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...
A smile crept onto Devon's face, "Will maestro Ezra be joining you?"
Elaine slapped Devon's hand, "Fuck you... and yes, he will. I hate to say this, but I actually like him... I mean really like him. It's so embarrassing."
"Well, I say good for you, darling. Enjoy it while it lasts. Lord knows nobody wants me. All the ladies think I'm gay and all the boys hope I'm not."
"Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You're way too selfish to fall in love anyway. You're in a love affair with yourself and you make a lovely couple."
Devon laughed loudly, "I suppose you're right. It certainly makes dates cheaper. Most people are such bores... present company excluded, of course."
"Of course," Elaine agreed, raising her glass in a toast, "here's to all the little people who don't have the sense to appreciate us."
"I'll drink to that! And to our bet... may it continue to be entertaining!"
They clinked glasses and sipped their champagne mimosas.
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Elaine and Ezra arrived at the Armory opening fairly early and were soon joined by Devon. It was a famous venue, built in 1906 as headquarters of the 69th infantry regiment. The three story building hosted many events, from art exhibits to the Victoria Secret Fashion show. Perhaps its single most famous exhibit was in 1913 when it first presented modern art to America, introducing artists such as Picasso, Van Gogh, Duchamp, and Matisse to the general public for the first time. Because of this storied history, it was a coveted location for artists and its shows were attended by the powerful and wealthy.
There were at least a hundred invited guests present. Elaine scanned the room, her gaze settling on two couples speaking to each other. They were extremely well dressed and had that air of 'fuck everyone else' arrogance exuding from them. She pointed them out to Devon and Ezra. "Look there children, if it isn't the Fisks and the Howes. There must be blood available at the bar."
Bartholomew Fisk was as rich as they come and his family had been so for three hundred years when they first became slave traders, branching out to supplying weapons to anyone, and now as the controlling interest in several pharmaceutical firms. His much younger wife, Daisy, was a former Miss New York who rarely spoke out of embarrassment for her Brooklyn accent.
The Howes on the other hand were comparatively nouveaux riches, having only amassed their fortune in real estate over the last eighty years. They were slum lords supreme, feasting off the toil of each new wave of immigrants to the tri-state area. Charleston Howe was a grim looking man and his wife, Charity, was a Bryn Mawr graduate and former debutante who loved nothing more than complaining about the greed of the poor.
"Wealthy parasites," Devon offered.
Ezra chuckled, "Maybe, but they both make healthy donations to the symphony. If it wasn't for 'parasites' like them, I'd be fiddling the blues in subway stations for change."
"Not to mention that people like them keep your gallery profitable," Devon offered.
"I suppose that makes me a parasite feeding on parasites," Elaine said lightly, "I can live with that."
Devon pointed to the entrance, "It appears that Bertram and master Wilson have arrived." He waved at his friends and the two men quickly joined the group.
"Greetings, fellow pilgrims ," Bertram said brightly, "I thought I'd have a few champagnes before viewing the art for my reviews."
"That's fine," Devon offered, "We were just being bitchy about the guests."
"Anyone in particular?" Wilson asked.
"The Howes and Fisks."
"Really?" Bertram said, "This might play well into my strategy. I have a history with them... advised both families on a number of purchases. I think Wilson and I need to say hello."
"How do we sell Jager if he isn't even here at the opening?" Wilson asked.
"Oh ye of little faith," Bertram said cheerfully, "I have a wonderful idea. Wilson, just play along and don't say anything important."
"Sadly, my forte," he answered.
The critic turned to his friends, "We'll be back shortly, watch a master at work."
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"Mister Fisk, Mister Howe, I'm delighted to see you again," Bertram said thrusting out his hand.
"Ah, Bertram," Howe said shaking his hand, "are you here as a spectator or is it on a professional level?"
"I am reviewing the show. Lots of intriguing work." Bertram motioned to Wilson, "This is Wilson Briggs, a talented artist in his own right."
Howe ignored the young artist, "So, anything special here? Any up and comers?"
"Yes," Fisk chimed in, "anyone worth watching?"
Bertram paused, trying not to smile, "I'm quite drawn to this Siegfried Jager. I don't know much about him, he's a bit of a mystery."
Charity chimed in, "Is he here?"
"No, my understanding is that he's still in treatment, though I've heard he's coming to New York soon."
"Treatment?" Charity asked, "Is he an alcoholic or...", she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "a druggie?"
"Oh no," Bertram said in an equally low tone, "my understanding is that it's of a psychological nature. He checked himself in."
"To the nuthouse?" Fisk asked.
"That's a bit harsh, but definitely a mental facility. I hope he's not suicidal, his work is quite extraordinary."
"Yes, yes, most interesting." Howe offered.
Bertram waited a moment, "In any case, it's great seeing you folks again, I need to get to work before I drink too much."
Howe chuckled, "Of course. We'll talk soon."
Bertram left and Wilson followed, looking confused.
"What was that all about Bertie?"
"Rich assholes like that love nothing more than sharing gossip with their other rich asshole friends. By this time next week, half of the upper class in New York will know about Jager."
"But you told him he was in a mental facility."
"I did," Bertram smiled broadly, "because another thing they can't resist is a tortured, possibly suicidal, crazy artist. He'll be the talk of all the collectors in no time."
Wilson laughed loudly and clapped Bertram on the back, "You are a fucking evil genius. Devon and Elaine are going to love this."
