A Brave Man Seven Storeys Tall (28 page)

           
VICE: And what are these pieces called?

           
KW
: The bar piece is called
The Impossibility of Getting Anything But Plastered in the Shadow of a Dozen Naked Models
.

           
VICE: That name seems—

           
KW
: I'm just fucking with you. It's really just a bar. It's not really art at all. But this way it's a tax write-off, you know. The title is
Bar
(2004).

           
VICE: I'm reminded of Duchamp's Hat Rack, starting life as a functional hat rack near the entrance, but every day creeping an inch closer to the center of the gallery. After something like eight days, with the hat rack now 1.5 meters closer to the center of the room, people stopped hanging their coats and hats on it and started regarding Hat Rack as a readymade sculpture. Duchamp had, in effect, provided a quantified answer to the question, What is Art? Is this your project with
Bar
?

           
KW
: Really. It's just a bar and you get to look at lots of titties.

           
VICE: What is the other piece called, the Abu Ghraib photos?

           
KW
: It's titled
Spooky Action at a Distance
.

The bartender pulled her hair back and, noticing Owen scratching at his neck, made conversation:

—You know that guy?

Owen's eye turned a little whiter. His automatic response was to say he collaborated with him. He was furious at what had happened, furious at what he had just read, and yet his stupid brain still betrayed him and wanted to entangle itself with Kurt. He bit down on his cheek.

The bartender refilled his whisky.

—You do know him. He hangs out here during the fair. I haven't seen him this year, but he'll be here at some point.

—Can you tell me where this photo was taken? I thought the hotel was in Basel, but I've been in a half dozen lobbies and can't find this room.

She held the flimsy page to a late afternoon beam of light.

—That's not a real hotel. It's an art collector's house. She's the widow of some pharmaceutical titan. The only things she cares about are art and friends. They have unbelievable parties there. Crazy parties. During Art Basel it's called the Guesthouse.

—Is it in the city center?

—It's a ten-minute walk. Does he owe you money?

—That's the only thing he doesn't owe me.

—Kurt's not much of a human being, but at least he knows it—which may be why he tips so well.

Owen set all the cash in his pocket onto the counter.

—How do I find this guesthouse?

—You don't need to tip me for that.

She pinched a twenty-franc note from the mound of bills yawning out their crumples.

—The widow's named Lady Percy. Her place is in Saint Alban. Walk along the Rhine, pass the Mittlere bridge, then turn on the Wettstein bridge. You take the first street on your left, St. Alban-Vorstadt. Take St. Alban-Vorstadt until it hits a crossroads. From there you can either continue on St. Alban's if you want to go to the front gate or take a left on Muhlenberg if you want to go unannounced. If you take the Muhlenberg route, it's the mansion on the hill with the spire. You're going to have to climb a wall or knock on a big iron gate. If you take the St. Alban route, it's just past Malzgasse. You won't miss it.

Owen wrote the directions in the back of his father's
Odyssey
, thanked her, and shouldered his bag.

—When you find Kurt, tell him Clara said hi.

O
wen chose the frontal approach. A solid panel of iron on rails protected the Guesthouse from street traffic.

He held the button down and challenged the security camera.

Someone was sprinting down the street from the east and calling his name. He turned around to find Hal running with his arms waving, as if he were trying to stop someone from boarding the wrong train. His goatee had grown so long and scraggled that Owen hardly recognized him.

—Whoa whoa whoa, man. What are you doing here? It's great to see you.

Hal caught up, then took two steps back. He lowered his chin and began lightly scratching his temple, shielding his face with his forearm and elbow, clenching his teeth and ready to take a punch.

—I owe you an apology for everything that happened in Berlin. I want you to know I had no part in any of that. Kurt threatened to evict me. I feel horrible about the pictures. I want to help you get even.

—Is he in there?

