WHO CARES WHAT’S FAIR
Santa Fe during Indian Market is an experience in itself. The city is awash in people from all over the world, all intermixing with Natives from around the country. The downtown Plaza with its usual small group of Indians under the Palace of the Governors is transformed into a huge arts and crafts fair with over 1,200 native artisans from 100 tribes. Nearly 600 wooden booths, each 10 X 10 feet, are filled with Native craftsman and artisans for a two-day period of sales. The exhibiting artists pick a handful of their pieces to enter for juried selection. Cash prizes and ribbons are awarded in each of the numerous categories. Those pieces that win a division ribbon immediately become much more valuable. If you are fortunate enough to win the Best of Show award, you are assured a good life as an artist. The Best of Show award winners are the toast of the town.
Willard Yellowhorse had transcended Indian Market and was one of the few Native artists who no longer needed to compete at the market since he was a gallery headliner now. It was at Indian Market where Charles Bloom had found Yellowhorse, who received no awards or recognition the only year he competed.
Bloom’s was a huge draw on Canyon Road, with people jockeying for the opportunity to purchase a Yellowhorse work. Collectors would start waiting in line the day before and spend the night in Bloom’s parking lot, just to get the opportunity to buy a coveted Yellowhorse painting. This was the yearly highlight for Bloom’s. Indian Market was lovingly referred to as Indian Mark-Up, as this was the one weekend to get the most money for art work and after a sellout of Yellowhorse’s work both artist and dealer could cruise for the next three months.
Bernard Phillips arrived in Santa Fe the day before Indian Market judging. The city was abuzz with activity. He had made his reservations a month in advance and still could only find a small bed and breakfast. Apparently the best hotels book a year ahead of time and any restaurant required a reservation months in advance. The spectacle was mind boggling to Bernard. One of the local dealers had told him that a hundred million dollars changed hands in a 10-day period, all art related.
Finding Bloom’s was a challenge. Bernard had missed it the first time and had to snake his way back up the people-strewn, one-way Canyon Road before finally finding its little gravel entrance. No parking spaces anywhere. Another trip up the road before a spot was secured. Bernard was already sick of Santa Fe and its charm, and amazed such a shitty spot for a gallery location could do well. The narrow 300-year-old streets and endless adobe houses with chile ristras hanging from the blue porches all seemed too much like some storybook compared to the frenetic real-world pace of Chelsea.
Bloom’s was having a meet and greet the day before the Yellowhorse opening, a chance to view the paintings in advance and talk to the artist. A line seven deep to purchase a piece had already formed for the next day’s feeding frenzy. When the gallery officially opened for business, it would be a madhouse of people staking claim to their paintings. To be able to own a piece at this point required one to wait in a line for 24 hours.
Fourteen Yellowhorse paintings hung on the walls; each was exquisite in its own right. Bernard was convinced of the man’s genius after seeing the works in person. The majority were not large: 25 X 30 inches, no frame, and an array of colors and symbolism created with a very sure hand. Each brush stroke was placed with authority. It was clear Yellowhorse had staying power. The largest painting was 48 X 72 inches, composed of a black background with fine mica dust strewn in the field, which made most of the painting sparkle when the light grazed off its surface. Large white figures reminiscent of Basquiat floated in a sea of yellow and green haze. A central dark center with no mica formed a pure black element that seemed to dictate the movement of the floating figures above. The price was $75K, a tremendous amount for a living artist in 1994.
Bernard wondered how he would acquire any paintings and steal the artist at the same time. He decided he’d rely on what works best in New York: money. The line outside the gallery was growing ever since Bernard had arrived, and it was only 3 pm. The show didn’t open until tomorrow at 5 pm. Bernard had no intention of standing in line as some common collector. He was, after all, a mover and shaker in New York and had money to back it up. He flew first class and expected to be treated the same, especially when buying expensive art.
So Bernard discreetly told each person in line he would purchase any piece they were able to get to first. He would pay a 25 percent finder’s fee. He would write the check for the painting and then write another check for 25 percent of the purchase price of the painting. Bernard locked down four of those in line and one other was leaning his way. For those on line, it was easy money for spending the night in front of a second-class gallery.
