Work of Art ~ the Collection (5 page)

Joe taps my shoulder and nods to the man in the body stocking. “Alessandro.”

There are four other performers dancing around Alessandro to the tribal beat. It’s electrifying.

Jess is already dancing and Laura laughs and joins her. Soon we’re all dancing and howling, a misfit tribe on the primitive savannah of Manhattan.

Just when I think I can’t dance another step, Alessandro’s group finishes the song and two of his dancers move through the crowd with tubs to procure donations. Jess tosses in a twenty.

“Let’s get over to ArteHaus before the booze is gone,” Joe says.

“SoHo, corner of Greene and Broome,” he barks at the cab driver as we pile inside.

As we head to Max’s show, I give Jess a nervous look.

“Don’t worry, babe. I won’t let him anywhere near you,” she says, assuring me.

When we step inside ArteHaus, I squint to adjust to the dramatic lighting. It’s dark other than the brilliant spotlights focused on Max’s large-scale paintings. The floor’s vibrating with the throbbing bass of loud music. We move to the bar where the featured drink is a Flaming Dragon: a mix of herbal liquor and Bacardi rum that’s set on fire to heat up the liquor before drinking.

“So hot going down and then you’re on fire.” Joe grins as he passes me one and downs his shot. My face flushes as the combination of flavors burns through me.

Joe pulls me over to a painting. “Fucking Max. I hate him.”

The towering canvas is an intricate layering of paint, scratches, words and imagery that pull together cohesively. It’s chaotic and your eyes can’t stop moving from one area to the next. I finally settle my gaze on a small flat screen meticulously built into the canvas. It plays a series of serene images—the ocean, a grass field, a cerulean sky with puffy clouds. The jarring appearance of a documentary photograph of a man with a gun pointed at his head and his mouth twisted in terror stuns me. I inhale sharply and the image reverts back to a field of trees.

“Joe, how you doing, man?” I turn to see Max knock knuckles with Joe, followed by a raised handshake and slap on the back. I can’t keep up with the moves that cool guys to do in greeting.

“You ass. I hate you. This shit is too damn good.” He nods up to the painting.

Max grins. “Well, from you, that’s a high compliment.”

“You bet your ass, Romeo,” Joe says laughing. “By the way, let me introduce you to the enchanting Ava Jacobs.”

My cheeks go red.

“Oh, we’ve met,” he says coolly.

He squints at me, lifting his sharply defined jaw. “You didn’t reply to my text, Ava.”

“You were expecting a reply?”

If he only knew what I was doing when he sent that text,
I think, half amused, half horrified.

He raises his eyebrow, but Parker, the owner of ArteHaus, interrupts and apologizes as he pulls Max away.

Joe grins. “Ha! I like you, Ava. You’re the first girl I’ve seen in a while not falling all over Max and trying to get in his pants, with the exception of Jess and her girl-power posse.”

We move to the bar for another round of shots, and I only take a half shot, intending to keep my wits about me. We push through the crowd, looking for Jess, and spot her near the back of the gallery. Laura sits at a cocktail table while Jess talks animatedly to a handsome man wearing professorial glasses and a tailored suit.

Jess waves us over. “Jonathan, I believe you know Joe, and this is my good friend, Ava Jacobs. She works for Adam.”

The man gazes at me, and he doesn’t even glance at Joe.

“Ava, Jonathan’s the publisher of
Art+trA
magazine,” Jess says.

Impressive.
My eyes widen as I smile warmly at him.

Jonathan steps toward me, and stretches out his hand. “Ava,” he says softly as he slowly shakes my hand. His hand is strong, but his touch is almost a caress.

“Hey, Ava. Laura’s been up since five, and she has an early shoot again tomorrow. I think we’re going to call it a night. Do you want to hang out more or share a cab back with us?” Jess asks.

I hesitate. I want to stick with Jess, but I’ve always wanted to write for
Art+trA,
and who knows when I’ll have this chance again.

“I can get a cab for Ava,” Jonathan says.

I look up, surprised.
He must want to talk to me,
I think excitedly. He’s not just handsome; his presence has an alluring sense of command.

“That’s fine, Jess. I’ll stay for a while.”

Joe walks Jess and Laura out, leaving me alone with Jonathan. I feel very awkward, fearing this sophisticated man is out of my league. Can I hold my own with him in a discussion about art?

