public knowledge.
I decided to take a philosophical attitude.
A fuckup. How unusual.
The paintings were actually arranged intelligently, earliest to most recent. Unless you headed straight for the bar, you would see the few pre-Magritte paintings when you first came in. Next you’d see the beginnings of the flat technique, the texture of the canvas as part of the painting. The very early works looked more decorative, and though they were certainly beautiful, they didn’t have the punch of the post-Magritte paintings, nor the humor of the Magritte pieces. Our Magritte, not René. I was surprised to see the small painting of Magritte as an angel, talk about oxymorons, because it had to have been one of Cliff’s personal favorites, but then I noticed the “NFS”—not for sale—on the title card. That pleased me enormously. I loved the piece. It was as beautiful and perfect as an old miniature.
The alienation grew as you proceeded toward the later works, and then there was a sudden, harsh change with the appearance of the untitled “Uncle Miltie” painting and several other of these recent works, all in black, gray, and white or in grays with one startling touch of color. For example, there was one called s.b. that showed a street-tough boy. around twelve, in a dress. Everything else was typically male: dirty high-tops, one sock up and one halfway down, even the basketball steadied with one hand and poised on his hip. Everything was in shades of gray, except the basketball.
I looked around for les and mor. It should have been with this group of recent work, but it wasn’t. I wondered if Veronica deemed it too weird to include it. But certainly others were equally disturbing.
When I glanced around for Dennis, I panicked. I had forgotten that Dashiell was with him. If Dashiell showed up in the papers, I might as well be there too. It would kill the chance for me to work undercover again. This was serious. Deception was not only essential in this work, it was one of my favorite parts, sort of like improvisational acting, only sometimes life-threatening.
The photographers had finished with Magritte, and I got over there as soon as I could get through the crowd. If Cliff had only lived to see this day. Then again, had he lived, he might have gotten one piece in a barely advertised group show during the slowest time of the year, and three people, all relatives of the other artists, would have shown up. He wouldn’t have made a dime.
I got next to Dennis and looked around. Dash was nowhere in sight.
“There you are,” Dennis said, before I had a chance to say a word. “My friend Roger took Dashiell for a walk. You were tied up with Gil, and Dash kept looking at pedestals as if they were fire hydrants. Maybe he was just too hot, I don’t know. Rog should be back any minute. I hope that’s okay?”
That’s when it occurred to Dennis that it might not he okay. I could see the fear coming into his eyes.
“I did it again, right?”
But before I had a chance to describe the enormous knot in my stomach over the fear that a stranger had taken my dog and I’d never see him again (how could I be sure Rog wasn’t the murderer!), I was thrown onto Dennis and nearly knocked him down. It was just Dashiell’s way of telling me how happy he was to see me again. He often made his sentiments crystal clear with a head butt.
“Rog, this is—”
“Louise,” I said, standing up and giving Dennis a look that if looks could kill it would have, “Louise Keaton. I’m Dennis’s cousin.” Seeing the look on Roger’s face, I added, “Long lost. Which is why he may have never mentioned me.” I was too distraught and angry to do a good job of this. I just shrugged, turned to Dennis, and said, “We have to talk, cuz.”
“Roger, thanks.” Then he turned to me. “You know Dr. Schwartzman said no more alcoholic beverages, Louise.” And back to Rog. “I have to get her out into the air.”
We retrieved our coats from
I decided to take a philosophical attitude.
A fuckup. How unusual.
The paintings were actually arranged intelligently, earliest to most recent. Unless you headed straight for the bar, you would see the few pre-Magritte paintings when you first came in. Next you’d see the beginnings of the flat technique, the texture of the canvas as part of the painting. The very early works looked more decorative, and though they were certainly beautiful, they didn’t have the punch of the post-Magritte paintings, nor the humor of the Magritte pieces. Our Magritte, not René. I was surprised to see the small painting of Magritte as an angel, talk about oxymorons, because it had to have been one of Cliff’s personal favorites, but then I noticed the “NFS”—not for sale—on the title card. That pleased me enormously. I loved the piece. It was as beautiful and perfect as an old miniature.
The alienation grew as you proceeded toward the later works, and then there was a sudden, harsh change with the appearance of the untitled “Uncle Miltie” painting and several other of these recent works, all in black, gray, and white or in grays with one startling touch of color. For example, there was one called s.b. that showed a street-tough boy. around twelve, in a dress. Everything else was typically male: dirty high-tops, one sock up and one halfway down, even the basketball steadied with one hand and poised on his hip. Everything was in shades of gray, except the basketball.
I looked around for les and mor. It should have been with this group of recent work, but it wasn’t. I wondered if Veronica deemed it too weird to include it. But certainly others were equally disturbing.
When I glanced around for Dennis, I panicked. I had forgotten that Dashiell was with him. If Dashiell showed up in the papers, I might as well be there too. It would kill the chance for me to work undercover again. This was serious. Deception was not only essential in this work, it was one of my favorite parts, sort of like improvisational acting, only sometimes life-threatening.
The photographers had finished with Magritte, and I got over there as soon as I could get through the crowd. If Cliff had only lived to see this day. Then again, had he lived, he might have gotten one piece in a barely advertised group show during the slowest time of the year, and three people, all relatives of the other artists, would have shown up. He wouldn’t have made a dime.
I got next to Dennis and looked around. Dash was nowhere in sight.
“There you are,” Dennis said, before I had a chance to say a word. “My friend Roger took Dashiell for a walk. You were tied up with Gil, and Dash kept looking at pedestals as if they were fire hydrants. Maybe he was just too hot, I don’t know. Rog should be back any minute. I hope that’s okay?”
That’s when it occurred to Dennis that it might not he okay. I could see the fear coming into his eyes.
“I did it again, right?”
But before I had a chance to describe the enormous knot in my stomach over the fear that a stranger had taken my dog and I’d never see him again (how could I be sure Rog wasn’t the murderer!), I was thrown onto Dennis and nearly knocked him down. It was just Dashiell’s way of telling me how happy he was to see me again. He often made his sentiments crystal clear with a head butt.
“Rog, this is—”
“Louise,” I said, standing up and giving Dennis a look that if looks could kill it would have, “Louise Keaton. I’m Dennis’s cousin.” Seeing the look on Roger’s face, I added, “Long lost. Which is why he may have never mentioned me.” I was too distraught and angry to do a good job of this. I just shrugged, turned to Dennis, and said, “We have to talk, cuz.”
“Roger, thanks.” Then he turned to me. “You know Dr. Schwartzman said no more alcoholic beverages, Louise.” And back to Rog. “I have to get her out into the air.”
We retrieved our coats from
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