NEW YORK CITY
The four-hour drive from Boston to New York seemed only like 30 minutes to Charles, who was deep in thought about his strategy for confronting Phillips. The more he thought about it, the probability in Bloom’s mind became that Marsh had murdered Yellowhorse and very possibly Lendskip. The question was, did Phillips know and if so, did he orchestrate or participate in their murders? There was no doubt Phillips was an asshole when it came to his business practices, but he didn’t seem like a killer. The paintings Marsh had produced were deviant, even to a contemporary art dealer. The fact that Marsh had shown at Phillips’ gallery for what appeared to be almost 20 years meant Phillips must know Marsh’s mindset. How did two artists come to be buried in what appeared to be the Marsh family plot?
The key had to be the so-called Yellowhorse painting. Stop the sale and the coyote spirit couldn’t be far behind. So first stop for Charles was Sotheby’s, which had its contemporary auction in only one day. Bloom knew he was cutting it close coming the day before the sale, but he hoped if the auction house got scared off by potential authenticity issues, the painting might pulled. Maybe their lawyers would flinch. He knew there were no exact legal grounds for the family to demand that the auction house remove the painting. They had no lawyer or judge’s injunction. And yet if he could muster a serious enough accusation about the piece at the last hour, he might be able to stop the sale. He rehearsed the conversation while driving:
“Yes, well, I was Willard’s first dealer and I’m currently dating his sister, and Willard’s grandfather says it was not an authentic Yellowhorse, but from a design he had a vision of during a healing ceremony 15 years ago. I understand it’s a $5 million dollar painting, but it’s a fraud and I think Willard Yellowhorse was murdered!” Actually saying it out loud gave Charles a shiver. It was not going to be a pretty scenario. He was inviting a murderer to focus their sights on him. The coyote would not be happy with his meddling.
The day was typical for early May in New York, cold and dreary. It felt more like winter than late spring. Finding a parking spot turned out to be an ordeal even though the Sotheby’s website boasted “ample parking.” Charles circled the block of 72nd and York on the Upper East Side three times. Sotheby’s, with its 10-story modern glass front, took up a huge portion of the block. The outside window had a huge poster of the upcoming sale with, of all paintings, STRUGGLE glaring back at Charles each time he circled the block. He missed a parking opening out front the first go-around as he was so mesmerized by the painting. He couldn’t help but wonder how many fake paintings could have actually been sold at such a venerable auction house, and if so had any ever managed to become the lead poster. It was undoubtedly a first, and he was going to be right in the middle of the whole mess. By the third pass at the window he was starting to physically become ill at the prospect.
Finally securing a spot a half block away, it occurred to Charles he had a six-inch, stone-age knife wrapped in a deerskin cloth in his coat pocket. The dilemma was, Hastiin Sherman had told him to keep the knife and medicine bundle close at all times. The medicine bundle was safely around his neck as if some modern-day charm, but the knife was a different kettle of fish. To confront auction officials about the authenticity of their painting with an insane story, and to be carrying a rather menacing knife on one’s body might not go over so well. Bloom decided his car was near enough to be classified “close to him,” so he gently pushed the deerskin package deep under his driver’s seat.
The contemporary art sale was tomorrow night. Numerous serious buyers had flown in for the sale. The highlight was a major Rothko, an orange, white, and pink variation of Rothko’s classic theme of large blocks of color that seem to float on a background of monochromatic color. The painting had an estimate of $35 million to $45 million, but should sell for much more. It was lot 48, one after the Yellowhorse. It was the cover of the main catalog, and also had its own mini-catalog like the Yellowhorse. The Rothko was magnificent. Under different circumstances, Bloom would be thrilled to see it in person. The entire sale’s exhibit had been structured around the painting, which was centrally located on a wall by itself. The Yellowhorse was hung nearby to counterbalance the exhibit space.
Currently the head of Sotheby’s contemporary art department was giving a rousing explanation of the Rothko and its virtues to a local New York television channel. Charles watched, his eyes transfixed by the man’s arms, which waved in every direction as if he had some sort of art Tourette’s syndrome. His British accent matched his face. With each arm fling, his sandy brown hair bounced in and out of his long face and it looked as if he would toss his BlackBerry away, but it remained clutched in his hand. This man, whom Charles had never met but whose face he’d seen on all the contemporary catalogs, would soon hate him. Bloom knew he would completely fuck up his precious auction.
All major auctions are arranged leading to a crescendo, like a musical production. The Yellowhorse was to bring the auction to a fever pitch when it sold for a record for the artist, and then it was on to the Rothko, with the buyers primed to follow suit. If he could stop the sale of the Yellowhorse somehow, it would have the exact opposite effect: a complete downer for the auction and it would screw up the Rothko sale as every person in the room would become too enthralled with the Yellowhorse debacle to focus on the Rothko. It would taint the next lot by association, which was going to be a major problem for the auction, which meant a major problem for Bloom.
He would probably be sued for damages to the Rothko sale and his wages permanently garnished as well as being banned from Sotheby’s and any other respectable auction house where he was recognized. He couldn’t help but think of one of his favorite movies, “Kingpin,” starring Woody Harrelson as the hapless bowler Roy Munson who blows his one big chance to beat Bill Murray. Forever after, any choker on the bowling circuit was called a “Munson.” Bloom envisioned any person who bungled an auction or even an important art show would be referred to as being “Bloomed.” Like, “He really Bloomed that artist’s career,” or, “This auction’s prices were Bloomed.” The image in his mind made Charles instinctively touch the pouch around his neck. His right hand started to throb. He wondered if his blood pressure was up and maybe he was about to have a stroke. He was only in his mid-40s but he was under severe emotional distress and his heart was beating much faster than normal.
