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...
Bertram's apartment, overlooking Central Park, was his pride and joy. His family owned it since the thirties and in the time since it had become an almost ridiculously expensive property. He would never sell it. It was the envy of even the most jaded of his peers. Five thousand square feet in Manhattan's best zip code was Kubla Khan's pleasure dome, it was the Taj Mahal. It was 'it'.
Bertram decorated the space with an eclectic mix of mid-century modern and French Empire. The main living area demonstrated this juxtaposition admirably with its boomerang shaped glass coffee table, next to a black leather Le Corbusier chaise longue and sofa.
The walls were covered in modern art, both abstract and figurative. The only piece of furniture on the central wall was a stunning Empire commode, practically glowing in rich shades of elm and mahogany, supported by two gilded brass figurines in the shape of some unknown female Egyptian diety. The commode supported a bronze sculpture by Brancusi of a stylized female head.
The apartment was how Bertram imagined himself, elegant and stylish, but from a different time. He made no excuses for his minor peculiarities and peccadilloes and this was a strength in the company he kept. Eccentricities were celebrated among the wealthy, it kept people from being boring and that had always been the greatest sin among the privileged and the jaded. When active decadence is the objective, there is no time to yawn.
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It was a bit early for Bertram. In his mind daytime was for the working man, white collar and blue. He, like the artists and the wealthy, lived far more hours in the darkness than in the light of day. None the less, he found himself stimulated by this new quest and if that required getting up in the morning, so be it.
The first order of business was to find an artist who could be put forth as the next great visionary. As he pondered this, he realized that since his artist was required to be over forty, a more exotic hook would be necessary. Instead of next great visionary, a great undiscovered talent, devoted to his art above his personal fame, was a far better lead.
Bertram had given Wilson the task of making a list of possible candidates. The young man toiled on his laptop, downloading the name of everyone who had exhibited in art shows, joined artistic organizations, self-described as an artist in articles or interviews, or graduated with a degree in art. The initial list was in the tens of thousands. He began the process of elimination by removing all female artists, as well as all artists of color. The list became significantly shorter. Next, Wilson excised all candidates under forty. The list was now of a slightly long, but reasonable length. Finally, he removed all artists living in cities with populations of over half a million.
Wilson looked at his screen in satisfaction, only three thousand names remained. He grabbed his laptop, exited the study and walked to the main living room. Bertram sat there in his embroidered smoking jacket, sipping some coffee and adjusting his beret. Wilson chuckled. To him, Bertram looked like some hipster version of a Raj.