He turns to me and pushes his glasses up his nose before tipping his head.

“So Ava, what do you do for Adam?”

“A little of everything. I started out in the serigraph studio, but now I help in the gallery with clients. I particularly enjoy working with the artists and assisting them.”

“Which area are you most interested in?”

“Actually, my real love is writing. So Adam’s been having me handle some of the publicity writing, much to the chagrin of his PR agency.”

“I can imagine,” Jonathan says with a low laugh. “But Adam must really like your work.” He pauses, and then addresses me with a professional tone. “If you’re interested, why don’t you send me some samples? There may be an opportunity at
Art+trA
, but only if Adam lets you freelance. I wouldn’t want to upset him. He’s an old friend.”

My heart starts thumping with excitement, but I play it cool. “Actually, Adam encourages me to expand my horizons. He and Katherine are both generous that way.” I step sideways to clear space for a waiter to pass. “I was under the impression that
Art+trA
was in New York.”

“Our parent publisher is there, but we’ve always maintained a West Coast office. About five years ago, I decided to move to Los Angeles for personal reasons, so they accommodated my relocation. Although, I still end up spending a week a month in New York.”

I nod, feeling encouraged that he’s in L.A. I study his cheekbones and the way his eyes light up when he smiles at me. I realize that it’s the first time I’ve felt this attracted to an older man. My mind races for the right question to ask.

“Do you like Caswell’s work?”

“I’d like to hear what you think.”

He’s testing me and I don’t want to disappoint him.

I clear my throat, gathering my courage and my thoughts. “You know, I wasn’t a big fan of the subway series he did last year. The monotone pallet lacked the sensual use of color that’s Caswell’s trademark. The paradox with his choice of obvious imagery conflicted with the heart of his art, stripped-down simplicity, a kind of intangible atmosphere and an appearance that deceives, yet still tells the truth.”

Jonathan arches a brow, and as he pushes back his glasses, I see a spark in his eyes.

I gesture to the painting in front of us. “In contrast, the work here tonight . . . the juxtaposition of the video monitor’s harsh documentary statement contrasting the lush abstract landscape of the canvas is strict realism that gives way to loose drama.”

“And . . .” Jonathan prompts me after my dramatic pause.

“I love it.” I give him a big smile.

“Indeed.” The edges of his mouth turn up as he nods, and I relax a few degrees, hoping I haven’t made a complete ass out of myself. I want to please him. Jonathan’s undoubtedly extremely smart and clever. He wouldn’t be in the position he is otherwise. We wander from painting to painting as he shares what he thinks works and doesn’t.

Jonathan pulls me into the third room of the gallery and links his arm with mine. It feels as if I’ve been claimed, and it stirs something inside of me. I focus on being a mix of charming and sophisticated, someone worthy of working for
Art+trA.

Everything seems great until I feel like someone’s watching us, and I look up and see Max stare at me, then at Jonathan, then back to me. He doesn’t even smile, and I notice that there are about five art groupies surrounding him. He’s holding court with a collection of art babes as if he’s the master of their harem. One hands him a shot glass and he downs the contents without hesitation. It doesn’t appear to be his first drink of the night.

Max’s angry look is strangely attractive. He’s standing tall with tight black jeans and a black turtleneck sweater.

My violent attraction to him revs up and it pisses me off.
Why does he have to be so damn good-looking?
I turn back to Jonathan and smile as I study his intense blue eyes.

He follows my gaze and shakes his head. “Ah, Max. Up to his old tricks—the partying, the women, the attention. I’ve seen this all before with other young artists. Soon they lose their focus and the other stuff becomes more important than their art. It’s the kiss of death in this business,” he says with a condescending tone.

“Indeed,” I mutter.

“I always thought there was more to Max. That’s why I haven’t given up on him yet. I’ve been working on a joint project with Taylor and Tiden Press to publish a coffee-table book about his work, but I’m not one hundred percent sure we should. If he doesn’t get a grip, he could be obsolete in a couple of years.”

Max moves toward us, as if he knew we were talking about him.

“So, Jonathan, I see you’ve met Ava. She’s the belle of the ball tonight,” he slurs.

I look up, alarmed.

Jonathan edges closer to me. “Yes, Max, Ms. Jacobs and I are having a delightful time getting acquainted and discussing your work.”

