The Italian Teacher(54)



“One of Dad’s squiggles is not going to earn you big money, Bird.”

“I heard a painting of his went for forty grand in New York last month.”

“Not forty. Fourteen.”

“Oh. Still. Fourteen thousand bucks is real money to me.”

“Plus, that picture had a naked breast, which increases the price.”

“Such a cynic, Charlie.”

“It’s true: the breast augmentation,” he says. “That money isn’t going to Dad, you realize, but to a collector—someone who bought Dad’s art back when he was still selling it.”

“Why doesn’t he just get over that stupid no-sales rule?”

“Principles.”

“Principles are peachy for them that can afford ’em.”

“But Bird, how did you even hear about that sale?”

“I got approached by a dealer. What she didn’t realize was, if I’d owned a Dad painting, I’d have sold it centuries ago.”

“Who was this dealer? Eva Petros?” When Victor Petros died of a massive heart attack two years ago during Art Basel, his daughter took over. The Petros Gallery had parted ways with Bear by then but Eva is now doubting that breakup, especially with the fifties nostalgia fad. In the latest Interview magazine, Julian Schnabel was quoted as saying, “The painter who got me early is Bavinsky,” describing Bear as “the greatest of the modern American greats.” Not long after, that breast painting appeared on the secondary market, bought by Dennis Hopper, according to the Village Voice.

“Why, you know this person?” Birdie asks.

“I’m trying not to. Dad wants nothing to do with dealers, so I’m ignoring her.”

“Do you have any of Dad’s art?”

“I’ve asked him for stuff,” Pinch lies to make her feel better. “But no dice.” In truth, he would never consider bothering Bear for something. Only a few dozen of Bear’s paintings are in private hands. All of these are Life-Stills, as the oversized portraits of body parts are known—the few that he sold early in his career, a practice that trickled to a stop by the early fifties. After, he kept everything deigned worthy, burned the rest. Nobody is even certain what Bear has been laboring at all these years, whether more Life-Stills or a new series altogether.

“He wouldn’t give anything, even to you?” Birdie marvels.

Pinch is pleased by this remark—that Dad holds me in highest regard. Yet he despises feeling burnished by that, so he decides to help his sister and places a call.

“Hot damn, Charlie, it’s nobody’s business how I sell my work. My own daughter, consorting with that Petros mob? You know that Victor Petros stole from me? Nine paintings I entrusted to that rat. And he sells them on the sly!”

“Did you report him?”

“How could I? The bastard gave me my percentage.”

“So, wait—how was it stealing?”

“Look, I never approved those sales, Charlie. In my book, that’s theft. They’re all the same.”

“Art dealers?”

“These relations of mine. Sniff a profit and—I hate to say it—they turn into goddamn rats.”

For years, Bear has been gripped by the inheritance wars among Picasso’s surviving wives and lovers and children, not to mention the tawdry recent case regarding Mark Rothko, whose gallery bilked his estate after he committed suicide. Such tales have caused Bear to consider taking one last wife, a special lady who’d be his posthumous custodian. “I cannot have my life’s work ending in the sock closet of some idiot junk-bond tycoon, or with a rat like that Petros girl. You know as well as I do, Charlie: Bear Bavinsky never produced a thousand canvases a month.”

“Everything you keep is carefully chosen.” Pinch looks up at his ceiling, hearing himself slipping into the old relationship with his father, seconding every opinion, padding him.

“My paintings aren’t for throwing around higgledy-piggledy,” Bear continues. “When the big museums come calling, that’s another matter. We accept those checks, no question. But if I let my kids turn the Bavinsky name into a bankroll—well, it ain’t happening. Kills me that Birdie is stuck in a lousy marriage. But my work has to stand up, not be the payoff to some bum my daughter shacked up with. I won’t be around forever. We have to get this right, Charlie.”

Bear has long spoken about placing his art in only the most important collections, but this is different. It’s the testament of a man readying for a time after his own life and who interprets that demise not as obliteration but as a sort of paralysis, his body quiescent, his will alive. The absurdity of this, plus the callous remarks about Birdie, incense Pinch. Heaven forbid we should want something from our lives—even after yours is done! Total allegiance is what you demand, with the hint that one of us might become your favorite. And, Pinch realizes with self-disgust, I won that contest. Few of Dad’s other kids are even allowed his private phone number. But I kowtow. I’m his servant. So I was chosen.

“Oh, I couldn’t agree more, Dad,” he says, heart thudding, wondering if Bear detects the sarcasm. “Not to sound over the top, but your paintings deserve the most prominent exposure. Venues fitting their stature. Suited to how they’ll be understood in the future. Speaking as a former scholar, Dad, I believe fiercely that important art must be available for viewing by people of all stations. Not just those with extra white space on their mansion walls. That’d be fine if you were an industry like that heathen Salvador Dali. But that’s not Bear Bavinsky. Never has been. Never will be. There’s not enough Bear Bavinsky to go around!”

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