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...
"Hey Bertie, I got the list down to about three thousand."
"Still quite a bit. Is there someway you can eliminate them by the style of art they produce?"
"They're all in my database, I should be able to filter them out with key words in their bios. It's not an exact science."
"Nor do I expect it to be." Bertram took another sip of coffee and continued in a matter-of-fact tone, "We just need to get down to one artist. He doesn't need to be the best, or great, he just needs to be....sellable."
"Wow, pretty cynical Bertie," Wilson said sharply, his artistic sensibility bruised, "I don't know whether I should be insulted. Do you think that I'm just...sellable?"
"Stop trying to pick a fight. I'm only speaking in terms of our bet," Bertram smiled warmly, "You, Willy, are both great and talented. You are a fine artist."
"Sorry," Wilson returned the smile, "I don't know why I'm so touchy. Are we waiting on Devon?"
"We are, he's due in about ten minutes," Bertram chuckled, "He certainly has his faults, but he's always on time. Quite admirable, actually. Grab yourself a coffee, have a bagel and unwind till Devon arrives."
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Devon Barnaby was never going to be top dog and he knew it. For all his quirks and faults, he was surprisingly self aware and perfectly satisfied at being prominent rather than preeminent. He knew full well that the wealthy considered him gauche and only invited him to their functions because he was one of those rare individuals among the countless posers, an expert. An expert who could help them seem cultured and educated. He was happy to oblige, for a fee.
He was far more knowledgeable in Art history than Bertram and the insights in his art reviews were often profound. The one thing he lacked was grandness, that voice of God writing style that great critics and sensible philosophers seem to possess. Bertram had that literary voice, Devon did not. He knew it and accepted it, not every man can be king.
He enjoyed the playful and unapologetically arrogant nature of the bet. It seemed a bit god-like, striving to elevate some random soul to greatness by one's influence and force of will. It was the perfect game for bored adults of means. It would be fun, he thought. He arrived at Bertram's apartment.
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