© Art Report Today
by Edie Lange
Fiction
I.I
CHAPTER
PAGING EDIE LANGE
I saw that I was reaching the last of an article that I did not want to end. It was a profile in the U.K. Guardian of artist Cindy Sherman. She likes to play dress up. I was so absorbed, so fascinated, I hadn't even made any notes. Cindy Sherman was unveiling herself, a layer at a time. There was plenty to write about. I wish I had been interviewing her myself.
I am the author of a new column. I'm just getting the hang of it. My real name is Elysa Alder, but I'm writing under the name Edie Lange. It seemed a lot safer to go anon-y with a nom de plume. In our Brave Cancel Culture World, every word is lethal; one wrong one and you're tatted for life. You never know when you'll need to point the finger away from yourself and say, "They went that a-way."
Besides, I needed to retire my old name. I'm no style influencer; that's over.
The title, Blue Chip, Red Dot, is a lot to live up to. Before I can learn the ropes, I needed to find them first. I had no resources and no real supervision. I don't even have an MFA. I needed to make new friends in strategic places. This would take time. I started to think that it might be easier just to write about myself; interviews and notes take a long time to type up.
I was feeling the stress. Or the caffeine. With a deep sigh, I realized that I was doing it to myself. I was causing the pressure. I was frustrated, hoping for some guidance. Frankly, I just wanted someone to do the job for me, but that's not gonna happen. I heard my grandpa's voice growling in my head, "You've got a thread of steel in you, gal." I love my grandpa. I believe he still loves me.
I was very lucky to get this job; it's like winning a lottery ticket that doesn't pay much. Nonetheless, I wasn't going to muck it up. I know that good things in life don't come along very often and I'm grateful. Plus, I think it's an advantage that I am an outsider.
I read the article again. I cut and pasted Cindy Sherman's quote on my iPad, "I enjoy doing the really difficult things that people can’t buy." I wasn't sure what she meant. Is that contempt for her collectors? Does it mean that all art aspires to be a banana duct taped to a wall?
I fantasized about Sherman's freedom of creation, having no limits, financial or otherwise. Just making art all day and someone wanting it. That's got to be pure luxury. Cindy was experimenting, creating, doing whatever she wanted. I was envious. Maybe I should write about that? Maybe I can find a laugh in there.
My coffee cup was empty and I wasn't hemorrhaging for another. Actually, I couldn't afford another $9 big city coffee, but I knew where to get one for free. Besides, I'd been sitting in that place too long and it was getting hot and stuffy, like my life.
In four short NYC blocks, I found myself standing in the air-conditioned silence of the Gladhand Gallery. The lush white cube. Wide open spaces focused upon objects, generally colorful and interesting. There is something about a pristine gallery that lets me know that all is right with the world. I've always liked the smell of fresh paint. A clean slate.
With silent fingers, I tootled Yanna, perched at the front desk, and she silently smiled back. I was a frequent visitor and I know my way around the large maze of rooms.
My BFF works there. With her MFA from RISD, Sher Sanchez is the assistant to Clarke McLeish, one of six competing directors that juggle blue chip hearts and minds for the gallery.
Sher's job used to be a dream. She was devoted to her boss and he ran his business well. As a curator, he had excellent taste. They were an efficient duo. Now that the actress Sarah Lawrence had entered his life, all hell had broken loose. Everything changed.
As I rounded the corner, Sher was uncharacteristically wearing her Skullcandy earbuds, at work. She saw me, smiled and pulled the speakers from her ears. I asked, "What are you listening to? In the middle of a workday?"
"Drowning out the Fight Club." She rolled her eyes and cocked her head at the door, closed, to her boss's office. I smiled and sidled that way. I recognized Sarah Lawrence's squeaky growl, muffled from behind. I could see her abstracted silhouette through the textured glass, blonde and gesturing wildly.
"War Zone," Sher hushed, "And get back over here." I did.
She confessed something that I hadn't heard before, "Since the wedding, everything has changed."
I always thought Sher had a quiet crush on her boss. I asked with a smile, "Are you feeling left out?"
She giggled. "Thank God I am! Poor Clarke." 
Clarke McLeish, a humble art trader, met Academy Award winner Sarah Lawrence, through a mutual friend, at a Jan Blomqvist concert at Art Basel. They started hanging out and soon called it dating. Both took great pains not to be seen together publically. For a good long while, it worked. A few photos started to appear and drifted away like snowflakes until it became an avalanche of sightings and the couple was outed.
