The Exquisite Corpse, a deadly tale of Art

New York, 6:15 PM, March 25

Bertram was bored. He sat sipping his Remy XO and trying to decide if his upcoming trip to Paris was really worth the effort. As the senior art critic for The Art Times, he had come to the realization that leaving New York to view art was as useful as leaving Rome to see ancient ruins. It just all seemed unnecessarily tiring.

He sat back in his plush chair and looked around the room. The interior of the club looked like it had been snatched out of Victorian England, lots of fine wood paneling and an over abundance of maroon. It was a very exclusive establishment, requiring not only a yearly membership fee of twenty thousand dollars, but the recommendations of three members before inauguration would even be considered.

He found the club pleasantly tacky and pretentious. It made him feel absolutely colonial, even in the politically correct Mecca of the Big Apple. It made him feel successful.

Bertram was waiting for his usual Friday afternoon companions, Devon Barnaby and Elaine DuChamp. Devon was an art critic like himself, but for what Bertram considered an inferior publication, American Art Magazine. Elaine, on the other hand, was the owner of the DuChamp Gallery, one of the most prestigious artistic venues in the city since the late 1800's.

His patience was rewarded when he noticed a oddly mismatched couple headed in his direction. A tall elegant woman in her mid forties, dressed immaculately in a vintage Chanel tweed jacket with black yachting pants approached, accompanied by a short, balding, bespectacled man in his fifties wearing a too-tight Zegna suit in a valiant effort to appear classy. Bertram smiled gratefully, thankful that his friend had abandoned the Jean Paul Gaultier designs that had made him look like an extra in a Luc Besson movie. He waved the pair over to his table.

Devon began complaining before he even sat down, "Dear God, this city is getting worse every day. Do you realize it took twenty minutes to go just ten blocks. Something really needs to be done about the traffic."

"You could have walked," Bertram replied, knowing his friend's response before he answered.

"Me, a pedestrian? Don't be ridiculous!" He unbuttoned his jacket and spread out across his chair, "Now be a good fellow and order me a cognac."

"How about you Elaine?" Bertram asked.

"I'm feeling a bit retro today, darling, I think a Pink Lady is called for."

"Your wish is my command," Bertram answered cheerfully. He motioned to one of the servers, who approached immediately and took his order.

"Will your boy-toy be joining us today?" Elaine asked in a slightly bitchy tone.

"He's not a boy-toy, Elaine," Bertram answered firmly, "I know you find this hard to believe, but I think I love him."

"Just because you love him doesn't mean he isn't a boy-toy. All my beaus are in their twenties too, and they are definitely boy-toys, there's nothing wrong with that," she chuckled.

"Whatever you say," he replied dismissively, "in any case, Wilson won't be joining us today, he's getting ready for an opening tonight."

Devon was feeling a bit left out of the sparring and interjected, "Don't you think it's a tad unethical for you to be romantically involved with a painter? You are the city's leading art critic, after all?"

Bertram laughed and corrected Devon, "You mean the nation's leading art critic, a burden you will never bear. No, I make it a point not to publish reviews of his shows."

"But you recommend him to other critics as well as to your consulting clients, that hardly seems proper."

Elaine interrupted, "Oh, do stop being an ass, Devon. Of course he's going to recommend him. What's the point of having any kind of power if you don't use it. It's not like you don't profit from your reviews. I know you take kickbacks from galleries for hyping their shows. Those three thousand dollar suits don't pay for themselves."