© Art Report Today
by Edie Lange
Fiction
Chapter I: Click Here
I.2
CHAPTER
A PHONE CALL FROM LOS ANGELES
Adrenaline dropping, I finally slowed to a trot on the streets of New York. I felt like I had just escaped a great and incontrovertible danger. In any urban landscape, the unexpected is always lurking.
Last week, an architectural flourish fell off an old building and killed a woman, an architect no less. My friend Itsy was buying a bottle of Tito's when the liquor store got robbed at gunpoint. In the panicked confusion, Itsy walked away with the bottle. My day would have changed had the hippie woman barfed on me instead of the Pekingese. I would have had to go back to the apartment, a crosstown walk of smelly shame, and burn my dress.
I realized I was on Madison in front of the Landreau Gallery. I didn't feel like working it. I should go in there and introduce myself. It's what I've been doing since I got the job. I hit the gallery beat and pound the pavement. I try to meet with the owner, to establish a relationship of trust and mutual respect. I check out their stable of artists and try to get interviews with the ones I like. For the most part, it has worked out. I've met some nice people. And I have gotten shut out at some galleries by high-cheeked Yale grads who guard the front desk. It's a snotty world, but for the most part, I've liked almost everybody. I should go into the Landreau. It was a big deal in the Nineties. I heard they're nice. But old.
I wasn't sure what to do. Go back to my apartment, sulk and pretend to work? Or go into the gallery, introduce myself and make friends? I was still sweating from escaping the drunk tiger gypsy.
My phone rang. It was a number I didn't know. It had a 213 area code, Los Angeles, on the other side of the world. I answered, "Hello? This is Edie Lange."
"Marvelous." The woman's voice on the other end spoke crisply and clearly, like a waitress explaining the menu. "Edie Lange. That makes me think of Edie Sedgwick, Warhol's muse."
"Yes," I lied, "I think that's what my mom had in mind."
"That makes your mother very interesting. Yes, indeed. My name is Pearl Billings, a chef, here in Los Angeles. You are the art writer?"
"I am."
"From Art Report Today. I read it every day. I tell everyone about it."
"Thank you. Thank you. We need that."
"Edie, are you available for freelance work?"
Are you kidding, lady? Please, please, make an offer! I'm starving. Give me a gig. I replied, "I have so little time in my schedule. Of course, the subject matter is pivotal. But, yes, I produce outside assignments."
"Oh, good. I want to hire you to come to Los Angeles to interview painter Pedro Bassander and write an article. Do you know his work?" I didn't know who that was. She took a breath and answered for me, "Pedro was an early Minimalist painter in Los Angeles. Lived all over Southern California. Surfed. He was born in Tijuana. His father worked at the bullring. His philosophy is brilliant and beautiful."
There was something magical in her voice, a musical invitation to an adventure. And she was paying. "What is the use or purpose of the article?" I asked.
"An essay for a catalogue that we are producing."
Great. I nodded my approval. "Very good." A catalogue? I've never been in one before. I needed books under my belt and catalogues pay a lot better, or so I've heard.
Chef Pearl teased, "I hope you're spontaneous."
I smiled. I wanted to please Pearl. I gave her a cheery little laugh.
"You can fly out tomorrow morning and arrive in LA in the evening. I'll debrief you and then you'll have use of my car and driver. The next day you interview Pedro Bassander and take a color photo of him with an old painting of his. Then you will be done. We'll get you to the airport and a Red Eye and you'll be home in Manhattan the next morning."
I had a million reasons why I can't do it. I don't like a sudden swerve in the road. I don't like to take to new things so quickly. She must have sensed that and said, "$1,500 plus expenses. An 800-word article is due in three days. Instant bank transfer. Are you available? The tight schedule can't be changed."
I wanted to slobber and cry. This solved so many pressing problems. Collected and cool, I replied, "I look forward to it. To be clear, this is an article for hire. It's not a part of my Blue Chip, Red Dot column."
"Understood." She asked, "To keep it simple, I will own the copyright to the article." She paused and spoke directly, "And I need your confidence, Edie. My involvement in our venture is confidential. Is that an issue?"
As long as the check clears... "No. I don't see that as relevant to the assignment."
Chef Pearl said, "You will need to sign an NDA."
I didn't know what she was talking about. NWA, RZA, BTW, what? "To be clear, what am I signing?"
"A Non-Disclosure Agreement."
"Ah. I don't see that as a problem. I like secrets." I shifted gears, "Will this article appear anywhere else?"
"If it does, I will get your approval." Pearl Billings said, "I'm very pleased. A writer of your caliber. I look forward to meeting you."
Suddenly, this became strange. Yeah. But I don't have a caliber... Nobody knows who I am. Nobody really reads the column yet. I wasn't sure what to think. Stall. I can Google her later. Check her out. Peruse the socials. "Chef Pearl, since we have no prior relationship, can you qualify the assignment with a deposit?"
"Venmo?" She asked tartly.
"Sure." I gave her my tag.
"You will have $500 within the hour. Be on that plane." She continued pleasantly, "My boy Cholly will contact you shortly with your flight information. He'll pick you up at the airport. Glad you are a part of the project." The phone call ended.
Suddenly, I could afford to take rest of the day off.
Two hours later, I got an email from Cholly with my itinerary. He used more words than he needed, quite literary.
Later that night, I searched Pedro Bassander. I hadn't heard of him before. His early work was amazing, clean, minimal, way ahead of the game back then and widely copied now. It was work that I would be happy to champion. And, I could pay this month's rent, as well as the last. My roomie Sher will be so happy!
I went to the freezer and took out a canned martini. I gave the squat tin a firm shake and popped the tab. My boyfriend, who I haven't seen in four years except on Facetime, (he surfs), had sent me a case of canned martinis from the Continental Deli in Australia. They are perfectly mixed, delicious and extremely convenient.
NEXT CHAPTER: HELLO, 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.” |