Читать книгу Long Gone - Alafair Burke - Страница 20

Alice had been hunched over her laptop so long that the small of her back ached. When she lifted her wrists to work out the kinks, she saw a crease in her skin from the pressure of her forearms against the edge of her pine breakfast table.

Despite all of her online digging, she still had no one to contact about the growing public relations disaster besides Drew Campbell, who was not answering his phone.

As a car commercial faded out on the television, she heard the familiar staccato theme music of the Channel 7 news. She reached for the remote control to crank up the volume.

A male anchor in a light blue suit with a plastered mushroom of thick black hair introduced the story. “City officials and local religious leaders are weighing in on the elusive line between art and obscenity tonight, thanks to a controversial exhibit at a new gallery in Manhattan’s Meatpacking District. The Highline Gallery has not yet been open a week and already has the city in an uproar.”

The screen flashed to images pulled directly from Hans Schuler’s Web site, and the audio switched to a female correspondent’s voice.

“Blood. Saliva. Nudity.” The camera tightened in around each referenced image, cropping any nudity they could not air. “Unknown artist Hans Schuler calls the photographs in his SELF series ‘a portrait in radical introspection.’ A growing chorus of critics, however, say Schuler has crossed a line into obscenity.”

Flash to a female protester. “Those pictures are disgusting. They shouldn’t be in a gallery, and they shouldn’t be on the Internet.”

“Of course, nudity in the art world is nothing new,” the correspondent announced. “The Museum of Modern Art created headlines last year with a show featuring live nude models, but the only point of contention was making sure that observers didn’t touch the art. The image that brought these protesters to Manhattan is this one, called First, which the protesters claim is an image of a minor.”

The screen cut to the gaunt man who led the protests, the caption identifying him as George Hardy, Pastor, Redemption of Christ Church. “Just looking at the picture is enough to raise questions about the age of that so-called model. But the artist won’t answer those questions. The lady at the gallery won’t come outside, won’t answer the question, and won’t assure us she’s not selling child pornography. Well, my daddy always used to tell me, where there’s smoke there’s fire. If they’ve got nothing to hide, they could put this thing to rest right now.”

Now the screen changed to a pan across the piece of art in question. The correspondent narrated. “We at Eyewitness News have blocked out almost the entire photograph because we have also been unable to confirm the age of the depicted model. Some local officials are calling for the exhibit’s removal pending verification of the model’s age.”

The multiple black bars pasted across the photograph created the impression of more tawdriness than the collage actually contained.

“The manager of the Highline Gallery declined our request for an on-camera interview, but the gallery did release a written statement: ‘The Highline Gallery promotes the work of provocative, cutting-edge artists who, like Hans Schuler, create art that makes us think, react, and sometimes even become uncomfortable with our own thoughts and reactions. We of course condemn and would never agree to display indecent depictions of minor children, but we have heard no evidence to support these disturbing allegations. Without articulation of a good-faith basis for the accusation, we respect the First Amendment rights of our artists.’

“For now, it sounds like the city’s mayor agrees.”

Alice wanted to believe she was managing the public relations aspect of this disaster as well as could be expected, on her own, isolated from the information that actually mattered. She had issued the written statement. She had stopped answering the gallery phone, letting all calls go to voice mail with the same statement recorded as the outgoing message. Last time she checked, she had received not only that first call she had answered from the Daily News, but also calls from the Post, Times, Sun, Observer, and a place called Empire Media.

The film cut to an image of Mayor Michael Bloomberg stepping from the backseat of a town car. “This isn’t the first time someone’s been offended by art. I support artistic freedom, and I support the First Amendment. If there is evidence that laws have been broken, we will take that evidence seriously and prosecute offenders under the law.”

“It seems the one person who isn’t commenting tonight is the artist himself. According to his Web site, Hans Schuler communicates with his followers only on the Internet so as not to taint the world’s perception of his art. Although the origin of this photograph might still be a mystery, one thing is certain: with this level of controversy, Hans Schuler isn’t likely to remain unknown for long.”

“We’ll keep an eye on this one, Robin. Sounds like it could turn into a real wrangle.”

“Sure thing, Andy. One interesting side note about the gallery. Its manager is Alice Humphrey, the daughter of Frank Humphrey and his former leading lady, Rose Sampson.”

Great. Apparently there was icing to go on the cake.

“Oh, sure. She was the kid in that show about the single father—what was it called?—Life with Dad.”

“Before my time, I’m afraid, Andy, but importantly, Alice Humphrey’s own father is no stranger to scandal. His acclaimed film The Patron was boycotted by the Catholic Church for its depiction of a steamy affair involving a Catholic bishop. It was his long and seemingly devoted marriage to the beloved actress Rose Sampson that often softened a public persona defined by his explicit films and controversial public statements, but of course that all changed when several women came forward last year with evidence of multiple extramarital affairs with Humphrey over the years. So far, his wife has been standing by him, and the family had begun to fade from the headlines until this new story involving his daughter—”

Alice couldn’t stand it any longer. She hit the mute button and was relieved when the broadcast moved on to a story that appeared to be about the beneficial health effects of red wine.

She returned her attention to her computer.

Schuler had not responded to any of her many texts, and a call to the number she’d been using for their texts went unanswered. She’d made no progress finding additional contact information for the artist online. Other than his Web site, the man was a ghost.

More creatively, she’d been trying to track down the gallery owner using the few facts she’d gleaned about his biography from Drew. Moneyed. Maintained a part-time presence in Tampa since Drew was a kid, making him a considerably older man. Plagued by long-whispered rumors about his sexuality. Presumably here in New York. Sufficiently well known for the name to be familiar.

She prided herself on pretty clever Googling skills, but so far, she’d come up with squat.

She tried Drew’s number for the umpteenth time. Straight to voice mail once again.

Moving her cursor to the search window, she typed in “George Hardy,” and then clicked to review recent news articles. The first cluster of hits linked to stories covering that afternoon’s protest outside the Highline Gallery. But as she scrolled through a series of pages, she learned more about the Reverend Hardy and his Redemption of Christ Church. Based out of southern Virginia. Founded by Hardy only a decade earlier. They’d made a name for themselves protesting seemingly everything—abortion clinics, “antifamily” movies, same-sex commitment ceremonies, and the funerals of American soldiers for defending a depraved nation that had lost its way.

Her cell phone rang. Blocked call. She answered.

“Hey, it’s Drew.”

“Thank God. I’ve been calling you all day. I put out a statement, but we need to reach Schuler. Call the gallery owner. Make Schuler prove the model’s age.”

“There’s something I need to tell you. I’ll meet you at the gallery tomorrow morning. Early. Seven, okay?”

“Wait. I need to know—”

But somehow she knew in the silence of the receiver he was gone. “Drew? Hello? Are you there?” She called his cell, but once again, she immediately heard his outgoing message. She hit redial for another hour until she finally forced herself to go to bed.