—No. There were technical problems with one of his pieces, and he had to go to the pavilion to fix it. He was planning on streaming video of the empty table in Berlin, now the feed from Berlin is snow; he wanted to have a few TVs showing the real table over the replica table. I'm assuming you found Altberg's note?

—But Kurt is staying here?

—He met some girl. Some girls actually. They may be partying tonight if he can get the work finished. But listen, he's an asshole.

Owen looked through him. Hal continued:

—Kurt thinks that because he pays me well, he can take all the credit for my work. It keeps getting worse. This morning a reporter from
Der Spiegel
asked him about my role. What did he say? “Hal's a graphic designer. Sometimes he takes a picture or two.” Kurt's seriously hampering my sales. I'm getting no credit for Basel.

—Be careful, Hal. As soon as I give you an ounce of credit for the photos strung up on the other side of that river, you and I are going for a swim and we're going to find out who can hold his breath longer.

—Point taken. I had nothing whatsoever to do with those images. You remember me yelling at him to stop, right? He's out of control.

Hal fanned his goatee, then continued:

—I'd have a hard time seeing him pose for any of the Art Basel press stuff if he had, say, a broken nose or a black eye or a knocked-out tooth. I think he would just disappear to a resort for a few months, like some plastic surgery refugee.

—Leaving the press with no alternative but you.

—That's not my fault. The public needs to hear from its artists to sustain these prices.

—When does he get back?

—This is the wrong place to confront him. The house comes with its own security personnel, and they have pictures of you.

—Everybody does. Thanks for that. Give me an alternative.

—That's what I've been thinking about. Art Basel doesn't officially start until Thursday. There's nothing happening tonight. Monday and Tuesday are the select VIP preview, Wednesday is the normal VIP preview. Right now, anyone with any money is in Zurich or Berlin making deals. Most of the good work is already sold. Tomorrow night is when the collectors come to see what they bought and hear about their prescience. Kurt knows the routine. He brought our dining table to Basel so everyone would be hanging out at the Pfaff booth tomorrow. Everything is in place for it to be packed tomorrow night. He won't be expecting you to be there. It's perfect. Tomorrow night is when you have to confront him.

—Hal, I don't give a shit if he's expecting me. I'm not the kind of guy who sneaks up.

—Fine. But if you can keep calm until Tuesday night, the payoff will be worth it. It's going to be the biggest night of his career by far. He might stick around for the official opening, but chances are that come Thursday he'll be stepping onto someone's yacht in Antibes or Croatia.

—Stepping?

—You know what I mean. Don't be a dick.

—No one stays for the actual fair?

—The crowd stays. The tastemakers will be headed for Venice on Thursday or chasing after the collectors who flew their private planes to the coast on Tuesday. There's a party here at Lady Percy's tonight. After tomorrow night, it's more about the parties than the art. But right now, it's all about art. Every billionaire is looking to walk away with the names of five new artists who are going to change the world.

—Can you get me in tonight?

—You're not listening. Kurt is not going to be there until tomorrow night. That's when you need to go, when all his collectors are there.

—And you can get me in tomorrow?

—Absolutely. Brigitte will put you on the Timmons gallery list as one of their artists. And hey, look on the bright side, you've gone from no one to official international artist.

Owen put both palms to his brow, trying to undo the world.

—We could go through Pfaff, but then Kurt would know you're coming.

—Fine. It'll be tomorrow. Take care of it.

Owen left Hal standing outside the iron gate of the Guesthouse.

—So I'll tell Brigitte tomorrow night, then? Hal shouted.

Owen was already off Mühlenberg Strasse and headed for the river. The idea that Hal could get him into anything but trouble was laughable. But he had met someone else in Berlin who could give him a slight advantage.

O
nce more, Owen walked through the lobby of the Hotel Trois Rois to the back bar. He needed a strong drink before confronting someone who may or may not have pending legal action against him. But he couldn't afford any of the hotel's strong drinks. So he found a seat and drank an Amstel. A 500-watt light bounced off a Mylar umbrella. Kurt hadn't diffused anything for Owen. Straight heat and glare.

