The Woman Who Heard Color by Kelly Jones Page B

Munich with a painting or two by this poor, dead, brilliant Dutch painter.
    And she realized something that might have been obvious—once a painter had died, his work could actually become more valuable. A simple matter of the number of paintings available for purchase and the number of buyers desiring the work. A dead artist could create no further paintings, and thus if his work became desirable, it could make the dealer who had realized his value very, very wealthy.
     
     
    Shortly after their return home, Hanna was assigned a new duty, assisting Herr Engle in the bookkeeping at the gallery. She was amazed to learn how little of the proceeds from the paintings went to the artists. When she asked Herr Fleischmann about this, he replied, “What would the artists be without the dealers? It is the creativity of the painter that will sell, but if it is not presented to those with the money, those who can pay the price, what is the use of the artist in the world of economics?” He explained that many artists had very little business sense, that they were creative spirits. Many of them cared little for the money, but they needed it to live. “Some artists struggle,” he told her, “not only with their creativity, but with the simple aspects of life to make ends meet.”
    He’s speaking of Vincent van Gogh, Hanna reflected.
    “That’s why a good artist needs a good dealer,” Herr Fleischmann went on. “We are not here to take advantage, but to nurture, to encourage, to give the artists the means to continue their work.”
    “And a little profit for ourselves,” she said.
    Again she could see that Herr Fleischmann was pleased with her reply. She wanted to touch him at that moment. She wanted him to reach out and take her hand and smile into her eyes the way he did with Helene.
    “You learn very quickly, Hanna,” he said. And that was all.
     
     
    One afternoon, as she was adjusting a painting that hung in the first gallery, she turned and Josef, her friend from the Academy of Fine Arts, stood before her.
    “Why, Hanna,” he said with a wide grin, bringing his hands together as if he were about to applaud her, “what a delight to find you here. You are no longer modeling for the artists, but selling their creations?” He wore a bright blue tie. He dressed differently from the other men she saw in Munich, and his colorful clothing made him sound much livelier, too. Even the way he spoke, his inflection, the way he moved, so dramatic and animated, was different. Sometimes Hanna didn’t know quite what to think of Josef, though she had always found him delightful and warm.
    “How good to see you, Josef. You’ve come to buy a painting?” She grinned now, too.
    “I’ve come to speak with Herr Fleischmann. I hear there is a position available.”
    “Why, yes.” Herr Engle was retiring soon, and there had been several gentlemen in and out over the past several days. What fun it would be, she thought, to have Josef here at the gallery.
    She escorted him to Herr Fleischmann’s office and then went back to the gallery where she waited with anticipation.
    “Did it go well?” she asked when he returned.
    “Yes, I believe it did. It is my dream to work at the Fleischmann Gallery.”
    She reached out and gave his hand a little squeeze. “Oh, Josef, it would be such a pleasure to have you here.”
    “Do you have any influence”—he motioned with his head back to Herr Fleischmann’s office—“with those who make the important decisions?” His perfect eyebrows rose in a comical way, almost independently of each other.
    “I’m little more than the charwoman around here.” That wasn’t exactly true—she had been given much more responsibility and training since their return from Paris. But she didn’t want Josef to think she might be able to persuade Herr Fleischmann to hire him.
    After Josef left, Herr Fleischmann came out of his office and approached her.
    “This Josef Bloch, he is a friend?”
    “Yes.