Читать книгу False Impressions - Laura Caldwell, Leslie S. Klinger - Страница 12

5

As I reached the front of the gallery, I felt the Chicago wind curling inside.

I wrapped my arms around myself instinctively but I noticed that Madeline did the opposite. She faced the door, arms at her sides, her body somehow moving outward, stretching to its limits as if opening itself to whatever those winds brought.

A woman had stepped inside. “Lina!” she called.

The woman wore a peach-orange coat that looked like soft cashmere and an ivory scarf that surrounded her face. She was one of those women, like my mom’s friend Cassandra, whose age was impossible to tell—forty-five? Or a well-preserved sixty? She was lovely and elegant, her face smooth, so either seemed possible.

Madeline introduced her to me. “Jacqueline Stoddard,” Madeline said. “This is my new gallery assistant, Isabel.”

“Oh, a new assistant. Welcome.” She shook my hand. “Lovely to meet you.” She looked at Madeline. “Speaking of assistants, how is Syd?”

“Syd is doing well, thank you. I’ll tell him you asked after him.”

“Please do,” Jacqueline said. “Listen, I stopped in because I wanted to see if you have any of Roberto’s work. I’ve got a client who is looking.”

“Wait here and I’ll see.” Madeline gestured to me to follow her to the back room of the gallery again.

In the manner of a professor, Madeline walked to a high cabinet made with long, thin drawers and began to lecture. “These hold some of the canvases from our artists that haven’t been framed,” she said. “Jacqueline is looking for a Roberto Politico. Her gallery is on the other side of Michigan Avenue. Much more traditional, but occasionally we represent the same artists. She knows Roberto favors me, since I’m his Chicago gallery. She thinks that it will upset me that she might sell one of his.”

“But it doesn’t?” I asked, watching her slip on a pair of thin, white gloves and flip through some of the canvases.

“No, no of course not. Jacqueline is competitive with me, as many gallery owners are, because they think differently.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is my passion, to show the world these beautiful things, to make people shift how they view the world. So it makes no difference to me who gets them out there. I simply hope for distribution.”

We said nothing for a second. I watched her remove two canvases, one predominantly orange and one mustard-colored. They both bore tiny slashes in the paint to form a profile of a woman.

“Jacqueline called you Lina,” I said. “Did I hear correctly?”

“Yes, she did.” She put the canvases on a tall table. “I’m not sure where that came from. She started calling me Madelina, and then she just sort of shortened it to Lina.” Madeline gave a casual shrug.

A moment later, we were back in the gallery’s main space and Madeline placed the canvases on a glass table. She and Jacqueline discussed the merits of each painting, the subtleties, while I tried to absorb the conversation. There was clearly a dialogue, they said, between the two paintings, but Jacqueline’s client was only interested in one, for a spot in a hallway that had certain measurements. Also, Jacqueline said, the artwork had to complement an eighteenth-century yellow Chinese vase. They launched into a discussion of prices. Seventy-eight thousand dollars, Madeline said. That was as low as she could go.

I blinked at the two women. A seventy-eight thousand dollar painting, that’s not even framed, that’s going to be in a hallway next to a yellow vase?

I had a lot to learn about the art world.

“Well, let me know about the paintings,” Madeline was saying to Jacqueline. Then she turned to me. “And I am taking you out for a welcome drink tonight.”

There was no question there, just a statement. Luckily, I had lots of time on my hands lately since I was sans boyfriend. “Love to,” I said.

I expected her to invite Jacqueline, and from the vaguely anticipatory expression on Jacqueline’s face, she might have been looking for the same.

But Madeline only repeated, “Let me know about the paintings,” then walked Jacqueline to the door.