The Prize (21 page)

“Your technique is different,” he said. “The paint is applied thicker. Less precise.” He nodded his head.

The Rescuers
consisted of panoramas painted in hues of red, orange, and brown creating an image of fire and destruction. Pieces of burnt paper, ash, brick, and debris were thickly painted over on the canvas and in the swirls of color there were ripped and charred pieces of cloth. Again, the ghostly image of the towers was in the background. This one made him a little nervous. He wondered whether Agnes had pushed the conceit too far.

“I'm interested in the way problems and solutions develop from one canvas to another and the interplay of materials. If the towers still exist in the viewer's mind, even as ghostly shadows, then what's really been destroyed?”

“I like the statement. Art doesn't forget. It invites the viewer to question the role of the artist in the preservation of history.”

For a moment her face broke free of seriousness. “That's it,” she said. “I wouldn't have put it that way, but I like it.”

“I do too. But is it perhaps too grim for the viewer? Let's think about it.”

“Really? I find this one exciting. To take that risk.” She challenged him with her eyes. “Joan Miró created his series of ‘Burnt Canvases' as a response to the Spanish Civil War. It's an artist's responsibility to respond to desperate circumstances.”

“You certainly have,” he agreed.

He took another turn around the studio. Agnes followed, her breath at his neck. “I want the entire gallery space painted white. We have to get the paint from Italy. Have you seen the white walls in galleries in Rome? It's different.”

An hour passed. Occasionally he attempted to put into words his thoughts, but he was cautious, knowing she held on to each
one. Another large canvas was painted in hues of white and gray. In the swirls, underneath many layers, were the shapes of hundreds of faces. Again she had used materials such as plaster, wire, and insulation in an attempt to give the canvas texture and depth.

“In these ghostly images you bring grace into the canvas. The viewer's eye can't escape the look on those faces. It's haunting.” He said it more to placate her. As he looked more closely, he did not feel that zing that shot through him when he was in the presence of transcendent work. He felt himself begin to perspire.

Agnes arched her brows. “I didn't see that, but I can see it now. Part of my process has been about learning to trust what the painting will reveal to me.”

“Brilliantly done.” Edward looked around again and considered the impression. The paintings were beautifully made but nevertheless unease filled him. They strained toward recognition.

His instincts told him that there was some revelation that as yet eluded Agnes, and that she should be braver, take more risks to get there. He wondered too whether the images were reaching toward cliché. She was struggling too hard to make a statement that her work was art with a capital A. He would have to figure out a way to downplay its self-importance. Yes, something about the work seemed derivative and simply left him cold. It was as if she was afraid that if she went back to what she did best—paintings that were classical yet completely contemporary—she wouldn't be taken seriously. He had to figure out a way to express both his admiration and his hesitations. If he let it go, it would only come back to bite him in the ass. It had happened before, when he first started out and was too timid to express his doubts.

“T
HERE
'
S TEA AND
scones for us upstairs,” Agnes said carefully. “I want to hear your ideas. Do we have a time frame yet?” They rode the elevator to the living quarters. The tonal sound of the music of John Cage streamed into the room. “We're thinking late March or April, right? I believe that's what Ryan said.”

Agnes poured them green tea from a Japanese set. She described her process. How she'd collected fabrics and paper and other debris and materials from building sites and painted them onto the canvas to give depth and texture and to call to mind the ash and wreckage of 9/11.

“What's your impression?”

“I need to think about it more. I'm still taking it in.” He smiled, looking at the walls of the room painted in shades of gray.

“Nate said that a dealer's job is to put art in production. That's a crass way of putting it. But Nate's gift is that he knows how to make his art sell.”

“They'll sell, but the viewer may need a bit of help.”

“Really? Nate said he liked that I didn't completely connect the dots. He said the work was about the nihilism of culture. He thought the paintings were self-explanatory.”

“Well, they are,” Edward fumbled. “Of course they are. But the viewer isn't always as attuned to nuance as Nate.”

“But I'm not painting for the average viewer. That's not my intent.” She took the pins from the top of her head, let loose the braids, and shook out her hysteria of hair.

“Look,” Edward said, leaning forward, “the critics bring out their knives, especially after a successful last show. We need to consider everything. I'm your first pair of eyes.” It was as if she had
chosen to sacrifice irony and provocation for seriousness in order to distance her work further from Nate's. “We need to come clean in our copy that the work, the use of recycled materials, is a nod to Rauschenberg and Johns. To not deny the influence.”

“Rauschenberg? Really? I didn't think of him. Johns? You mean his use of found materials. But if the compositions are brilliant, why would anyone object?” She pulled at the skin on her neck. “We're constantly ripping each other off. Every conversation or representation is a rip-off. Language is not authentic. Nor is painting.” She aggressively stirred the tea in her cup.

“I'm just wondering. What if you pushed the work a little more toward your intentions? Softened it a little, worked more from an emotional place? If I don't tell you this, no one will. It's what I'm here for. Paint what you can't forget, right?”

She acknowledged the source of the comment and paused and lowered her gaze. Silence filled the room.

“I suppose so,” she said, reluctantly. “I'm so very tired, Edward.”

“As you should be. It will be magnificent. It's almost there.”

It wasn't exactly what she wanted to hear, he knew it, but he also knew in his gut that it was what the work needed in order to hum, and he believed that she would come around. She trusted him. “I'm just saying we should look at it from all sides. That's what I'm here for. In the end it's your work, but my job is to tell you what I see.”

“Excuse me a moment,” she said, and turned abruptly away so that he could not see her face. “I have to check on the girls.”

