rolled daily using a single extra-large curler. This left an acutely odd hair design on her forehead, like a giant tunnel traversing a painfully extra large frontal lobe of her face. She had short brown hair with a streak of gray in a very out-of-date twenties flapper-style cut. Small blue eyes that had invisible eyelashes and blondish eyebrows made her eyes seem to just appear out of nowhere on her face. Her nose was small and turned up like a pig’s nose, but only at the very tip so the entrances to her nostrils were clearly visible. Sally had no neck. She very well may have had a mild genetic syndrome like Turners because she looked so odd.
While her looks were unappealing at best, her demeanor was just the opposite. Sally Smith was loyal, smart, and had a great personality with the gift of gab. These last social qualities were the only characteristics Bernard cared about. The uglier she was, the better. Less chance of him slipping up one night after drinking too much, which seemed to happen the more time he spent around Marsh.
Sally accompanied Bernard to the opening. Her job that night was simply to keep the gallery owner away from him, so he could work over Craig Lendskip and close the deal.
Finding Craig during the busy group opening in the cramped space was easy. Lendskip looked like the typical artist, entranced by one of his works, which he was enthusiastically describing to a potential collector. Bernard slipped into the milieu, listening to Craig’s elaborate explanation about how the miniature ball sculpture got its title and the intricacies of how he made the piece and its deeper meaning.
Bernard forcefully said to Craig, “Mark that one sold.” Craig Lendskip was caught off guard by Bernard’s emphatic decision to purchase the piece. No price was discussed.
“Oh I’m glad you like it so much! It’s yours. My first sale of the night. I’m Craig Lendskip. It’s nice to meet someone who has good taste in twine.” Craig giggled at his little lame twine joke. Typical Minnesota humor. Mr. Johnson would have laughed, but Bernard could only muster a weak smile.
“I’m Bernard Phillips. I own The Cutting Edge and yes I do love my twine,” he said, trying to give a little humor back at Lendskip. Bernard gently touched Craig’s shoulder, and guided him like a dance partner from his enthralled collectors to a somewhat secluded corner. “I’m thrilled to finally get one of your pieces, Craig. I’ve always loved the media of twine. I’m actually a fan of Francis Johnson’s. He was quite an individual.”
“Wow, now I’m impressed. Mr. Johnson was such a gifted artist, in the truest sense. A real inspiration to me. Have you had the opportunity to see his life’s work?”
“Yes, I most certainly have,” Bernard said, lying so naturally it sounded genuine. “I snuck up to Darwin one summer night before he died in 1989 to get a look at that amazing feat of creativity. If I can be frank with you, I’ve also always been a great fan of yours. In fact my assistant Sally is in the process of purchasing your entire show. She’s over there with the owner.” Bernard discreetly pointed over at his secretary, trying not to draw attention to himself and what he was really doing, stealing RAD’s best artist.
“I can’t believe it. You’re buying the whole show? For resale?”
“Yes. I’m purchasing your entire body of work. I plan to keep half the sculptures for my own collection, and the rest for my gallery to resell. You know that your sculpture prices are terribly undervalued, in my opinion.”
“They are?”
“Well maybe in a little boutique gallery like this they are fully priced. In fact I’m sure the gallery owner is thrilled to make such a big sale. He probably figures he’s making a killing and soon will be bragging about his prowess as a dealer. But the truth is I feel like I’m stealing them from him and unfortunately you. Each piece should be at least two times the amount I’m paying. Not that I’m complaining.” Now with the prey interested, Bernard went in for the jugular, his vanity.
“Craig, you are a rare artist, one I recognize is destined for greatness if you can find the correct gallery to help you achieve that next level, as David Smith was able to do. I would like to offer you a position in my gallery. You would be with the likes of Andy Warhol and Jean-Michel Basquiat, both of whom I represented when they were alive. You are as good as they were, if not better.”
“Jeez, that’s amazing. You think I am that good, and you could get twice as much money for my sculptures? Business has never been my strong suit. This is where I could have used my dad’s advice. I have always taken the word of my dealer that these prices are right. I honestly don’t have a clue how to price my pieces or market my sculpture.” Craig’s fingers began pill rolling as if an imaginary piece of twine was in-between.
“Craig, I’m very good at business and have been extremely successful. Let me fill in for your father and help you make the right decisions. This is why people like Warhol came to show with me. They trust me. Andy was a great businessman and he wanted someone ethical with keen business acumen to exhibit his work. You can ask anyone. They will confirm this.” Bernard went in for the hard sell. “I can guarantee I will get twice the money for your works, and I’m prepared to back it up with my pocket book. I will purchase every sculpture you produce outright at full retail, the same amount your dealer is getting right at this very moment from me. You can have top billing in the gallery as my star sculptor. I don’t care what types of sculpture you produce. As long as you believe in the piece enough to put it on the market, I will buy them all and increase the price I pay you by 10 percent a year. What do you say now, Craig? Care to make art history and leave something of significance for the world as Francis A. Johnson did?”
Craig was flummoxed. “Wow, I’m shocked and elated. I think I would be a fool not to accept such a generous offer. I feel bad leaving my gallery, though. I love it so; they have been so supportive. But with the added income I will be able to concentrate on making more important works as Mr. Johnson did. How do I tell them I’m leaving? I’ve never done this before.”
“I’ll take care of everything. From this point on we’re family,” Bernard assured. “Come by the gallery tomorrow and I’ll get you all squared away. I can handle all the unpleasantness of what needs to be done. They will be sad, but don’t forget I’m leaving them a big fat check which will help ease the pain a bit.” Sad was a sentiment to which the Minnesota boy would no doubt relate. Staying one step ahead of the Midwesterner was going to be a cinch for Bernard.