NOTE: If you haven’t been following this from the beginning, and if you want to know the full sequence of events, start with the introduction. Click on Archives on the right.
Thin beams of light from countless halogen spots divide the atmosphere at the Gentileschi Gallery. Artemisia Bliemisch’s work is well lit but much of the room seems dark by contrast. It is hard to see who’s here in this gloom. I sign the guest book careful not to spill half a glass of white wine left next to the pen. Artie stands nearby in a bright red shirt with black waistcoat and long dark skirt. She hunches attentively over a small woman with short gray hair moused into curved spikes. Her firm upper arm muscles are well defined as she moves under a spotlight. Her knuckles shine white where she is fastened to Artie’s elbow with platinum ringed claws. “Artiemisia! I just love your new work!”
“Thank you Mrs. Shrowd.” Mrs. Shrowd is thin. Her sleeveless blouse is unbuttoned at the top and tucked into loose fitting faded denims. Could that have been her wine I didn’t spill? Where is wine served?
“I’ve got to have one of these for sure, Artie.” Mrs. Shrowd slowly pulls Artie out of earshot, in front of a series of paintings stretching along the wall towards the back. They pause before the biggest. Mrs. Shrowd steps in close to examine the surface.
Bel Vionet stands near the front window by Artie’s “Main Squeeze” series where she introduces me to Frank Vasari. I am told Frank ‘knows everybody’. He represented a generation of successful young local artists at his Gallery Sforza when it was on Seventh Street. He’s in the middle of a story about Artie when he knew her in Florence.
“Yeah I was trying to get into her pants. Yeah I admit it and so was Steve by the way. I mean it was no secret, but she didn’t want anything from me. That’s why we are standing here, not at my Gallery. So anyway we were walking over to the Uffizi. She was studying Botticelli or something, I don’t remember … Steve Strether how you doing?”
I had been watching Bel’s husband Steve as he walked towards us through a wilderness of elbows, flabby, boney and bare, denim, rayon, tweed-covered protruding at the sides of those facing away from us with their drinks. Bel can’t see him coming. She seems unmoved by this story, and keeps her interested smile fresh no matter how long she has to wear it. Is this “no secret” from Bel? Haven’t seen much of Steve since last year when we first met by chance in front of the Pastry Shop, and then went on together visiting Artie in her studio. I lost track of Frank’s long-winded story moments ago wondering what to believe. Diddlie has told me Steve first met Artie here in Fauxmont.
The others are sipping white wine from thin plastic glasses. All except Frank, who has a can of beer, and drains it as Steve arrives. Crushing the cylinder in his thick fingers, he puts it down distorted on a narrow ledge along the wall at his back. His welcoming arm wraps Steve’s neck in light tweed. Frank’s gut sags over his belt and a white shirttail hangs out the front of his black jeans. Steve is thrown off balance by Frank’s friendly gesture and bumps Bel’s hand spilling wine down the front of her dress.
“My God Bel I’m sorry!”
“It’s okay Frank I’ll probably live.”
“Frank that’s the only wife I’ve got.”
“Look, we can go across the street. I’ve got friends in that house there, see. They’ll take care of everything for sure.” He is pointing out of the window with his free hand and hasn’t let Steve go. A long stain is spreading across Bel’s lime green dress starting below the empire waist and bleeding down her stomach. The fabric clings around the hollow of her navel and sticks to the belly’s contour then falls in thin pleats to her ankles. Wine drips from the hem beading on the varnished bamboo floor.
“Whoa! Step back Bel, I mean don’t slip on that wet floor.” Frank has let go of Steve’s neck. The can falls off its ledge and bounces on the floor. Frank’s hair has flopped down into his eyes and around his ears. He uses both hands to push it back from his face. He steps on the can and flattens it under a booted heel.
“How many you had Bel?” Artie is standing next to her and whispers something else in her ear.
“Artie honey, how are you?”
They both turn away ignoring Frank, and Artie guides Bel through a white door concealed in the white wall behind the receptionist’s desk.
It feels hot in the thickening crowd. I see the receptionist through a momentary gap, distinctively braless, under a tight white Tshirt. She serves wine and beer with long thin bare brown arms from behind an arched window in the far wall with a deep sill. Steve is walking towards the refreshments. I catch up and reintroduce myself.
“So now you’ve met Frank!”
“Was he drunk?”
“He’s not the man we used to know on 7th Street. Gentileschi’s is well known for representing Woman artists. You know Artemisia shows here because this is best for her. It has nothing to do with Florence. Frank’s mixed up. Since he was appointed to direct the arts center out at Prestige U. I don’t think he has anything to do but drink and schmooze.”
“Where’s the owner, I mean Gentileschi?
Steve points toward the back. “How can it be so dark in here with all these spots? I saw her talking to Mrs. Shrowd over there. You know, Sherman Shrowd’s wife.”
“Never heard of them.”
“He’s a big lawyer in town. Never goes to court. Sherman settles quietly behind the scenes. She’s the collector. Don’t see her now. Gentileschi is in a black dress with big red hair like wild fire. You’ll feel the heat.”
“So why did Vasari get the job?”
“Prestige U. got millions, don’t know how many, but millions, from Armond Macadamia. Frank is the biggest name in local art and that’s what Macadamia wants to collect. He thinks Frank can put his Macadamia Art Center on the map. Frank’s closed his old gallery and now he’s under the thumb of that meddling board. I don’t think it’s working.”
“I’ve heard a lot about Macadamia. He’s local talent isn’t he and made his fortune in stocks?”
“Freddie!” Daisy Briscoe greets me like a beloved relative. Bending over and folding her arms around me she brings down a cloud of scent and her silvery hardware rattles against my ears. She presses her cheek to mine, unfolds and then engulfs Steve in the same way. Now she has brought us into her family she flourishes a price list. “You guys buying?”
No one speaks. Daisy folds up the list. Takes off her bowler and slides it into her hat-band. I haven’t seen prices but doubt that I can afford anything. Steve begins to say something but before a full word has come out he is distracted. Bel reappears standing close to her husband. She is looking up at Daisy.
“Hi Daisy, are you alone?”
“Oh Bel, have you heard?”
“Heard what? Is it Boyd?” Daisy is looking at Bel.
“Sweetie I’ve been looking for you!” Steve squeezes his wife’s hand without looking at her as Daisy answers. “Oh I don’t know where Boyd is. He wouldn’t come anyway … but listen … they’ve released Tassi.”
“Get out of here!”
Steve puts his arm around his wife’s shoulders and gently pulls her
against his body. She leans towards him in graceful exaggeration, raising one foot and showing off her silver shoes. The now dry pleats unfold in a cascade from her extended leg as she rests her head on his shoulder.
“They only just put him away!”
“I know, Steve. Who understands Italian law?”
“Does Artie know?”
“I don’t know. Where is she? I’ve got to talk to her.”
Bel reaches out for Daisy’s arm. Then using both hands, she separates the multiple bracelets and closes her fingers round the narrow wrist, pulling Daisy towards her. “Maybe now is not the time.”
“Maybe Bel, but I mean she’s got to know … I mean …
don’t you think…?”
“I think she’s got enough on her mind right now.”
