The Prize (6 page)

“Inspiration?” she said, lurching her shoulders backward with disdain. “I don't paint from inspiration. I paint from necessity.” She speared a tiny bite of the chocolate tart with her fork. “I'm
filled with Catholic guilt. For Lent I gave up painting—it was the hardest thing to part from. I am a good Catholic. But honestly, if I can't paint I don't know who I am.”

The waiter topped off their wineglasses. Later, over espresso, Agnes asked Edward a few obligatory questions about himself, inquired about his wife and his daughter, and though she barely waited to hear his reply before she turned the conversation back to herself, he didn't mind. He didn't like talking about himself and he found it interesting the way she meticulously steered the conversation so as to make sure he understood what he was getting into. She had mastered the art of passive aggression.

He asked her what other contemporary painters she admired, since it helped him to know a painter's influences and taste. She explained that she didn't go to many shows and that seeing contemporary work made her anxious. She was a little tipsy by then, having gone from “just a little” wine to half a bottle. She said she wasn't interested in hanging out with other artists and by nature she was an introvert. It was why she didn't attend art openings. She didn't have much use for friends. Her parents were her best friends growing up. She stabbed another bite of tart with her fork, paused, and put her fork down.

“Nate was my first best friend.” She looked at her watch. “I need to go,” she said. “He'll be waiting for me. You know, to find out what we discussed.”

“Is he concerned?”

“That I've made the right decision by coming to you?”

“That's not exactly what I meant.” Edward fondled his espresso cup. “Have you?” he said. He was good at this too.

“Of course I have,” she laughed. “Nate's as invested in my work as I am.” She shook her head and grinned. “Sometimes it's like he thinks it's his.”

She excused herself to the ladies' room. He thought of something his father had once told him—
true art is born from an almost animalistic urge in the artist.
His father insisted on absolute quiet when he worked, as if their home were a sanctuary solely dedicated to the pursuit of his intellect. He walked through the world with blinders on, prizing literature and art above all else, and he believed Agnes was the same.

Agnes returned, crossed her hands, and rested them on the white-clothed table decorated with a silver saucer of sugar and spoon and a single flower in a clear vase. “There's one more thing, before we go.” She gazed into the cavernous bowl of the restaurant. “It's about timing. We have to make sure that my show is mounted before Nate's next show. I want a wide berth.”

“Absolutely.” He asked for the check and tried to be optimistic so as not to be concerned. Her expectations were high. He hoped they wouldn't disappoint her. In the end, he could only control how they mounted the show, the marketing they'd throw behind it, and their private exchanges with collectors and dealers. The rest of it—how the work was perceived, talked about in the press, and the word of mouth that might or might not travel—was about timing and luck.

A
FTER THAT FIRST
lunch Edward and Agnes were in touch almost daily. They agreed on how each painting should be mounted, considered the way in which viewers would enter the room and the first painting they would see. And before he knew it, the day disappeared. The whole day was lost in Agnes's art. They chose frames
together. Wrote and rewrote copy. Agnes was enthralled by the close collaboration. She loved all the attention he gave her. “What we're doing here. You have the ability to bring to life what's in my head.” She had a way of sentimentalizing experience and including him in the fiction, and though Edward knew it was a fiction, it pleased him nevertheless. Like many men, he found it a thrill to make a woman happy. And to make Agnes Murray happy, well, that was something.

There was one piece she had wanted to include in the show that was gratuitous and evoked easy emotions, and Edward cautioned her against it. She became defensive, eventually acquiesced, and later acknowledged he'd saved her from embarrassment. A week later he heard her say to an assistant, who was wrapping the rejected painting for storage, that she was her own harshest critic. It was interesting to him how quickly artists forgot the curator's hand, but he let it go. Part of being a successful dealer was to be self-effacing and to allow oneself to be a mirror for the artist.

Months before the infamous show was to open—and by then they were so familiar they were finishing each other's sentences—Edward sent over the catalogue. Agnes objected to the choice of cover painting and demanded the catalogue be redone. Edward explained that the title painting wasn't necessarily the most inviting of her work and that the purpose of the catalogue was for collectors and the press. After reviewing other options, and a morning of agonizing (they'd already printed ten thousand copies), he finally persuaded her. He rang Leonard once it was sorted.

“Let me tell you something about Agnes,” Leonard began. “It's the key to her psyche. She has no one but her family and Nate.
No one
. She doesn't need anyone else. When I first met her she invited
me out to Spring Lake on the New Jersey shore to see her parents' house on the water. It was the most magnificent house I'd ever seen. Art filled the walls, sculptures decorated the garden. But it wasn't lived-in. Her parents have built a mausoleum for themselves. What I'm saying, man, is that she cares about no one but them. She has to control someone. And that person is you.”

Though the comment disturbed him, he wasn't so sure. Yes, she was a handful, but it was his job to figure out how to handle her. The difference between Agnes and Nate was that she wanted people to genuinely admire her paintings, while Nate wanted to provoke. Edward learned to present things to her in such a way that she felt as if she'd come up with the idea. Not only was the cover an issue, she wanted to approve every sentence he wrote about her work, including the typeface and layout of the catalogue. He was used to control freaks, but Agnes was extreme.

The day before the show was to open, she came into the gallery to do a final run-through. After hours of rearranging and deciding on lighting, Nate, rough peppery stubble on his face, entered the gallery, decked in black jeans, jacket, and cashmere scarf around his neck. It was ninety degrees with one hundred percent humidity. He acknowledged Edward with a nod and looped his arm around Agnes's waist, then gave her an openmouthed kiss, as if he planned to fuck her on the gallery floor. Agnes flushed.