He heard her in the next room on the phone. She sounded agitated. Minutes later she returned and paused for a moment before entering the vast, sparsely furnished room. She looked betrayed,
hurt, and defensive all at once. He wondered whether she had called Nate.

“I have to take the twins to the pediatrician. I'll have Ryan call you and we can discuss the details.”

“The work is brilliant. It's going to be huge. It's been worth the wait.”

She walked him toward the steel door and a large mirror where they both stopped to see themselves in the glass, clear and without pretense. “Do you think it's been too long between shows? Is that what you mean?” she asked boldly to conceal her fear. “I have to know.”

“There are ways to get around that and make it an advantage. The work is powerful. Really, Agnes.” The canvases were painterly and well executed. You couldn't take that away from her—but whether the public would respond was another story.

“Do you think so?” Her composure broke and she trembled. “It has to be.”

“I do.” A light smile crossed his lips.

“I'll think about what you said. I've come to think of you as my compass.” She reached up and hugged him.

“Have a great Christmas,” he said.

H
E WALKED A
few blocks uptown before hailing a cab back to the gallery. Lost in thought, he nearly bumped into a sad-looking Santa in a faded suit collecting coins for the Salvation Army. It was cool out. He felt a frost coming in. The stalls outside the greengrocer were piled with clementines, oranges, and grapefruit. He listened to cars stop and start and the sound of Christmas music coming from outside a shop. He walked slowly, pleased with himself. From
time to time he looked at his BlackBerry and slowed to answer messages. Walking, he pictured the paintings in his mind. He'd given her just enough praise and encouragement to allow her to think about his few hesitations. And he had mostly kept his commercial concerns to himself. Never talk to an artist about what her paintings are worth. That's why she had Reynolds. If Agnes was willing to push the work a little further, it would come across as more agile and less lugubrious and break through the chains of influence to become fully her own. The work would be more difficult to get across than her last show. There was little zest for life in the paintings. They were made with precision and technique but the energy and continuity had been sucked out. How do you get the viewer to see that the darkness and seriousness of the composition, its ability to make the viewer uncomfortable, is its asset? That would be the gallery's job.

A painting was built up in layers. Start here, add this, subtract that, and so forth. It expanded and developed undertones and richness. Then the painter pulled back and added more texture, more shade and nuance. He knew what Agnes needed to do. In their next conversation he would articulate it for her more clearly. It was best that he hadn't overwhelmed her. If she wanted to use materials that mimicked the debris of 9/11 she needed to let the materials speak for themselves. He thought of a few collectors who would connect with the work and value it. He'd just begun a relationship with one in Stockholm and a hedge fund mogul in New York and he was sure both would be interested.

Back at the gallery he answered a few e-mails and returned some calls. He read over a contract and made notes for his assistant, trying to get work off his desk before the holiday. Then he went in to
see May. “Agnes's work is good,” he said. “It could be brilliant. But we have some hurdles to jump. It's painted with dark energy.”

“Not 9/11 again? Will it sell going into the trough twice?”

“It better. It will take some engineering to make the public believe they're bettering themselves by viewing these paintings. And that what they need is art that conveys a deeper, more serious experience. We need to send out the message that the paintings are historic works. We should begin to get the word out soon. I'll have Cynthia drop a teaser to the
Observer
.”

“You're happy that we've bet the farm on her, then?” May smiled wryly, in her way making sure that he knew (as if he could ever forget) that his ass was on the line.

“We've tripled our expectations on
Immortality
. I don't think we'll do better but I doubt we'll do worse. Every dealer in America wants to represent Agnes Murray. At the end of the day our job is to sell obsessions articulated as objects. Agnes's obsession is with mass annihilation and its historical significance. It's a big statement.”

He returned to his office and prepared to shut down his computer and pack up for the night. He looked at his e-mails again and saw one from Agnes and clicked on it.

Dear Edward,

It was great to see you today and to finally show you my work. I was so frightened. I thought about what you said all day. I went back into the studio and thought again. I have to be honest. I'm completely freaked out. I can't make any mistakes with this show. It's my chance to make my mark. It can't be as good as “Immortality,” it has to be a leap forward. You said it yourself. I'll do whatever you
say. I trust you completely. You're a wizard. A visionary. I always knew that about you. Nobody gets the work like you do. In the studio, I was defensive when you said the work hadn't quite jelled and that I need to step back. But now I see what you mean. You mentioned something about getting a more emotional response from the work? Do you think the work is not emotional enough? I read a biography of Jasper Johns. I suppose you're right. He is an influence. He said at the beginning of his career he didn't want to expose himself through his art but eventually he realized that “one must simply drop the reserve.” That's it, right? I haven't let go. When I was Nate's student, he observed my work carefully. He told me what worked and what didn't work by isolating certain areas. I can't ask that of Nate anymore. He needs to see me as his equal. Will you come to the studio again after Christmas? You're the only person who will tell me the truth. I'm in your debt. Agnes.

He read the e-mail again. Agnes's e-mails were always polished and professional. This was the first e-mail that hadn't been edited and reedited, as if she were preparing it for posterity before she sent it. He was glad she'd made herself vulnerable and was willing to listen. There was nothing deeper than to work for years with the same artist. He shot an e-mail back saying that he'd come to the studio the first week after Christmas. He told her not to worry. The work was there. It just needed to be tweaked. He told her he'd been reading Jacques Derrida's monograph “On Touching,” and he saw her desire to disturb and pierce the viewer by deconstructing the images of 9/11. She'd like the allusion. He told her to relax and, if
she could bear it, to take a break from the studio over the holidays, so that she could come back to the work with fresh eyes. He told her that the work would be a step forward. He wouldn't show it otherwise. She could trust him. He sent the e-mail before he left the office that evening.