Yellowhorse had jet-black hair that reached to the middle of his back. A small, ancient turquoise earring bob hung from his left ear; the 100-year-old earlobe ornament was smooth and slick from its multigenerational use. Yellowhorse’s sharp features and striking looks stuck out in the sea of white fans. The artist was comfortable talking to clients. Unlike most Navajos who are very reserved and don’t want to engage in conversation, Willard was an exception. Years of small talk with tourists by his grandmother’s side at the Toadlena Trading Post had changed him; made him more Anglo, or at least this was Willard’s reasoning. It helped at gallery openings as he could start a conversation about his artworks and their meaning to him with ease. He was a decent salesman, though he hated to ever think of himself in those terms.
Unfortunately, Sally Smith was watching the New York gallery, so no one was there to help Bernard distract the gallery owner, Charles Bloom, from his prize artist. Nonetheless, Bernard Phillips, who stood above the crowd, made eye contact with his next planned superstar, smiling at the charismatic Yellowhorse. “Hi, I’m Bernard Phillips. I came from New York just to meet you and see your work. I own a major gallery in New York City that specializes in top contemporary artists. I’m a big fan of your work.”
“Very cool,” Willard responded. “I’m glad you made the trip. I hope it is worth your time. It looks like it may be hard to get a painting this year. I’m sorry. It’s gotten a little silly these days when it comes to my paintings during Indian Market. A couple of years ago I would have been begging you to buy one of my pieces.” Willard glanced out the window where the line had grown to 10 as word of the New Yorker’s commitment to buy had disseminated down Canyon Road.
“Willard, I didn’t come all this way not to end up with your pieces. You see I believe you are like Basquiat, a rare artistic voice of the times. Unique qualities like yours don’t surface often. You know I represented both Warhol and Basquiat while they were alive. I believe you are just as special.”
“Thanks. Hard to imagine I’m in their league. I studied both of them in school at IAIA,” Willard offered, referring to the Institute of American Indian Art.
“How about this, Willard. I’ll be straight up with you. I plan to show your work in my New York gallery and I would prefer it came directly from you, not having to buy it from shows like this. I believe your dealer doesn’t have a true grip on your potential market or what kind of superstar he has. Yes it is very gratifying to see people line up once a year to buy work at the big show, but the line should be twice as long and in New York at three times the price. I have already arranged to buy at least five works from those individuals outside and hope to get five more before the opening tomorrow. I will pay a significant premium by Bloom’s standards, which is why the line is growing so quickly, but by my New York standards I just made a small fortune. I would like you to think about showing with me at The Cutting Edge Gallery. How about we have dinner after your opening?” Boom. Bernard wasn’t about wasting time.
“I’m afraid I already have plans with Charles Bloom, my gallery owner,” Willard demurred. “But I could meet you for breakfast on Sunday before I go back to the rez, if you have time?”
“Sure, I’ll extend my stay by a day. I am very serious about showing your work. Meanwhile, think about what it will mean to be a Native artist showing in New York. It gets you to a level no other current Indian artist has achieved.”
“Let’s talk. I’ll see you on Sunday. I’ll meet you at Dominic’s. It’s got the best green chile huevos in Santa Fe. It’s off Guadalupe Street, next to the old Church of our Lady of Guadalupe. If there is no parking up front, which on Indian Market weekend there won’t be, head to the back. There is more room around the corner. I’ll be there at 10, white man’s time.” Many of the Indians in New Mexico and Arizona have a running joke about Indian time vs. white man’s time. If you meet on Indian time it is understood you need at least a two-hour window. Time for most Native Americans is a range, not a specific number. Yellowhorse was used to Indian time. Being somewhere at a given time required watching a clock, which he had never owned and never planned to. But on Indian Market weekend, white man’s time ran the show.
“Great. I’ll see you tomorrow at your opening, and Sunday for breakfast at ten o’clock, white man’s time.” Bernard didn’t have a clue what huevos or white man’s time was, but if it helped get Yellowhorse he was up for both.
By the next day, word had gotten around Santa Fe that some crazy New York gallery would buy any of the Yellowhorses and pay a 25% premium. Numerous locals had shown up on line to get the bounty on the Yellowhorses, pushing out most of the collectors. There were more people waiting in line than there were paintings for the show.
