“I was thinking thin air, but your phrasing makes the point more emphatically. Pollock understood European Surrealism and had studied Jung in order to gain access to his unconscious processes and to free himself of conventionally constructed art.”
“Okay, then what you’re saying is that he knew what he was doing.”
“Exactly. The very concept of an unschooled prodigy doing abstract expressionism, a style that merged two sophisticated art styles-surrealism and cubism-with automatic process is absurd, simply impossible. Look, Mr. Prager, had Sashi Bluntstone made exquisite realistic paintings beyond her years, maybe she would be taken seriously, but anyone can smear paint on a canvas and say they are aping Pollock… including an ape!”
“Don’t you think her paintings have any merit at all?”
“Yes, I suppose, but not to a serious artist and not in the serious art world. I don’t so much object to the paintings as much as I do to where fools and uneducated critics place them. And in all honesty, Mr. Prager, I am not close to being Sashi Bluntstone’s most vociferous or meanspirited critic. Here…” Rusk tapped something out on the keyboard of his wafer-thin laptop and spun it around so as to face me.
I could scarcely believe what appeared on the screen. It was a rendering of three crosses on a hill under an ominous black sky. There were bloodied and brutalized bodies crucified on two of the crosses. To the far left was a naked man, hands amputated, his torso speared in so many places he looked like a pin cushion. The plaque behind his head read Kinkade. On the far right cross was a young girl’s body, her vagina afire, an arrow through her head, and her torso covered in blood splatter a la Pollock. The letters on the plaque behind her head spelled out Bluntstone. On the middle cross was the body of a frail young man wearing a thorny crown and the mutilation to his body was meant to replicate the damage done to Christ. His expression was beatific. His plaque read Martyr. I’d seen enough and turned the computer back around to Rusk.
“You see my point?” Rusk asked.
“Who is this guy?”
“Nathan Martyr. About ten years ago he was a hot new commodity, but his work quickly fell out of favor and he devolved into a very bitter man. He has a particular distaste for Thomas Kinkade and Sashi Bluntstone. But he’s not alone. There are many such sites.”
“Do you happen to know where I can find Mr. Martyr?”
“I don’t have an address for him, but he used to show at the Brill Gallery on West Twenty-third Street in Manhattan. They should have an address for him.”
I stood up. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Rusk. It’s been enlightening.”
“My pleasure, really,” he said, shaking my hand. “I do hope you find the child. Maybe you can get her away from those exploitive monsters she was born to so she can get a real artist’s education.”
“I’ll settle for finding her alive.”
“Yes, of course, I’m sorry. That was insensitive of me.”
“That’s okay.”
He walked me to the elevator and wished me farewell. Upstairs a few visitors-older women-were roaming about the museum. They were perfectly put together, tanned from weekends in the sun, every stitch of their clothing and every accessory just so. I guessed they were about the same age as my mom when she passed away. Yet my mom had looked so much older. My late friend Israel Roth once said that money was a retreat, not a fortress, and that the rich suffered as much as any of us. Some days that was easier to swallow than others. Today it was going down hard.
Jimmy Palumbo stopped me on the way out and handed me his contact information. He thanked me, but didn’t seem encouraged.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ll call.”
“Yeah, no offense, but I heard that before. Last coach I had told me he cut me so another team could pick me up, that a few teams had shown interest in me. He told me not to worry. That I’d get a call from somebody. Yeah, well, I’m still waiting for the call.”
“No sweat. I understand.”
“And I’m sorry for going on about my kids,” he said. “It’s just that I miss ‘em.”
“My daughter didn’t talk to me for a year and it still hasn’t stopped hurting, so no need to apologize.”
I waved the paper at him and waved goodbye. Nothing I had to say was going to make him feel any better. I’d been cut by the NYPD. At least they’d had the good sense not to promise me anything but my pension as they shoved me out the door.
NINE
The Brill Gallery was less impressive than a brown paper bag and the art inside less interesting. Basically, it was a rectangle of four white walls, a white ceiling with tiny halogen spotlights, a blond hardwood floor, and a few white pedestals for sculpture. There was a small white table in one corner for brochures and a white desk in the opposite corner. A curveless woman of thirty with heavy-framed black glasses, cropped black hair, and lip, nose, and eyebrow piercings sat at the desk. The best and most colorful art in the place were the tattoos that covered her exposed flesh. Unfortunately, she was as interested in me as I was in the art. She paid far more mind to whatever was flashing on the laptop screen.
“Excuse me.”
“Yes,” she said, not gazing up.
“Are you the owner of the gallery?”
Still not looking up. “Do I look like the owner?”
“I don’t know. What does the owner look like?”
She raised her eyes, unamused. “Not like me.”
“Can I speak to the owner?”
“If you have her cell phone number and know what time it is in Bali, I imagine you could.”
“So you’re it?”
“Tag, what fun,” she said, returning her gaze to the screen.
I snapped the computer closed without removing any of her fingertips.
“Fuck! What did you do that for?”
“To get your attention. That’s what this is for too.” I showed her my badge. I figured I should put it to good use, having aired it out once already today.
“Are you like the art police?”
“If I was, this place would be a crime scene. This stuff is crap.”
She smiled. It was actually a pretty and welcoming smile. “I know. It’s dreadful, isn’t it?”
“Let’s start over.”
“I’d like that,” she said. “My name’s Lenya.”
“Moe.”
“What can I do for you, Moe?”
“I need an address for Nathan Martyr.”
“Why, are you actually going to arrest him for this stuff?”
“This is his work?”
“In all its vapid glory.”
“As my mom used to say, feh!”
Double feh. It’s putrid.”
“Then why does the owner bother?” I asked.
Lenya leaned forward conspiratorially. “The truth?”
“Nothing but.”
“I think she’s hoping he drops dead. Then his new crap becomes valuable crap and his old crap becomes extremely valuable crap.”
“Why?”
“Because if he’s dead, he won’t be able to produce any more crap. They’ll do retrospectives and the critics
