Sixteen

AS SOON AS I TURNED MY PHONE ON after we landed at JFK, it buzzed with a text from Clarice. “Go to baggage claim and look for driver holding sign that says ‘Ames.’ He’ll bring you to the gallery.”

Six more text messages and ninety minutes later, we walked into the gallery. I was wearing jeans and running shoes, my Nebraska winter coat, and my Cherokee hat from Georgia. An officious-looking man in a three-piece suit stopped us inside the door.

“May I help you?” he asked with the kind of sneer that said it was obvious that he couldn’t.

“I’m Tony Ames. I’m here for the installation of my work.”

“You?” the guy asked. His attitude changed completely in a heartbeat. “So sorry. Please, come right this way. Mr. Caldwell?” he called. “Mr. Ames is here.” Clarice came out of a room on the right. She looked harried and like she hadn’t slept in a week.

“Tony! Thank god you’re here.” She assessed what I was wearing and dropped her voice. “Yes. Nice. Come with me. Your work is in the C Gallery. Bring your attitude. Lots of it,” she whispered. That was it. We followed Clarice. The gallery was huge. There were half a dozen different rooms and the fact that my work was taking up an entire gallery seemed to have the staff on edge.

“Ah, Mr. Ames,” another guy in a suit said as we came into the room. “I’m Mr. Caldwell, as in Caldwell Galleries.” Hmm. There wasn’t going to be any first names here, I could tell. Apparently, my jeans weren’t what was expected of an artist in New York.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Caldwell.” He ignored my offered hand.

“This gallery is too big for your collection. We expected more pieces. You do have more, don’t you?” he asked as we entered the room.

“Of course,” I said, subconsciously adopting a bit of his snooty tone, “just not for you.” Clarice nodded subtly to me. The room was large, but I couldn’t see that it was too big. Clarice pulled Melody aside and left me to Caldwell. What the fuck? He was conducting a meaningless tour of the space and listing a bunch of names of artists who had shown there. It seemed like his entire purpose was to put me in awe of their eminence and how privileged I was to be here. A minute after Clarice disappeared with Melody my phone buzzed with a text.

“Feed it back to the buzzard. Be a prima donna. It’s all he understands,” Clarice’s message said. She warned me in a previous text that he only liked men. He’d been giving Clarice shit ever since she got here.

The gallery was arranged with the masterpiece at one end. Some of my paintings hung on walls with space between them for the print of each to be hung next to the original. Several pieces were on stand-alone walls that could be moved into positions around the room. As Mr. Caldwell continued to ramble, I peeled off to the left and began looking seriously at how the pieces were arranged. It wasn’t going to be difficult to start acting like a prima donna. The layout was a disaster.

“Caldwell!” I barked. The guy had been so intent on giving me a tour that he hadn’t even noticed that I wasn’t beside ... or rather behind him. I didn’t give him a chance to respond. “This wall needs to be cleared. I want the five prints of the suite to be displayed here in the order from left to right that they appear in my catalog. Not alphabetical order like you put them in your program.”

“That won’t do,” he said. “We want the prints displayed next to the oils they represent.”

“Exactly what I don’t want,” I said. “Prints should never be displayed next to the oil. The print always pales next to the original.” Thank you, Doc, for drilling that into my head. “The prints are to be displayed along this wall with the horizon line at five feet five inches. Since the horizon line shifts in the individual prints, that means the top edges of the frames will not be even. I want all the other art to be adjusted so that all horizon lines are at the same height.”

“We hang art with the frame tops aligned. It’s more decorous.”

“We’re not exhibiting your gallery,” I said. “We’re exhibiting my paintings. Further, the location of Bacchanalia is good, but the other paintings are hung out of order. Have you never exhibited work that tells a story?” Thank you, Doctor Bychkova.

“Now look here, young man. Who do you think you are to be ordering things rehung to your liking?”

“I’m the artist.” I walked out of the room to find Clarice. It wasn’t difficult. She and Melody were waiting near the door. Clarice was smiling. She’d been listening.

“Good work. Anything else you need, sir?” she asked.

“Why aren’t the prints in the gallery yet?” I asked loudly enough that my voice would carry.

“They’re still being framed, Mr. Ames,” Clarice answered as loudly.

“Our framer or theirs?”

“Theirs.”

“They’d better come back with the prints floated above the matte as specified or they won’t be hung. I need a shower. Can we please go to the hotel now?”

I stalked out the front door of the gallery where our limo was waiting for us. Clarice and Melody followed me. We got in the back of the car, looked at each other, and burst out laughing.

“That was precious,” Clarice said. “You cannot imagine what bastards these people have been. I’m so thankful that Bob is with Kate. They are such chauvinist fags. Excuse me. That is an intentionally derogatory term for men who don’t deserve to be called gay. Misogynistic pigs!”

“Don’t hold back,” Melody laughed. “Tell us what you really think.”

“You, dear girl, have an important role to play this week. It’s good you were silent in the gallery. Did you notice no one asked who you were? This is just like when Tony paints a portrait on commission. Whenever you are anywhere near that gallery, he is always to be in your sight. I don’t care if he has to use the bathroom, you go with him. In fact, especially if he has to use the bathroom.”