perfect gentleman—apparently not to the rest of the female population, but with me, he’s been very professional.”
Adam nods. “Glad to hear it. Let me know if he acts up.”
It’s almost two in the afternoon when I drive my car up a winding driveway with Henry and Francisco following in the van. This installation shouldn’t take long, but our clients appreciate it when we make a big production out of hanging the art. Of course, everything has to be handled with the utmost professionalism.
The clients, Stephan and Stella Matthews, are major collectors and philanthropists. Mr. Matthews is on the board at the Museum of Modern Art in New York where they’ve donated many works over the years. They prefer to bring the work of young artists into their home to keep their collection updated.
We walk up the grand entrance and a woman who introduces herself as Mrs. Matthews’s assistant meets us at the door and leads us into the marble foyer. This particular house, designed by Paul Williams, is in the Hollywood regency style and has sweeping views of the city. To my right there’s a Jeff Koons’ large silver dog balloon sculpture and several feet behind it hangs a Jackson Pollack drip painting. I’ve never seen a Pollock anywhere but in a museum, and I’m stunned.
As Mrs. Matthews approaches us, I’m struck by her elegance. Tall and regal, her sleek silver hair is worn in an angular style, and she’s dressed in a black cashmere sweater and charcoal narrow slacks. Her only accents are her massive diamond ring and her architectural earrings.
After introductions, she leads us to the game room, which is more casual than the rest of the house. The plan is to hang Jess’s painting above the carved Italian fireplace. While Henry and Francisco get to work, Mrs. Matthews turns to me.
“So, Ava, what do you think of Jess’s work? Do you get to deal with her directly in your job at the gallery?” she asks in a kind voice.
“Well, I have to admit, Jess is one of my best friends, so I’m extremely biased, but I’m a big fan of her work. To me, she’s a modern day impressionist, but instead of painting ballet dancers and girls in the garden like Degas and Renoir, she captures the people in our daily landscape.”
Mrs. Matthews nods.
“She’s a great person too. We held a show for her in New York last week and a number of her friends from her years at Pratt were there. They all talked about her with great affection.”
“Yes, that’s right, she went to Pratt. Have any of her classmates done as well as she has?” she asks.
“I’m not exactly certain, but the only one that really stands out in terms of success is Maxfield Caswell. They’re still friends.”
“Yes, Caswell,” she answers thoughtfully and pauses. “We bought one of his pieces a couple of years ago. I still love it, but my husband is over him, so I had it moved to my study.”
“Really? Does your husband not care for his work any longer?”
“It’s not his work; it’s his attitude. My husband was standing near him at an opening a month ago and overheard him trashing MOMA in New York. It’s really so unfortunate because Stephan’s on the board and had been encouraging the curator to include Caswell’s work in an upcoming show called
Urban Legend
. He would’ve only been one of two artists under thirty included. It could’ve been pivotal for his career. They’re making the final decision in the morning, but I’m certain Stephan is against Caswell being in the show now and he has a tremendous influence.”
“Oh no,” I gasp, shaking my head.
“Do you know him personally?” she asks me, her curiosity piqued.
“Yes, we’re friends,” I say, stretching the truth a bit. “I’m actually writing the text for a Taylor and Tiden book about Max.”
“Taylor and Tiden?”
Her eyes widen.
My stomach churns. I have the possibility to help Max in a very important way, but to do so will require more lies and well-executed
Adam nods. “Glad to hear it. Let me know if he acts up.”
It’s almost two in the afternoon when I drive my car up a winding driveway with Henry and Francisco following in the van. This installation shouldn’t take long, but our clients appreciate it when we make a big production out of hanging the art. Of course, everything has to be handled with the utmost professionalism.
The clients, Stephan and Stella Matthews, are major collectors and philanthropists. Mr. Matthews is on the board at the Museum of Modern Art in New York where they’ve donated many works over the years. They prefer to bring the work of young artists into their home to keep their collection updated.
We walk up the grand entrance and a woman who introduces herself as Mrs. Matthews’s assistant meets us at the door and leads us into the marble foyer. This particular house, designed by Paul Williams, is in the Hollywood regency style and has sweeping views of the city. To my right there’s a Jeff Koons’ large silver dog balloon sculpture and several feet behind it hangs a Jackson Pollack drip painting. I’ve never seen a Pollock anywhere but in a museum, and I’m stunned.
As Mrs. Matthews approaches us, I’m struck by her elegance. Tall and regal, her sleek silver hair is worn in an angular style, and she’s dressed in a black cashmere sweater and charcoal narrow slacks. Her only accents are her massive diamond ring and her architectural earrings.
After introductions, she leads us to the game room, which is more casual than the rest of the house. The plan is to hang Jess’s painting above the carved Italian fireplace. While Henry and Francisco get to work, Mrs. Matthews turns to me.
“So, Ava, what do you think of Jess’s work? Do you get to deal with her directly in your job at the gallery?” she asks in a kind voice.
“Well, I have to admit, Jess is one of my best friends, so I’m extremely biased, but I’m a big fan of her work. To me, she’s a modern day impressionist, but instead of painting ballet dancers and girls in the garden like Degas and Renoir, she captures the people in our daily landscape.”
Mrs. Matthews nods.
“She’s a great person too. We held a show for her in New York last week and a number of her friends from her years at Pratt were there. They all talked about her with great affection.”
“Yes, that’s right, she went to Pratt. Have any of her classmates done as well as she has?” she asks.
“I’m not exactly certain, but the only one that really stands out in terms of success is Maxfield Caswell. They’re still friends.”
“Yes, Caswell,” she answers thoughtfully and pauses. “We bought one of his pieces a couple of years ago. I still love it, but my husband is over him, so I had it moved to my study.”
“Really? Does your husband not care for his work any longer?”
“It’s not his work; it’s his attitude. My husband was standing near him at an opening a month ago and overheard him trashing MOMA in New York. It’s really so unfortunate because Stephan’s on the board and had been encouraging the curator to include Caswell’s work in an upcoming show called
Urban Legend
. He would’ve only been one of two artists under thirty included. It could’ve been pivotal for his career. They’re making the final decision in the morning, but I’m certain Stephan is against Caswell being in the show now and he has a tremendous influence.”
“Oh no,” I gasp, shaking my head.
“Do you know him personally?” she asks me, her curiosity piqued.
“Yes, we’re friends,” I say, stretching the truth a bit. “I’m actually writing the text for a Taylor and Tiden book about Max.”
“Taylor and Tiden?”
Her eyes widen.
My stomach churns. I have the possibility to help Max in a very important way, but to do so will require more lies and well-executed
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