Two influential Art Critics and a prominent Gallery owner make a bet that they can make an unknown artist famous. The artist they choose is dedicated and talented with an eye to spotlighting the injustices of American society. He is also a serial ki...
Galas are to the upper crust of society what the hajj is to followers of Islam. It is a requirement that must be met in order to be considered haute monde. It is also an opportunity to let your peers see that you are hipper, richer, and generally better than they are. This is accomplished in numerous ways. It could be the designer you are sporting. It could be the jewelry with which you adorn yourself, or the shoes that you wear. With the men it is often the watches they sport, no practical digital timepieces here, Rolexes for the posers, Patek Phillipe or Audemars Piguet for the real players. But perhaps the single most important component of high society is the company you keep and who you know. Name-dropping is an art form in the arena of the Gala.
The Gala at the Guggenheim was one of the top spring events with tickets starting at $2500 and going up to $10,000 apiece. It was almost mandatory if one expected to be considered for the even more exclusive get-togethers later in the year such as The Metropolitan Museum of Art Costume Institute Gala, an invitation only event that depends entirely on the individual's power and influence. If you were invited there, you have definitely made it.
Both Bertram and Elaine had been invited to The Metropolitan Museum of Art Costume Institute Gala for three years running, an indication of their influence within the art community. Devon had not and it was perhaps his single greatest goal. Bertram doubted that he ever would. He knew that his friend was a talented and insightful critic, but he just tried far too hard and was too rough around the edges to ever be taken seriously by the crème de la crème of the jet set gentry.
Like all charity Galas, the Guggenheim event would culminate with an auction to raise money for their cause du jour, which in this case was scholarships for deserving financially challenged students to a prestigious art school. It was considered bad manners to call the destitute masses 'poor'. Poverty was an entirely theoretical concept to the attendees present this evening. And again, it was almost mandatory to purchase something if you wished to maintain your social status. Being rich was sometimes such a burden, as most of the people in the museum this night would be more than happy to point out.
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Bertram always made it a point to arrive at these events early. This allowed him to find his table and select a seat that gave him a clear view of all those entering the venue. That way he knew whom he would approach and interact with. These people, this social class, were his customers, the people he advised on their art purchases, the collectors whose art he would authenticate, and the gallery owners who were dependent upon his reviews. This was his bread and butter.
He sat with his date, Wilson Briggs, an up and coming artist. Wilson was handsome, intelligent, witty, and quite talented. Though nearly thirty years Bertram's junior, he seemed to hold a genuine affection for the older man. There were those who accused the young artist of being with Bertram only as a means to further his own career, but he brushed aside those criticisms, pointing out that the elder critic had made it a point never to review his lover's shows. That is not to say that Bertram didn't sing Wilson's artistic praises to those who would listen, something that certainly helped Wilson's sales. The younger artist did not object.
Bertram had mentioned the bet that he and Devon made with Elaine, and Wilson found the notion quite amusing. He didn't doubt that Bertram might win the wager, having seen the scope of the critic's influence upon the very people attending the Gala.
In regards to the bet, something had been troubling Bertram and he thought Wilson might be able to help him resolve it. He turned toward the young man, smiling, and asked, "There is something I was hoping you would help me with."
"What's that?"
"In order for the artist we select to be taken seriously, he going to need representation, an agent. I'd like you to do that."
Wilson looked surprised, "Bertie, I'm an artist, not an agent."
Bertram put his hand on the young man's shoulder, "It's important for me to coordinate very closely with the agent for my plan to work. You would be ideal. It's not that strange for one artist to represent another, support within the community and all that. I'd tell you exactly what you need to do," he smiled broadly, "and let me remind you, if I win the bet, your 10% commission would net you a minimum of forty grand, hell, even if I lose the bet, you'd take in twenty...thirty thousand. If he does become famous, skies the limit, not to mention the fact you'd be developing relationships with the top dealers in the country for your own work."
Wilson smiled, "I guess I'd be an idiot to refuse."
"A massive idiot," Bertram chuckled.
"Sure, why the hell not? I could use the cash," he kissed Bertram on the cheek, "Speaking of the bet, where are your co-conspirators?"
Bertram pointed toward the entrance, "If I'm not mistaken, that's them coming our way now."
When Elaine and Devon arrived at the table, Bertram shook his head and Wilson stifled a laugh. Whereas Elaine, who continued her fashion theme by wearing a classic Chanel black dress, looked both beautiful and dignified, Devon looked like a stoplight; choosing a brilliant red sequins-encrusted bow tie with a shockingly yellow cummerbund and light green alligator shoes to highlight his Armani tux.
"Dear God, Devon, what do you call that assault on my eyes?" Bertram asked, chuckling.
"I call it a statement," he turned toward Wilson, "Mr. Briggs, glad you could make it."
The young man smiled, "Nice to see you too, Devon. Hello Elaine, you look perfect, as usual."
Elaine patted him on the hand, "I knew there was a reason I liked you."
Wilson continued, "Bertie told me about the bet. I'm going to be helping him."
Elaine clapped her hands, "Oh, good! The more the merrier." She reached into her violet crocodile Hermès clutch and pulled out a piece of paper. After unfolding it in front of her, she looked up at the men, "I've completed that list of four restrictions to your artist, you're not going to like them."
A broad grin grew on Bertram's face. "Shoot!" He said eagerly.
"I like that, down to business. Very well, first, no female artists. Second, no artists of color. Third, no artists under forty years old, and finally, not artist living in a city with a population of over half a million."
Bertram nodded admiringly, "That's clever, non-white and women artists are pretty hot right now. Over forty makes him less hip, a middle-aged white man in a small market with few opportunities to show his art to large audiences. I have to admit, Elaine, you've made it quite tough."
"You could just admit defeat now, give me the good reviews and not waste a year. I promise not to gloat," she offered cheerfully.
"Not a chance, darling, I intend to win."
"Well good for you," Elaine said dismissively, "we're all set then." She put the list back into her clutch and picked up the Gala program, "Now, let's decide what we're going to try to buy at auction. There's a lovely Calder sculpture and a signed Jean-Michel Basquiat screen-print that could both be good buys."
"I think you're going to be out of luck with the Basquiat, it's a rare silkscreen, I can't imagine it going for less than six figures," Bertram replied.
"Oh, Bertie," she laughed, "You seem to forget how rich I am."
It hurt him whenever she reminded him of her family's wealth. "You make it very hard to forget, my dear," he said glumly.
"Oh, don't be silly. Lighten up! This bet of yours is going to be great fun!"
