The Italian Teacher(90)
“Clearly, I need to see these late works.”
“Connor took photos.”
“Leave this with me.”
In agony, Pinch waits. No word from Eva. Nothing from Connor either. Weeks later, he calls the gallery again.
“Did Felix not email you?” Eva says. “Me and your journalist buddy chatted. He told me where his rinky-dink story is going.”
“Somewhere obscure?”
“Actually, he landed the New Yorker,” she says. “After you and me talked the other day, I got in touch with an editor friend at the mag and arranged a meeting for Connor. The two of them hit it off big time.”
“Eva! What the hell! Why did you do that? What do they have, a million readers? And why would they even publish him?”
“He’s got a scoop, wouldn’t you say?”
“What scoop? What’s he writing? Eva?”
“Patience, dear.”
72
On the day of publication, Felix phones. “Eva said to read it aloud.”
“The whole article?” Pinch snaps. “Couldn’t you summarize? I’m really on edge here.”
“Eva said read it aloud.”
“Okay, okay. But please, start.”
The feature is called “Hunting Bear,” with the subheading, “The Hidden Truth of an Artist’s Legacy.”
Pinch scarcely processes what he hears, not least because Felix reads in bewildering upspeak: “After the sexualized shoulders and legs and arms akimbo that established the Bavinsky brand, his crepuscular efforts prove more naked still? The face itself is his nude here? Eyes, stripteasing before us? We stare back?”
“Felix, are those questions in the original? Or are you just reading it like that?”
“Reading it like what?”
“Just go faster. Please.”
The prose is abysmal, the pacing turgid—it’s a personal history starring Connor Thomas, rhapsodizing about a lifelong (since Princeton) love for the works of Bear Bavinsky, then his feelings upon meeting the great man and his angst over the painter’s estrangement from contemporary art. At first Pinch is mentioned only in passing. But the article keeps circling around him. Wait for it. He shuts his eyes, hardly breathing.
“You ready?” Felix asks.
“Just get to it.”
“I’ll put you on with her now.”
“Felix! Finish reading it!”
“That was the finish.”
Eva gets on the phone. “You likey?”
“Eva?” Pinch responds. “That was nothing. That was Connor finding the paintings, like some kid detective. Which, parenthetically, is not how this happened. But nothing negative.”
“You need to trust me, dear.”
“How did you talk him around?”
“I didn’t talk anybody around. I looked at his photos, and I explained what we had here: ‘Those are fucking gorgeous, you dingbat.’ He could either see what I saw, and be at the vanguard. Or he could not see it, and be a bonehead when everyone else starts raving.”
“You liked them?” Pinch asks hungrily.
“Frickin’ gorgeous! I told that dummkopf,” she continues, “that writing about a bunch of ‘problematic’ art or whatever he thought—that’s a nonstory. But single-handedly discovering unknown masterworks? That’ll get serious play, as I proved, putting him in touch with my girl Friday at the mag. A dumbass like Connor just needs a little steering.”
“Eva! You’re amazing.”
“Awwww,” she purrs. “Valentines right back atcha, dearie.”
“But you honestly liked them? From those photos?”
“Anyone with the slightest taste would fucking drool.”
Pinch always considered Eva’s defining trait to be insincerity. Yet now that she approves of his art, he finds ways to respect her: She’s experienced, influential—she was listed in ArtReview’s Power 100 last year, dammit! She’s an opinion maker. And I, he thinks, am a total hypocrite. But a hypocrite who can paint! He closes his eyes tight, opens them, pupils dilated. “Eva, there was this one bit in the article I didn’t get. Where he quoted you, it said the Petros Gallery represents the Bavinsky estate. Which isn’t technically true.”
“Um, seriously?” She slams on the cold again. “What have I been doing here?”
“No, right—you’ve represented us superbly. There’s nobody else I’d want to do the job.”
“Yay!” Warmth restored (and contract on the way). “Here’s what I’m thinking: these new pieces in a miniretrospective celebrating Papa Bear, tying a bow on the legendary history between our two fathers. I’m thinking the inaugural for our new art space in Bushwick, what I’m calling Petros 2.0. You psyched? And, later,” she adds, “if you care to test the market with these, that can happen. ?a va?”
They sign off, and he smacks down the phone receiver, beaming at the ceiling of his room, imagining Eva at her desk in the gallery, loathing him. Another appalling estate, she’ll think, and take it out on Felix.
73
When the Petros Gallery announces its show Bear Bavinsky: The Faces, the interns mail out embossed invitations with the artist’s initials printed back-to-back, , Intended to resemble the number 88, which is lucky in Chinese culture—Eva is looking to the Asian market these days. Her publicists seed considerable media interest, soliciting an arts-section story in the New York Times that speaks of “a first look at the long-rumored treasures by a 20th-century American master.” This prompts coverage in lesser organs: ad-heavy art mags, bankrupt big-city newspapers, dutiful wire services, snarky blogs.