“So what’s your conclusion? Is it the best fucking art you’ve ever seen? And don’t tell Jean-Michel Basquiat he inspired me ’cause he can kiss my ass too.”

Jonathan gives him a disapproving look. “Hardly. Besides, Basquiat’s been dead for over twenty years, but I can certainly use that memorable quote when we interview you for the magazine.”

“Won’t have time to do interviews. I’ll be too busy entertaining my numerous fans,” Max says loudly and sloppily waves to the girls in the corner.

My heart falls and I feel sorry for Max as he digs himself in a deep hole. Jonathan is too important a bridge to burn.

I pull Jonathan aside and whisper, “I’m so sorry for his behavior, Jonathan. Jess warned me earlier that Max got some very bad personal news today. He’s a mess. I’m going to have Joe get him out of here. Can I contact you when I’m back in L.A.?”

“Are you sure? I don’t like the idea of you dealing with him in that state,” he says, his expression wary.

“But I promised Jess I’d look out for him.” It unnerves me how effortlessly I lie.
Why am I even doing it?

Jonathan purses his lips and his eyes narrow as he glances back at Max. He pulls his card out of his pocket and hands it to me. “Will you call me tomorrow and let me know everything’s all right?”

I agree, just as Max slurs a string of profanities.

I grab his arm tightly, step close, and I say between gritted teeth, “Stop it right now, Max. Keep your mouth shut and I’ll get you out of here before you do any more damage.”

He pulls back and eyes me with a suspicious look as he sways. “Did you just tell me to shut my mouth?”

“I certainly did,” I snap, as I drag him toward the rear of the gallery and into the hallway leading to the back door off the alley. I push him against the wall and give him a long hard look.

“What, what, Ava? What in the fuck do you want?” he barks as his eyes narrow.

“I’m trying to help you, asshole. You’re just too damn talented to go down in flames. Why would you say that stuff to Jonathan, of all people? Don’t you care about any of this?” I wave my arms toward the gallery walls. I’m so frustrated, tears start sliding down my face.

The moment Max notices my tears, he freezes. I don’t know why, but something about my reaction shuts him down, and his whole demeanor goes dark and introverted as if a heavy black cloth has been pulled over him. His defeated expression reminds me of a friend I had once who described her swings into severe depression like falling into a black hole.

That’s it. I better get him out of here before he gets worse.
“Okay, Max, I’m going to take care of this. Promise me you won’t move. Just stay here.”

There’s no recognition, just a deep sigh and the blank, desolate stare, but at least he doesn’t move.

When I rush to the front and find Joe, I plead, “I need your help.”

“What’s up, babe? I’m about to leave with Monique. The show’s closing up soon anyway. Do you need a ride or something?”

“No it’s Max. He’s completely fucked up and I have to get him back to his hotel. Can you get a cab and bring it around back for Max and me?”

He looks irritated, but agrees and tells his friend he’ll be back in a few minutes.

I angrily admonish myself as I quickly retrace my steps through the gallery.
What is it with your stupid caretaking tendencies? Like Mom wasn’t bad enough, now you’re looking out for a crazy artist you barely know.
I’m disgusted with myself.

As I finally rush into the hallway, I stop suddenly. One of the art groupies is on her knees in front of Max and she’s moaning and rubbing her hands across his crotch. He’s still in the same position I left him with the same dark expression, and unbelievably, doesn’t even seem to react to what the skank is doing. I gasp loud enough that she jerks her head toward me. She licks her lips and gives me the evil eye.

In a raw, gritty voice she says, “Back off, bitch, he’s mine.”

Chapter Four / Reluctant Savior

Life beats down and crushes the soul and art reminds you that you have one.

~Stella Adler

I’
m gone for what, a frigging minute, and he’s already moments away from a blowjob. How’d this skank even find him? The temptation to spin on my heel and leave the sordid scene is overwhelming, but I remember Joe’s probably waiting in the alley, so I resign myself to finish what I started.

Max still hasn’t moved an inch, and his blank stare is even more haunting. I storm down the hallway, around the bitch on her knees, and grab Max’s arm to pull him toward the back. Luckily, he doesn’t resist, and the girl falls on her ass with the momentum of his movement. The shrill echo of her cursing follows us as I push him out the back door.