Bloom focused for the first time on the Yellowhorse. It was a large canvas with a star-like spattered red design laid down on a pure egg-white canvas, interspersed with areas of yellow discoloration due to Willard’s urine. He had never seen the piece in person, just in newspapers, a book on Yellowhorse, and of course the catalog. He hoped the painting would never be included in the Yellowhorse catalogue raisonné. An art history professor from the University of New Mexico was completing the raisonné. Bloom had already given the author images of all the pieces he had sold. The raisonné is the comprehensive chronological collection of an artist’s life work. In the Yellowhorse raisonné, the final painting would be the fictitious STRUGGLE, something Bloom was hoping to stop somehow. Charles Bloom’s hand increased its throbbing the more he studied the piece. He could feel Willard’s presence; it was as if Willard’s spirit was still a part of the canvas but not in a good way, there was pain and he could feel it. His right wrist throbbed as he looked at the painting. He gulped, shook his hand, and focused on what was now his path in life.
The interview had just finished and the crowds were starting to thin away from the Rothko and nearby Yellowhorse. Bloom figured this was his chance. It was time to “Bloom” the department head, anticipating his new title as art idiot extraordinaire.
“Hi,” Bloom began, sticking his slightly numb right hand out to shake the hand of a Mr. Rupert, the head of the contemporary art department, who looked much older close-up than in his catalog image. Bloom kept the handshake minimal, still trying to retain any power the old medicine man may have imparted to him.
“Yes, nice to meet you Mr.….”
“Bloom. Charles Bloom from Santa Fe.”
“I recognize that name. Aren’t you Mr. Yellowhorse’s first dealer? I remember putting your name in the catalog on our lovely Yellowhorse.”
“Yes, I’m afraid I am.” Bloom knew in a moment Rupert really would be afraid to have met him.
“Oh wonderful. Have you had a chance to preview the piece? As you know, this is the first time on the market and we are expecting a rather pitched battle for its debut. If you need any condition reports or would like to see the piece in private, that can be arranged. Do you think you will be bidding on the piece? And if so, may I help you with advanced registration or anything?” Mr. Rupert said the word anything letting the g linger to emphasize his British pedigree and willingness to help.
“Actually,” Bloom said, “there is a way you can help me but I’m afraid it’s not what you might expect.” Here it came, where he had to fall on his sword, the obliteration of a wonderful career in art. “You see, Mr. Rupert, as you know I am an expert when it comes to Yellowhorse’s work, and it so happens that I also represent the Yellowhorse family when I say this. I have my concerns with this so-called final piece of Yellowhorse actually being considered a painting by Willard.”
Rupert was stunned, it was obvious, but he kept the same demeanor even as the blood drained from his face, calmly replying, “Well, that’s an interesting point of view, one I have not heard before. We will of course have to look very closely at your concerns. We do have ample documents of its authenticity if you care to view those. Rather gory police forensic photos showing Mr. Yellowhorse and the painting underneath, as well as his handwritten suicide note stating the painting’s title and that he made it. The letter comes with the painting of course. What other provenance were you looking for exactly? I’m sure we have it as well?” Rupert’s tone had changed from stunned to peeved, no more wanting to help in his voice, his right foot tapping the marble floor.
“It’s not that I don’t think the canvas was under Mr. Yellowhorse when he died. I have no question that it was. It is the circumstances under which it was made. The family and I believe Willard would never have done such a thing and his note was somehow coerced and possibly some kind of foul play was involved.”
“I see,” Rupert responded. “Well I can’t speak to any possible murder, that was 15 years ago and it seems rather unusual such a concern only comes up one day before such an important painting is to be auctioned off. I wonder if there is something else you or the family might be looking for, some kind of financial consideration.” This was his British way of saying, “Are you trying to blackmail us,” in a very proper way.
“No,” Bloom replied. “We are not asking for anything monetary. We would like the painting to be reconsidered for its inclusion in this sale.” There it was, asking to pull the painting. The kiss of death for an auction house. He had officially just “Bloomed” the sale.
“I see, well I will take your request to the Sotheby’s president and of course our lawyers. We will consider this with the utmost concern. Of course you realize without some sort of legal injunction that the piece will be sold on the 7th. I’m assuming you don’t have such a document?”
“No, not yet Mr. Rupert. I was hoping we didn’t have to go down that road.”
“I will take this up with the consigner and make sure they are aware of the situation. They may want to pull the piece, though I wouldn’t count on it. I need to get all your local and New Mexico contact information, and we will look into what we feel should be done. I would expect your lawyers to call us if you have any further requests. Of course, Mr. Bloom, you also realize any slander of the painting’s reputation by you would also be taken quite seriously.” Rupert quickly said his tart goodbye and walked away, punching the keys on his BlackBerry at a furious pace. His day had just been “Bloomed” and he was not very happy with the minor dealer from Santa Fe. Bloom realized Rupert’s last statement was his warning shot to not screw up the auction or there would be consequences to pay. Serious consequences.