HOT HUEVOS!
Every business has a situation somewhere in its development where there is a definite turning point. Recognizing that moment is the key to the business’s survival. For Bloom’s, the fact that 10 of the 14 paintings were being shipped to Chelsea, New York, including THE CREATOR, Yellowhorse’s best painting, was such a moment. It was the beginning of the end for representing Yellowhorse, and Charles Bloom unfortunately knew it. How to stop the exodus of Yellowhorse pieces, much less the artist himself, seemed an unsolvable predicament. It was like watching a football replay: the football gets tipped and the receiver tries in slow motion to catch the misdirected oblong ball. Its unpredictable pattern is unrecoverable. No matter how hard the distraught receiver tries to correct for the ever-changing ball, it’s impossible. Bloom saw his own poor handling of the whole Yellowhorse incident. His slow-motion blunder was playing out in front of him and badly.
Willard Yellowhorse had already told Charles he was considering showing at The Cutting Edge Gallery. His contract with Bloom was only not to show in any gallery in the West, so New York City was fine, and Charles knew it.
Bloom had tried in vain to explain the bind he was in when longtime Yellowhorse clients were being shut out by hired guns brought in by the New York gallery. Charles reasoned with Yellowhorse, “Not wanting Bernard Phillips to purchase paintings was me trying to protect your clients and keep another dealer from manipulating your market.” Charles explained he didn’t want some outside force to dictate price structure for Willard's works, especially if Willard wasn’t going to receive anything from all the money Phillips would make on his work. This was the tipping point for Bloom and Yellowhorse, a point at which Willard Yellowhorse stopped thinking of Charles Bloom as his only dealer and Bloom had done it himself.
Yellowhorse gazed down at his feet. He knew if he looked in Bloom’s eyes he would betray his new lack of confidence in his old dealer. He reluctantly said, “Charles, Mr. Phillips actually promised me part of the profits he makes on any resales of my work in his gallery. It seems that maybe he does have my best interests in mind.”
Charles didn’t have any response. What could he say? Bernard Phillips had out-dealered him on his finest artist whom Bloom had discovered and nurtured. His only hope now was not to lose Willard completely. Charles recognized the key moment and tried to salvage what he could. “That’s great, I’m glad to hear this. It makes me feel better about his intentions toward you. You know, Willard, I truly care about not only our business relationship but also our personal one. I think you are an amazing individual and hope you understand I want you to be very successful, not only in your art career but also fulfilled as a person—happy. If you feel this New York dealer will help your career, I will support your decision. I would only ask that I could still receive the bulk of your work as I have been there from the start and would love to continue to see your career grow. You and I have a great working relationship, and up until this weekend we’ve really had no problems. If I can help you in any way or guide you in coming to an informed decision about Bernard Phillips, I am happy to make a call or two.”
“OK,” Willard said, “I’ll let you know what I decide on the whole New York deal. But right now I’m leaning toward giving it a try. After all, what can it hurt?”
Bernard Phillips had purchased a great group of Yellowhorses for inventory. He figured Willard would be having some serious misgivings about selling through Bloom’s after watching $50K being paid out in bonuses just to get his pieces. He must figure Bloom’s screwed up on pricing when Bloom left so much on the table that Bernard could re-sell including a new premium, and give Yellowhorse money he wasn’t obligated to pay. It was a brilliant gambit and it had been played out to perfection. Juggling had helped focus Bernard’s mind in situations of stress. The artist, dealer, and buyers were all just pieces of fruit being tossed in the air. Bernard loved the control he had. He could manipulate a solid dealer/artist relationship and basically destroy its inner fiber with his sheer willpower and money. Bernard loved money. When he had been deprived of his wealth by his father’s destruction, it had injured Bernard permanently. He got real pleasure from the fact that he had screwed another dealer who had gotten in his way. “One for the old man,” Bernard thought.
Bernard showed up 30 minutes early for his Sunday morning breakfast meeting. He wasn’t sure what white man time was and wanted to secure a parking space and table in the maddening Indian Market crowds. Surprisingly, he was able to get both rather easily. Lucky, considering the high price of gasoline and thousands of oil-rich Texans who had shown up to buy Indian art.
