Beer Money: A Memoir of Privilege and Loss(37)
I lifted the slide tray from the projector, and Trevor reluctantly picked up his canvas book bag. He had been in that room with me for two and a half hours, three times the allotment for a studio visit, which is what this was, technically. Much of our relationship took place in situations like these: darkened rooms with projected slides; empty theaters after assemblies or lectures had finished; hallways or corners of graduate studios where no one walked or worked nearby. We would always linger on a bit, talking about Derrida or Warhol, or my newest installation, maybe; Trevor’s book-in-progress. But the distance he kept whenever others were around became confusing to me. Only when I discovered he was married did I understand. Accepting the inherent distance, I resolved to channel my interest in this man into my work itself, spending longer hours yet in the studio.
One fog-draped night, I attended the Fulbright Coalition’s Christmas party, a semiformal affair in baroque quarters off Bond Street. With its arched, rooftop spires and two-story windows, the house resembled a Gothic cathedral. Inside, a butler took my coat and gestured toward a cavernous living room where, hovering above the crowd, the branches of a towering evergreen were decorated with tiny white lights and festive ornaments. Servants carried silver trays of hors d’oeuvres and glasses of red wine. I glimpsed only a few of my fellow Fulbrighters. In my patent leather boots and faux fur coat, I clearly stood out, in this room full of strangers, very conservatively dressed, very British, as “the artist.”
The majority of the Fulbright scholars, all of us having come to London to pursue a year of graduate study in the humanities, had attended Harvard, Princeton, and Yale. The standard scholarship funded nine months of coursework and living expenses, but my MA program at Chelsea ran a full twelve months. To cover the difference, I had applied for a three-month extension on my grant and was still waiting to hear if the supplement had been rewarded.
Across the room, I spotted James Rutherford, director of the Fulbright Coalition. Striking, with his dark, tailored suit and perfectly combed hair, Rutherford deftly maneuvered through the crowd, chatting up distinguished-looking guests, making swift introductions along the way. The Fulbright Program was just expanding its focus from the humanities into the realm of international business, and James was overseeing this transition. At our last Fulbright meeting, he had urged the scholars to make a point of getting to know the business crowd who would be present tonight.
“Good evening, Frances,” bellowed James as I moved to intercept him. “How’s the art coming?”
I told him I was having a very productive year and thanked him.
“This is Bruce Lakefield,” said James, introducing a bored-looking man who’d just materialized to his right with a deference that meant Bruce must be a major donor, or a potential one. “Bruce, this is our artist: Frances Stroh.”
I’d been told during the orientation in September that artists were only very rarely granted Fulbrights and searched James’s face for any sign that my additional grant might be in jeopardy, but he had already turned toward another group.
“How do you do?” asked Bruce in a clipped American accent as he offered me his hand, his expression unmoved. He had removed his sport coat and wore a white-collared shirt with a silky-sheened necktie.
“You’re an American,” I said, for lack of anything else to say.
Bruce had lived in London less than a year, he told me. He asked me how I was enjoying living here. This would be my first Christmas not spent in Michigan, and I suddenly felt very grown up.
“Wonderful,” I said. “The Fulbright Program has made the experience of living abroad, you know, very comfortable. They treat us like royalty.” I didn’t tell him that when I returned from this swank Fulbright gathering, it would be to an unheated art studio at Chelsea College, where I did my work in a down coat, ski hat, and gloves.
Bruce asked me question after question about the program, and I talked it up as if my life depended on it, hoping he might tell James just how enthusiastic I’d been, how I had convinced him of the Fulbright Program’s inherent value. Finally, after listening intently to my gushing, he reached into his pocket and produced a white business card.
“Frances, I’d like you to come work for me,” he said with conviction, handing me the card. “You have a real talent for sales. I could use someone like you on my team.”
I took the card. “Bruce Lakefield, CEO, Lehman Brothers International,” it read. Although flattered, I laughed. Did he think I’d just ditch everything for an investment-banking job? Hell, I’d been approached by two of the best galleries in London—Lisson Gallery and Interim Art. It wasn’t like I needed a job. What I needed was that last installment of grant money. I shook my head. “Apologies, Mr. Lakefield, but . . . I’m an artist.”
He looked at me with astonishment, and then he reached out to shake my hand. “Well, you’ll let me know if you change your mind.”
ELISA KEYS, 1996
(by Eric Stroh)
Nearly a year later, on a soggy November night, I left my Fulham flat and made my way to the Ritz to meet my father and Elisa. The Tube was stale with unwashed commuters and the damp of the still night air. I came out of the station at New Bond Street wearing the only decent dress and jacket I had in London, feeling waiflike next to the chic coiffed mannequins lording it over every single shop’s window. The Ritz stood in the distance in all its cheesy extravagance. Would she be familiar, Elisa, I wondered? “I think you’ll like her,” my father had said several times over the phone. “You two have a lot in common.” I had no idea what to expect.