Any opening at a major gallery during Indian Market weekend in Santa Fe can be a zoo, but for Bloom’s major once-a-year Yellowhorse show, the scene was chaotic. Bernard Phillips showed up 15 minutes before the scheduled opening and threaded himself through the unruly crowd. Upon being recognized, people began shouting at him, mostly trying to confirm his purchase agreement. A few irate collectors standing on the outside of the designated line yelled at him, berating him as a cheater and a thief of paintings from true collectors who cared about the artist’s work.
Time to take charge. Bernard walked to the front of the line and reiterated his offer, this time out loud with no discretion: “Yes I will pay the premium if you choose to sell to me. Please bring your painting slip to me if you would like me to purchase the piece, and I will pay you a 25% buyer’s premium.” With that he turned sharply around and walked through the front door as if he owned the place. Those about to make a profit started clapping.
Charles Bloom, who had been prepared for a blockbuster show, was dealing instead with an avalanche of criticism from collectors about to be submarined in their efforts to buy one of Yellowhorse’s works. “Duplicitous behavior,” cried out one collector, accusing him of running a scam show.
When Bernard came strolling through the front door, Bloom heard the clapping and knew this had to be the tall, dark dealer from New York who was ruining his show. Bernard was dressed anything but Santa Fe casual. He was wearing a complete black Ralph Lauren suit with a red French silk tie. His expensive matching black silk shirt was covered in Northwest Coast totem pole designs obviously manufactured by someone who didn’t understand what a totem should look like. Bernard thought the Indian motifs appropriate for Indian Market weekend, not realizing most of the Native Americans at the market were from the Southwest. He looked totally out of place in between the cowboy hats, turquoise bracelets, and blue jeans the rest of the crowd was wearing.
Charles intercepted Bernard just as the New Yorker started talking to Yellowhorse. “Hi, Charles Bloom. I own the gallery. Could I talk to you in private for a moment?”
“Sure, I’m happy to. If you will please excuse me, Willard, I’ll be right back.” Still without looking at Charles, Bernard added, “Oh by the way, Willard, do you have a favorite piece in the show?”
“Yeah,” the artist answered. “I like the big one. It’s called THE CREATOR. It really worked for me.”
“Great, I’ll make sure it ends up in my possession.” Still making eye contact with Willard, Bernard reluctantly followed Charles to his back cubby of an office.
As Charles Bloom ushered his unwanted guest into his office to discuss his problem, all he could think was, “I fucking hate retail. Why do people always have to make life so hard? It’s always about what you can get with money. Why can’t it be simple and just be about the art?” He knew his face must be beet red, his telltale sign for extreme displeasure.
“Hi, I’m sorry, I don’t know your name?” Bloom began.
“I’m Bernard Phillips from New York and you are Charles Bloom, correct?”
“Yes, I am. Let me get to the point. You see, Mr. Phillips, many of my clients have complained that you are trying to get a monopoly on the show, offering to buy all the pieces from people in line.”
“Well, it’s not a monopoly. It’s just simply business. No one, including your clients, has to sell me anything. I may not get a single work. Your rather crude method for selling art, having people stay in line all night long, is not the way I purchase important artwork. If you care to make it a more civilized method, I’m happy to listen.”
“I’m sorry our `crudeʹ way of selling art is not for you, but it is the only way we have found to try to make the process fair. You’re encouraging individuals who are not collectors to wait in line to buy for you essentially as an agent. This does not make it fair for all, I’m afraid,” Bloom explained.
“Mr. Bloom, I don’t know any of these individuals. In fact this is my first time in New Mexico. And those so-called agents are strictly collectors as far as I know and are strangers to me. Anyone can make a similar or better offer than mine, including your so-called upset clients. Let them pay for the pieces if they want them. It’s simply supply and demand. Anything else, Mr. Bloom?”
At this point, Charles literally wanted to punch Phillips right in his arrogant New Yorker face. He also knew he would get sued and probably get the crap kicked out of him, judging by the rather large size of the man across the table from him.