“I'm having lunch with Frederick around the corner. I'm late,” Nate said, breaking away. “I couldn't go another minute without seeing you, baby. Come here.” He brought her close again, drinking in her neck.

She laughed. “I've missed you, too,” she said. “If you wait a few minutes, I'll join you.”

“Can't. Frederick needs me for something. I'll call you later.”

“Will you?” she said with a pout. She was disappointed.

“Of course I will. How's it going, Edward?” Nate gave him a handshake. Before Edward answered, he swaggered down the hallway toward the doors. “Hey, man,” he called back. “I saw how skillfully you hung Jean Faber's last show.” He must have seen the framed poster in the gallery entrance. “You took him from a solid B to an A. I didn't know he was yours.” There was something in his voice, Edward couldn't exactly make it out, but he thought that maybe Nate seemed a little thrown.

After he left, Agnes smiled uncomfortably and shook her head to hide her awkwardness. “I know he's a little much. But he loves me.” She paused, stepped back, and looked at her paintings mounted on the wall. “He thinks the show is going to be brilliant. Do you think he's just saying that? Being my husband. I don't know if I should trust him.”

“It will,” Edward said.

A few minutes later they heard again the sound of Nate's boots clicking on the gallery's wooden floors.

“Baby, come here.” He beckoned with his hand for her. She excused herself and as they looked at each other the effect was as if they'd stepped onto a lofty precipice above where the rest of humanity lived. Nate took Agnes's face between his two hands and kissed the top of her forehead. He held her in his half-opened, sleepy eyes. Agnes returned his look.

“I'm sorry, baby, of course you can come to lunch.” He looked at her as if she were the only person that mattered. “I'll wait for you.” Nate's impression was one of stature without elegance. Every interaction was a seduction. His gift was to make you feel as if you
alone existed and when his spotlight was pointed on you it made all his other shortcomings fade.

After they'd left the gallery, a wind of loneliness blew in. Edward had been so engaged with Agnes, everything suddenly felt too quiet. He thought about Agnes and Nate and wondered, as he had many times, if their interaction was genuine or curated to elicit a response.

A few days before the opening, in an interview in the
Times,
Agnes was quoted saying she had chosen Mayweather because of how moved Edward had been by the work and the way in which he had put the meaning of her work into words. “I feel like Matisse must have felt when Gertrude Stein first discovered his work.”

5 HAMBURG

T
HE
A
MERICAN GROUP
had flown to Hamburg to see two renowned galleries, before returning to Berlin for their last dinner. Once they landed and were congregating in the terminal waiting for the rest of the group before hailing cabs, Julia dug in her purse, taking out various items: makeup bag, brush with gum wrappers stuck in its bristles, wallet, a wad of rubber-banded envelopes, Kleenex. “I can't find my passport. I used it when we checked in and may have left it on the plane. I have to go back to the gate. How will I get home without it?” She searched her bag again.

“If we wait for you we'll be late for our first meeting in Hamburg,” Tina, their escort from the German council, asserted. Tina wore the same uniform each day: plain cotton shift, in a new color, black pumps, and a string of pearls. Throughout the trip she had kept them on a tight schedule. Tina handed Julia her itinerary. “After you get your passport sorted, take a cab directly to the gallery. We'll meet you there.”

Julia looked upset.

“I'll stay with you,” Edward volunteered.

“Are you sure?” Julia questioned, relieved.

He nodded.

“We'd better hurry, then. What if I'm stuck in this godforsaken country?”

They walked briskly, almost running, through the overly lit airport. After taking a quick turn, Edward slipped and fell on the waxed floor and his bag tumbled. He quickly recovered and stood up. His face colored with embarrassment.

“Are you okay?” Julia said.

He picked up his bag and dusted off his pants. “I'm fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm fine. Really. Jesus, these floors are slick.”

“I'm sorry. It's my fault, making you run like that.” She brushed off the back of his jacket with her hand in an intimate gesture, and as if realizing it together they stopped and then awkwardly fumbled with their bags and continued to the gate.

When they arrived the plane doors were already shut and Julia wasn't going to be let into the cabin to check. She sat down, distraught, and fumbled in her large bag again. “I found it,” she said. A huge smile lit up her face. “I'm an idiot. I've made us late for nothing.” Her cheeks turned pink. “I'm not a good traveler. I'm sorry.”

Edward smiled. “Well, you might want to consider another bag? It looks like you have your entire life in there.”

“Thank you,” she said again. “For staying.” She looked around her at the unfamiliar airport filled with German signage and foreign travelers.

“I should be thanking you. I've had enough meetings with German collectors. If I hear about one more brilliant German artist . . .”

For the last five days they'd traveled in a posse, going to gallery meetings, restaurants, parties, attending lectures and receptions, where he often found himself in the back of a room, overheated,
trying not to draw too much attention to himself and grateful for the cocktail hour.

Julia laughed. “I'm glad to hear you say that. After this trip, being around dealers and the business of art . . . I don't mean to sound naive, but it wasn't why I wanted to become an artist. I'm glad the council selected me for the fellowship. I'm thrilled to have my work shown here. I don't have a German gallery. But still, I'm uneasy about it.”

“Your work stood out at the exhibition yesterday. You should be pleased.”

“Really?” They walked swiftly with their roll-on cases behind them toward the taxi line. “When you see your work finally hung, you see the good and the bad. All the time in the studio and you miss it completely. All you can see is a succession of failures.”

“People were impressed.”

“I'm glad to hear that. It's hard to know.” She looked at her watch. “I have to admit it's nice to be away from the group and not think about any of it. We've missed our morning appointments.”