One young man, apparently some art-world oracle, was delivering his assessment of the run-up to Art Basel to a mic-wagging interviewer from CNNMoney. Half of the crowd pretended not to be listening, but they weren't fooling anyone. The room clearly belonged to the one who drew the light.

—Did you see anything noteworthy?

—I saw Dave Cohen looking at a Richter like he was going to buy.

—I thought he only bought Impressionists.

—That's why it was interesting.

—What's his net worth?

—Two-point-four billion.

—And who's his buyer?

—He buys himself. That's the secret to being a major collector. It's not how much money you have, it's your taste.

—John McEnroe.

—Exactly. John McEnroe.

Owen only knew of one John McEnroe and wondered if this was some sort of code.

—I'm hearing that some of the galleries have already sold out. So tell us, who's selling?

—Gagosian, but his booth is mostly Kiefer, so that was a foregone conclusion. The big surprise so far is Jacques Lacroix's work at Lawrence Timmons's space—those pieces are really out there. It reminds me of Yves Klein's imagined paintings more than anything else. Lawrence was kind enough to show me slides of the pieces last month. The first two were the types of performative reconstruction we've come to expect from Lacroix; the third work in the catalogue was “
Titled
, 2002, $285,000.” It was the only work that didn't have a slide. I asked Lawrence if the work wasn't finished yet, or what.

—What did he say?

—Well, he scowls at me and says, completely deadpan, “The listing is the piece.”

—Fabulous! I'm sure it will go in the next few days.

—And maybe it should. Yves Klein has never been more relevant.

—Is there anything else you're interested in?

—Biggest question mark of the fair is what's going on over at Pfaff Galleries.

—Kurt Wagener's new work.

—It's a mess. Apparently there was a technical problem with a video installation piece. The rest is kind of all over the place. There's a scratched-up piece of wood that looks so much like a Keith Haring that it must be a tribute. There's a performance piece, yawn, of models behind acrylic glass taking pictures of the people who walk by. I hate to say it, but Kurt Wagener is making painting seem relevant again—just as an alternative to this fiasco. There's a full bar. There's a smashed-up piece of drywall, huge cardboard box, and a triptych of Abu Ghraib torture photography called
Spooky Action at a Distance
.

—Torture photography? That took all of a month.

Owen shot from his chair before his waiter arrived for round two. At the front desk he asked for Todd Zeale. The desk manager looked annoyed that someone as disheveled as Owen could name one of his guests. He took his time dialing Zeale's room and then passed the phone to Owen.

—This is Todd. And who exactly are you?

—I'm the tall guy with the eye patch who stood by while Kurt destroyed your gallery. Sorry about that.

—Oh, the naughty Olympian. Well, what do you want?

—I want to offer Kurt a choice.

—I have fifteen minutes or so. Pass the phone back to the nice man at reception. They'll show you up.

T
odd Zeale was wearing a brown chenille robe that made him look like a plush toy. The white towel coiled like a turban pulled tight his shining forehead. Unwrapped presents took up half the floor space. A three-wicked lavender candle the size of a flowerpot burned on the table at Todd's side.

—Please. Do take a seat.

—I'm fine standing.

Owen parted the curtains to be sure no one was waiting outside on the veranda.

—All of the suites were sold out years ago, but I've always thought an average room in a great hotel is far better than a great room in an average hotel, wouldn't you agree? But it must be bizarre walking around with your head raking the ceilings. Should we go downstairs? Do you feel trapped?

—By the time I was fifteen, I realized the world was built too small.

—Talk to me in twenty years. The world only seems small when you imagine you have all the time in the world. But we don't, hence these little microcosms.

—Like Basel.

—Precisely. Now what was this about offering Kurt a choice? You do realize that in this world you're still a commoner, someone who is offered a choice, but never gets to present one.