“I’m asking you,” Charles reasoned, “if you insist on buying works from those in the line, please limit it to just a couple of paintings. It would make my life a lot easier and keep my clients happy. I can try to get you a piece or two from Willard later, once things get back to normal during our off season.”
“Mr. Bloom, my job is not to keep your clients happy or to make your life easier. That would be yours. I will purchase as many paintings as I am able,” Bernard retorted. “This is strictly up to those individuals in line, not you. As I have already mentioned, I may not get any, but that’s not up to me, just like you ordering me not to be a good businessman is not up to you. If you would like me to conduct business outside the gallery I understand and am happy to do so. If you try to make a production out of this and not release the paintings, I will sue you for damages and the paintings and you will lose a lot of money. Are we finished here or is there some other `fairʹ thing you would like to talk to me about?”
“Yes, we are finished, but here are my rules in my gallery. I will not accept your check for any of the pieces, unless you get in line and are first to purchase one, and then you are limited to only one piece, just like everyone else. Any individual who does want to sell you a painting must first purchase it with their check and then I will release the painting to them. If they are not a dealer with a resale number, they will be responsible for Santa Fe sales tax, and I will charge them for it unless it’s an out of state sale and I am shipping it to them out of state. I hope I have made myself clear.”
“Crystal. Not a problem. I look forward to my many purchases, just not from you.” Bernard stood up and walked out the door, heading directly over to Yellowhorse, who had a crowd of admirers around him.
“Well Willard, your gallery owner apparently doesn’t want me to have any of your paintings. He told me not to try to buy any, and that he would not take my check,” Bernard announced.
“I don’t know what to say. Charles is a very reasonable guy, as far I know. Do you want me to talk to him for you?” Willard responded.
“That’s not necessary. I’ll just pay a premium to those individuals who want to sell me one of your works. I feel badly that you don’t get all that extra money I’m going to make when I sell your pieces, not to mention the premium I’m paying now. You know what I will do? When I sell any of the pieces I purchase today, I will give you 10% of the profit. That’s how much I want you to come with my gallery. Don’t limit yourself to just Santa Fe and this quaint gallery. To have the long-term staying power as an artist and make it to the big time you need to be in the Big Apple.”
“That’s very generous of you, Bernard. I hope you get a couple of my works. It would be great to get a little more cash. I know my grandmom needs a new pickup,” Willard said.
“OK then, let me see what I can do. I’ve got to go and make some new arrangements if I hope to get any pieces.” Bernard shook Yellowhorse’s hand. Willard had the typically light grip of so many Native Americans. The lack of grip strength actually surprised Bernard. He had never touched the hand of an Indian before. Bernard smiled widely as he thought to himself, “Next time, easy grip. Willard Yellowstone will be my artist and I need to remember his cultural differences. I don’t want to crush his painting hand, which is going to make me a bunch of money!”
Walking out to the now 30-person line that had snaked its way out to the main entrance off Canyon Road, Bernard stood up on an old wooden chile box Bloom used to prop open the door in the summer. Cupping his hands like a megaphone, Bernard yelled to the crowd, “Mr. Bloom has told me only those persons who pay with their own checks will be allowed to purchase a painting. He will not allow me to pay for it directly. So for those of you who would like me to purchase any paintings, you will be forced to pay for it first. I will pay you 35% of the price to alleviate any inconvenience this may cause you. I will set up an office at my hotel, and cut checks on the spot that can be cashed at your Bank of Santa Fe. If you are interested in my offer, I will give you one of my personal business cards now and am happy to provide you the name and number of my banker, who will attest to my ability to purchase all these pieces. Also please have the painting sent to the address on the card. Otherwise, Mr. Bloom will be trying to collect sales tax from you. And for that individual who purchases the largest painting for $75K, I will include an additional five percent. I want to own this piece, as you might guess. Now would anybody care for one of my cards?”
Twenty hands instantaneously went up, including a couple of those people who had just been shouting “cheater, go back to New York.” Phillips, remembering his fruit days of entertainment, quickly replied to those naysayers, “I’ll take it those screaming `Cheaterʹ decided they could use the money, so welcome aboard the money train. Who else needs some free cash to spend in Santa Fe?” The crowd laughed in unison at the showman, and yelled back at the few collectors who were not going to cash out, to lighten up and have some fun.