The Italian Teacher(78)
As the marketplace grew more all-comprising, never did he fall into the maw of mammon. The only Bavinskys to sell in years have been those on the secondary market, notwithstanding demand, which has turned from lukewarm to scalding since his untimely passing. Taking advantage of these saunalike conditions, a private deal for Hands IX (1952) just netted almost a half-million dollars for a noted Nebraska collector, sources close to the Petros Gallery say. Representatives of Bavinsky’s onetime dealer declined to comment on the record. But at the time of his death, Eva Petros issued a statement describing the artist as “an epoch in himself.”
Well said. For Bavinsky never wasted time opposing frivolity in The Culture. His was the patience of ages. The road that he sailed renews every cynic’s faith in authenticity, and in beauty, however we choose to define that evading quarry.
The screaming irony, of course, is that the so-called Art World is today thirsting to know what Bavinsky was fevering at during those decades in the wilderness. And, yes, the question arises—the wrong question, but a question of our times: Just how much will those paintings be worth?
A photocopy of this article circulates among the Bavinsky children, with the big-money sale by a Nebraska collector highlighted in yellow. Siblings keep writing to Pinch, saying Dad erred by leaving everything to one son who doesn’t even have kids of his own to support. You need to share, buddy! To pacify them, he promises to hear everyone’s views. Some want the paintings themselves; others insist the artworks be displayed in museums, as per their father’s wishes; several don’t care and just want money. Complicating matters, none understands the market or art institutions.
“Can’t you put them up for auction? Have museums buy them, and we all make out good.”
“Museums can buy at auction,” Pinch answers. “But mostly it’s private buyers. And you’re subject to whoever bids highest. Which isn’t necessarily the museum of your choice.”
“So we sell private to the museums we like; the top ones.”
“But they have to want to buy. And you’re reliant on dealers who have priorities of their own.”
“Donate them?”
“What you’re perhaps imagining is that I’d hand the paintings over, and they’d go up on the walls of MoMA or wherever. But most of what major museums have is in storage. The likely outcome is I’d give away the paintings, and they’d end up in crates. We have a lot to think about.”
“How come you keep saying ‘we’?”
“Because I want to include all of us in this.”
“Then tell us what paintings you got! I still don’t know, man. What’s to stop you selling on the down-low and never telling nobody?”
“That’s the last thing I’d do. I’m just asking for a bit of patience. Lots of people are involved here.”
“Lots of people are getting old and dying with jack shit! Is that what Pops intended? Let’s fuckin’ sell, and split it, bro!”
What Pinch fails to mention is that he has already approached a few museum directors, but nobody will consent to a restricted donation—not for an artist like Bavinsky, who would constitute a decent addition but is hardly the megastar to boost attendance figures. Moreover, everyone is wary about so many disgruntled Bavinsky children. Who wants to accept midmarket artworks, when they could all end up in court?
Most nights upon Pinch’s return from Utz, his answering machine light blinks with messages from relatives. “Charles, an update on your plans. Call me back.”
But Pinch doesn’t know his plans, with the inheritance or anything. He keeps circling around his final exchange with Bear, when Dad implied that Pinch himself could’ve been a serious painter. That career is beyond him now—the gatekeepers of art are hardly yearning for a schoolteacher in his late forties with little charisma, less hair, not a single show to his name! He tries to laugh, but his spirits plunge—this life has hardly been his own.
There is a flip side, however. During his Tube ride to work many mornings, ruminating over what in hell to do with his father’s art,Pinch clenches his eyes shut and sheepishly remembers something. Bear Bavinsky liked how I paint. He imagines compositions for his next trip to France, and ponders inviting someone to the studio. When she views his paintings, he’ll consider the side of her face, anticipating her response. Let her like it.
It’s his Tube stop. He leaps to his feet, beaming just to imagine.
62
Students stream from her classroom, chatting loudly, calling farewells back to Francesca. In the hallway Pinch stands aside, nodding greetings to a few familiar ex-pupils. When they have scattered, he approaches her classroom, glancing around to ensure he is alone. He takes a deep breath and raises his hand to knock—just as Francesca emerges.
“Che colpo!” she exclaims, hand on her chest, and tucks back her hair, long and black in springy curls, her round face broadening when she smiles, causing him to do the same. Francesca, who is twenty-nine, finds herself in a peculiar position in London. She left Italy in frustration with the lack of opportunities and the incivility, but is now employed not merely to teach the Italian language but to embody British fantasies about a carefree nation she never knew. In private, she is cutting about the follies of Utz, which allows Pinch to be the same. They’ve grown friendly, perhaps even fond of each other, especially since Salvatore quit.