POACHING ANOTHER ARTIST
Bernard’s gallery, with the addition of Craig Lendskip, was once again turning a positive cash flow on its living artists. Warhols had gotten them through the early nineties’ art recession and Marsh’s money had provided capital in the last two years, but with Lendskip’s twine balls, money started to flow. The new funds allowed Bernard to resume the opulent lifestyle he had experienced a few years earlier. The recession was over, and Bernard was intent on charging ahead. He never would allow himself to be poor again.
The other contemporary artists in the gallery started to make more sales because of the draw the wunderkind was providing. Fredrick Marsh tolerated the mini-superstar because, as he put it, “Twine balls, while fun, will never be considered lasting art, not like my death series. Just a phase kind of thing.”
What Bernard Phillips needed was a powerhouse painter, someone he could sink his teeth into and believe in, someone who, once they had died, the art world would embrace. He found his savior in the most unusual place, the travel section of The New York Times.
Bernard Phillips’ daily routine was the same, never changing: 45 to 60 minutes on a stationary bike each morning. He would read The Times cover to cover. Starting with business, then arts, style, and front page, and on Sunday, maybe the travel section.
The travel section was of minor interest since Bernard rarely traveled. He preferred to stay in New York and work, make money, and keep an eye on the gallery and Marsh. He was going to throw out the travel section that day as he finished his minimal mileage requirement—12 miles—when an image caught his eye: a painting, and it was exceptional.
The cover story was about Santa Fe, New Mexico, the second-largest art community in the country by some counts. Only New York City was larger. The article highlighted the varied art scene, spotlighting Canyon Road and Native American art. They had chosen an intricate, colorful Willard Yellowhorse painting to illustrate the Indian art portion of the getaway. Yellowhorse, a full-blooded Navajo Indian, was the featured artist of a gallery, Bloom’s, which specialized in contemporary Native paintings and sculpture. The article told of how Yellowhorse was the most expensive living Native artist in the country and how all the work would sell out immediately. Yellowhorse’s style was contemporary and unique from other Navajo artists or any other Indian artists for that matter. Santa Fe was best visited during the third week in August when Indian Market weekend occurred. Willard Yellowhorse would have his annual one-man show at this time each year at Bloom’s. “An event not to be missed,” the article boasted.
Bernard was amazed at the complex images of color and figure-like people. He was also surprised Willard’s prices were already substantially high while being represented by some unknown gallery in Santa Fe. Even from just the single work it was apparent he was gifted. It reminded him of Basquiat’s work but with some sort of Western twist.
To Bernard’s knowledge no gallery in New York represented any Native artists, and if one did it was in some obscure place and not of merit. The great part of handling a Native American artist was that Marsh wouldn’t care. Marsh had heard Bernard complain vociferously about how New Yorkers’ sensibilities never quite got Warhol’s Cowboys and Indian series. They just didn’t like Indians. Marsh would figure an Indian couldn’t be much threat if any. After seven years of working closely with Fredrick Marsh, Bernard had learned what would set him off. Fredrick’s main issue was if he felt an artist was overshadowing his work. If any one artist became the gallery’s focus it was potentially serious trouble. Bernard had learned a valuable lesson with Warhol’s untimely death; it had exposed Marsh’s dark side and what he was capable of.
“This Yellowhorse artist would be perfect,” Bernard thought. “Marsh would assume anyone from the West and an Indian couldn’t be taken very seriously in the East, much less New York City. What he won’t figure out, is it’s the subject matter of Indians that New Yorkers don’t like. This guy is contemporary and great.”
Bernard decided he would need a trip to Santa Fe to poach another great artist. How hard could it really be taking an artist from a no-name New Mexico gallery? They couldn’t compete against a big-city operation with lots of capital. They were small potatoes, not savvy businessmen like New Yorkers. The same routine as before, just a little different spin….