was about to break into a run. Come to think of it, she might have seen him just a few days ago on Holland Park Avenue.
There was silence on the line.
“So, I met with Sir Charles…” she began brightly.
“I don’t know why. If this deal goes through, we may never even live in the house.”
She stopped short, holding the phone to her ear in the darkness of the cab. “What? Why?”
“Turns out they want me to stay on as CEO.”
“Right. In London. The company is in London.”
“But management would be in Hong Kong.”
She was silent.
“I assumed you knew this was a possibility…”
“You never said anything about moving to China.”
“Look, this gives me a chance to take care of our people. Make sure they’re integrated into the new organization. They’ve been loyal to us. They helped build the company. It’s the right thing to do.”
* * *
A FTER THE CALL, she sat stunned in the back of the cab. Hong Kong? Had that possibility been lost in the shuffle that had been their lives over the past several months? Mistakenly packed away? Mislabeled? Or had she simply not been paying attention? What other possibilities had been misplaced or overlooked?
For years, they had lived an unsettled life. And she had learned to enjoy it. She had come to find that uncertainty had a certain charm. But since buying the house, she had believed that had changed. The size of the house, the financial commitment, the scope of the renovation—all of these things had led her to allow herself to believe that they were putting down roots. After all, wasn’t this what they had worked toward? Wasn’t this the dream?
She became aware of the regular thump of the speed bumps as they moved onto the residential streets off the High Street. She switched on the overhead light to find her house keys in her bag. In the dim glare she caught sight of her reflection in the smooth black window of the cab. The deepening wrinkles around the edges of her eyes and mouth, the softening jawline. A far different face from the one that had looked back at her from the walls of the gallery. Kat let out a sudden laugh, startling the cabdriver, who turned round to look at her. Perhaps she needn’t have worried that anyone would recognize her.
chapter six
What the Artist Kept to Himself
Thomas Lowry
A bright new light in figurative painting is shining from a wholly unexpected place. In an unprecedented move, Mayfair’s stalwartly modern Penfield Gallery has thrown the full weight of its considerable influence behind a fairly unknown realist and his series of portraits.
Although this show is the first major exhibition for the artist, his work already hangs in the homes of many of New York’s finest collectors, disguised in that most easily dismissed of forms—portraiture. Daniel Blake has long been the portraitist of choice amongst New York’s elite. And I must admit that while I have been exposed to his work in this capacity on several occasions, this is the first time I have been aware of his talent.
Over a span of twenty years, unbeknownst to his many patrons and purportedly even to his own agent, Blake has created a series of works that serve as an intensive study of one unidentified model. This series, in addition to representing a notable augmentation of his catalogue raisonné—both in terms of breadth and depth—provides a rare view of the stylistic and emotional evolution of the artist.
The works in this show are, first and foremost, compelling portraits of a young woman, gracefully realized and technically adroit. Indeed, one could devote an entire article solely to the artist’s renditions of red hair. Not since Titian has there been an artist more enamoured of the redhead.
But, there is more to his story. The obvious mystery here is that the young woman herself neither ages nor changes during the course of the series. This anomaly has captured the imagination of the art world, sparking a debate over whether
There was silence on the line.
“So, I met with Sir Charles…” she began brightly.
“I don’t know why. If this deal goes through, we may never even live in the house.”
She stopped short, holding the phone to her ear in the darkness of the cab. “What? Why?”
“Turns out they want me to stay on as CEO.”
“Right. In London. The company is in London.”
“But management would be in Hong Kong.”
She was silent.
“I assumed you knew this was a possibility…”
“You never said anything about moving to China.”
“Look, this gives me a chance to take care of our people. Make sure they’re integrated into the new organization. They’ve been loyal to us. They helped build the company. It’s the right thing to do.”
* * *
A FTER THE CALL, she sat stunned in the back of the cab. Hong Kong? Had that possibility been lost in the shuffle that had been their lives over the past several months? Mistakenly packed away? Mislabeled? Or had she simply not been paying attention? What other possibilities had been misplaced or overlooked?
For years, they had lived an unsettled life. And she had learned to enjoy it. She had come to find that uncertainty had a certain charm. But since buying the house, she had believed that had changed. The size of the house, the financial commitment, the scope of the renovation—all of these things had led her to allow herself to believe that they were putting down roots. After all, wasn’t this what they had worked toward? Wasn’t this the dream?
She became aware of the regular thump of the speed bumps as they moved onto the residential streets off the High Street. She switched on the overhead light to find her house keys in her bag. In the dim glare she caught sight of her reflection in the smooth black window of the cab. The deepening wrinkles around the edges of her eyes and mouth, the softening jawline. A far different face from the one that had looked back at her from the walls of the gallery. Kat let out a sudden laugh, startling the cabdriver, who turned round to look at her. Perhaps she needn’t have worried that anyone would recognize her.
chapter six
What the Artist Kept to Himself
Thomas Lowry
A bright new light in figurative painting is shining from a wholly unexpected place. In an unprecedented move, Mayfair’s stalwartly modern Penfield Gallery has thrown the full weight of its considerable influence behind a fairly unknown realist and his series of portraits.
Although this show is the first major exhibition for the artist, his work already hangs in the homes of many of New York’s finest collectors, disguised in that most easily dismissed of forms—portraiture. Daniel Blake has long been the portraitist of choice amongst New York’s elite. And I must admit that while I have been exposed to his work in this capacity on several occasions, this is the first time I have been aware of his talent.
Over a span of twenty years, unbeknownst to his many patrons and purportedly even to his own agent, Blake has created a series of works that serve as an intensive study of one unidentified model. This series, in addition to representing a notable augmentation of his catalogue raisonné—both in terms of breadth and depth—provides a rare view of the stylistic and emotional evolution of the artist.
The works in this show are, first and foremost, compelling portraits of a young woman, gracefully realized and technically adroit. Indeed, one could devote an entire article solely to the artist’s renditions of red hair. Not since Titian has there been an artist more enamoured of the redhead.
But, there is more to his story. The obvious mystery here is that the young woman herself neither ages nor changes during the course of the series. This anomaly has captured the imagination of the art world, sparking a debate over whether
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