Dominic’s was nothing special from the old adobe brick façade outside, but inside there was a charm. Each wall was covered with oil paintings of forks, spoons, and knives. The knife images brought Bernard back into his New York mindset. For the first time on the trip he thought of Marsh. He hoped Willard would work out, and not intimidate his so-called partner. He was well aware of Marsh’s capabilities when his dominant pecking order was threatened.
The restaurant’s staff was as eclectic as the old building. Most had numerous piercings and Chinese-lettered tattoos. It was an “order it as you come in” place. Then you waited for someone to find you with your little number sign that they handed out as you paid. Bernard was beginning to think he had been stood up when Yellowhorse came lumbering in. His long hair was now in a tight ponytail with a hat on that said REZ POWER. His eyes were hidden behind dark eyeglasses. Normally an individual like this would stick out, but during Indian Market weekend it seemed everyone looked like Yellowhorse. Bernard didn’t recognize him; Yellowhorse had to find him.
“What’s up, Bernard? Sorry for being late. I forgot and switched my internal clock back to Indian time now that I’m done with my required art duties for a while,” Willard chuckled, thinking to himself he was back to being the stereotypic Indian.
“That’s fine. It gave me a good chance to review the menu and think about your future. I thought I might try your recommended dish, the huevos rancheros.” Bernard incorrectly pronounced the “h” sound instead of pronouncing it like the muted Spanish “j,” having never heard of the exotic dish before.
Huevos rancheros are a popular breakfast dish in New Mexico and Mexico. It translates to eggs ranch style: eggs sunny side up over refried beans, with green or red chile sauce slopped on a fresh-made blue corn tortilla.
“The huevos are my favorite here,” Yellowhorse said, correctly pronouncing the “j” sound. “I like them smothered in a salsa verde, or green sauce. It’s got the best bite to it, especially here at Dominic’s. You can also have it Christmas, which is red and green chile sauce combined. Hope you are up for it; very tasty.”
“You only live once, right Willard? I’ll go with the Christmas version. Speaking of only living once, have you come to a decision on my offer to show in on of the finest galleries in New York?”
“Yeah. It’s a big decision for me. I’ve only shown at Bloom’s, and I’m very close to Charles so I feel bad if he doesn’t get as much work. I know he depends on me a lot, if you know what I mean.”
“I understand and admire your loyalty. But look at it this way, if your prices quadruple he can get 75 percent less paintings and he will still make the same amount as he does now, and more importantly you will get 75 percent more. Seems like a no brainer to me. Crystal clear,” Bernard pointed out.
“Putting it that way, Bernard, makes it seem like an easy decision. OK, let’s go for it. Tell me what I need to do.”
Bernard sealed the deal. “I will want to plan a large opening event, so unfortunately for you we need to get you back painting. The 10 paintings I just purchased I’ll put in the back racks and sell later. That way you can be assured all the works you paint for my show sell before any of these I bought at Bloom’s and you’ll make more money that way. I will do a press release nationwide and would like you to come visit the gallery when you can. I have a feeling you will like the works of one of my sculptor’s a great deal, Craig Lendskip.”
“Oh, I know his stuff, very cool. I read about it in one of those counterculture type magazines. He does those string inspired balls. They remind me of my own works in some kind of weird way, very spiritual.”
Bernard didn’t know about spiritual, but the stuff sure sold. “You two will make a great fit and the cornerstone of the gallery’s up-and-coming artists. I’ll arrange travel and hotel if you let me know when you can get out. You might find New York is to your liking and want to live there for a while. You’re still single, aren’t you?”
“Pretty much. I’ve got a girl I see some back on the rez, but nothing too serious yet. All right. I’ll break the news to Charles. He will be disappointed but I think he knows it’s coming.”
“Yes probably so,” Bernard concurred, “especially after he ships 10 of your paintings I just bought to my New York gallery. Let’s order. I’m starving.”
The only miscalculation Bernard Phillips made during his weekend trip to Santa Fe was his breakfast choice at Dominic’s. He would remember those burning green eggs for the next two days. They had a bite in more than one way. For Willard, it was a whole different story. He was now headed down a path where he would lose all bearings.