Now free and easy, Sarah Lawrence had taken to spending a lot of time in the safety of the gallery. She made Sher's life a living hell. And Clarke's. Now Sher had two bosses, one with the baggage of celebrity. Every move for Sarah, lunch, walk or phone call was made with spy precision and fast exits to waiting cars. Nothing was normal ever again. I think Clarke liked it.
To become a top film star, one has to have an ambition, of the rocket-fuelled variety. Talented and beautiful, Sarah Lawrence was a nuclear dynamo. Unlike Clarke, who was happy with easy days and a slow gallery flow. He was once the kind of guy who liked to hang with his Springer Spaniel and stare at the sky. Somehow, the actress had lit his fire and soon Clarke was making all kinds of annoying demands to his gallery overlords.
Lawrence was calling the shots; she wanted her new hubby to have a more impressive stable of artists. And clients. Truth be told, as annoying as she was, Sarah was very good for gallery business. Clarke's sales had doubled. He added new film biz collectors. It was rumored that he was moving to Gagosian but everyone denied it.
Irony. Here I am, an arts news writer, in some ways a purveyor of art news gossip, with a column no less, on a prestigious news platform, and I can't use any of this. Sher and I have been besties forever and it would be very obvious where the news came from, should I ever write about Sarah Lawrence and Clarke McLeish. So I don't. I can't.
The look on Sher's face said it all. The argument behind closed doors might be the end of her. She rolled her eyes and giggled. She leaned in confidentially, "Suddenly there has been a discussion of Los Angeles."
"Like, moving to?"
She nodded. "A heads up, roomie."
"Swell." This wasn't promising news. I don't wanna have to find a new place or get a new roommate. I can't afford to move, if Sher goes to LA, simple as that.
"What's up?" Sher shook her head, "This is not a good day to hang out."
"I was hoping for a coffee."
"That we can do. Let's run to the Canteen. I need to be on deck in case they need to order provisions. They might want happy food or angry food, depending on how the argument is going. C'mon."
As we followed the curving hallway, I asked "So, what's happy food and angry food?"
"If one of them orders a Club Sandwich, I know they're still fighting."
We laughed as we entered the Canteen, the gallery's pristine four-star kitchen and dining room. I filled my soggy paper cup with a Kona Roast out of a silver urn. I added a dollop of coconut milk.
Sher was anxiously holding the door for me. Her phone buzzed. "I knew it." She began to walk quickly. I followed slowly.
She said into her phone, "uh-Huh. OK. Do you want a side of Russian Dressing with the Club?" She looked back at me, raising her eyebrows, wanting to laugh. "Sure. And two Mexican Cokes." As she marched into her office, Sher waved her fingers, dismissing me.
I turned on my heel and walked back through the long gallery. No explanation needed. I'd hear all about it later tonight. For a while, it was fun, the real Sarah Lawrence, but now, it had become difficult. Just like Harry and Meghan, the celebrity couple was no longer thrilling. The silver plating had worn off. For Sher, it was just too much unnecessary extra work.
At the entrance, I tootled Yanna goodbye and whispered, "I'll see you soon." She winked back. We were drink mates.
I hesitated at the frosted glass door to the street; I always hate to leave the sanctity of a gallery. Outside are messy noises and loud visuals screeching for attention. Galleries are quiet, ordered and peaceful. I pushed ahead and walked into the glaring wet spring heat of a noisy Manhattan morning. I felt my hair frizz.
A taxi was honking in short annoying bursts. I had to step lively; it looked like barf on the sidewalk and smelled like it too. The croupier of a Three-card Monte game was congratulating the winning sucker. I was shoved from behind. "Yer fortune for a tenner?" yelled an old woman. She looked like a gypsy or a stylish hippie; the crone had flair. She pushed a tarot card in my hand and I tried to push it back. The taxi kept honking in the rhythm of a beating heart. "Yer fortune?" she screamed. Suddenly, the gypsy grabbed my elbow, pulling down. Her whole body heaved. Her grip was as strong as a vice. She turned her ribbon-bedecked head and projectile vomited across the sidewalk, nailing a Pekingese on a leash. The volume of bile was staggering.
As she was hiccupping wildly, I was able to jerk my elbow free. I hauled ass down the street, flying across cracked concrete. I tossed my coffee cup; it was slowing me down. Thank God she aimed away from me; dry cleaning costs a fortune in Manhattan. I noticed the gypsy's card still between my fingers and my hand sprang open.
As the tarot floated down to the sidewalk, I read the fortune: Your Future Looks Bright.
NEXT WEEK: AN UNEXPECTED PHONE CALL FROM LOS ANGELES
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“Blue Chip, Red Dot is a work of fiction. All characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual people or events is coincidental or fictionalized.”
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