Twenty-five

THREE YEARS EARLIER

The first time I arrived in New York to paint the second 4D, I went up to Karen’s office. There, she introduced me to Beatrice Cormier, a bejeweled older woman with sharp, ice-blue eyes.

“Beatrice is a major collector,” Karen explained. “She has multiple degrees in art history and knows more about painting than most art professors.” She handed Beatrice a key. “She’s going to observe you as you work.”

For a moment, I was put off. I don’t like being watched while I paint. But then I realized, of course, MoMA had to ensure that the work was actually mine.

“The supplies you requested are already in the studio.” Karen pointed to the cardboard tube I had under my arm. “Are those your paintings I asked for?”

I was reluctant to hand them to her, but did. She wanted them for comparison purposes, to match to 4D, which was to my advantage, but somehow it made me feel smarmy, like I was the guilty party.

“I’ll get these back to you as soon as we’re finished with them,” she said, and turned to her computer in dismissal. “Beatrice will take you there now.”

Beatrice’s driver brought us to a building in an up-and-coming-but-not-yet-arrived section of Brooklyn that reminded me of SOWA. Artists are always the first to find these places, pioneers who get the area started and then get pushed out when gentrification jacks up the rents.

We took the elevator to a small studio whose owner was out of the country. I didn’t recognize his work—it had to be a man’s—and had no idea whose space I was appropriating. Which, I supposed, was Karen’s plan. This whole arrangement was very hush-hush. No one was to know about it until my claim had been validated. Or invalidated. And maybe not even then.

A large, empty canvas, the same size as 4D, was set up on an easel facing south so the north light would hit it. My supplies lay on a paint-streaked table next to it. I checked the paints and the brushes, turpentine, mediums.

“Do you have what you need?” Beatrice asked.

“Looks good,” I said. “But isn’t it going to be awfully boring for you?”

“We need to establish a timetable so I can fit this into my schedule,” was her answer.

“I only have one class. On Tuesdays. I’m almost done with my class work, focusing on my final capstone project. I’m hoping to get my degree at the end of next semester.”

“Yes . . . ?” She was polite but left no doubt that she had little interest in the details of my life.

“So I guess anytime on either side of that is fine with me?”

Beatrice tapped out a series of commands on her phone. “It would be best to complete this as soon as possible. How long would you presume it’s going to take you?”

It hadn’t taken me that long to paint 4D, which had amazed me at the time. Wet-on-wet was much faster than wet-on-dry. Still, there was no guarantee this would come as quickly. Isaac wasn’t the only painter to succumb to artists’ block under pressure. “Three, four days?”

Unfortunately, Beatrice was a very busy woman and wasn’t available for many sessions of two days in a row. But we managed to arrange a series of times when we could both meet at the studio. She explained that I was to have no more contact with Karen, that she, Beatrice, had the key, and she would be responsible for letting me in and locking me out.

And so it went. I came into the city three times and stayed for two days each. It took more sessions than I estimated because Beatrice never had a full day free. I painted when she was available, slept at the Y. She was easy to have around, reading or quietly talking on her cell phone, but ever vigilant. I’d have guessed they paid her handsomely for this tedious duty, but it was clear she was way too rich to be persuaded by money. I never did find out why she did it.

The whole process was actually quite pleasant as long as I didn’t spend too much time thinking about what was behind it. I was out of Boston, away from the pressure of classes and the one-upmanship that’s the hallmark of highly ranked MFA programs. And Beatrice turned out to be an excellent companion: both watchful and respectful, saying little, but clearly communicating that she was impressed with my work. Karen had told me I didn’t have to make a copy of 4D, just to paint something similar, another piece in the series. Which is what I did.

When I finished, Beatrice locked the painting in the studio and told me someone would be in touch. She thanked me for my graciousness, and I for hers. She smiled warmly at me for the first time since the project began and patted me on the shoulder. “Way to go, girl,” she said, and winked. Then she got into her waiting car and was driven away.

It was six long weeks before I heard the official verdict.