Fancy Art Exhibition

July 15, 2020

The David Zwirner Gallery on the Upper East Side of Manhattan is the place to be if you’re a modern artist looking to make a splash. That’s why it comes as no surprise that Salome has been invited to exhibit her work there. Just a month or two spent working with me, and she’s already making waves.

At least, that’s what I tell myself, sipping my cocktail while the modern Four-Hundred of New York swirl around the gallery in their immaculate suits and dresses, Salome the centre of their attention. But I know it’s a lie. I hold no illusions about what really happened.

“Nicely done,” I murmur as Holly sweeps by me in a long dark dress.

She spins on her heels, narrowing her eyes on me, the little shrimps balanced on her plate miraculously staying in their place.

“You said something?” she asks, looking glamorous beneath the glow of the studio lights.

A beautiful face, legs for days, a nice rack on top… if only she weren’t Father’s favourite bitch of a daughter.

“It can’t have been easy, getting Salome’s work here,” I comment, making no effort to hide the fact that I’m ogling her.

“You’re her tutor,” she sniffs. “Are you saying you did a poor job teaching her?”

“I’m saying I have an accurate assessment of her abilities,” I respond. “And these pieces on display… don’t even live up to Salome’s own potential.”

“So what if they don’t? Shouldn’t you be proud that your pupil has achieved so much in such a short period of time?” Holly asks. She glances at me, delicately swallowing one of those cocktail shrimp. “Or is somebody getting jealous? You’ve never had a piece displayed in a David Zwirner. Funny to think that the student might have surpassed the master so quickly.”

That comment might actually sting, had Holly not pulled strings to make this happen, and were I actually an artist. But I am many more things than that.

“A teacher has no greater pride,” I say. Then, I look down the spiral staircase to the floor below, where more of the New York elites are hobnobbing. “By the by, who’s that man hanging off your daughter’s arm?”

Elianne, freshly graduated from Princeton, is dressed in a low cut violet dress, the plunge of her neckline clearly distracting her male companion from Salome’s ‘groundbreaking’ art.

“None of your concern,” Holly says, but she peels away from me a second later to head down the staircase, doubtless going to have a word with her daughter.

Isaac Seligman was supposed to be a one and done thing, but here he is, looking awfully attached to Elianne. Holly, in her heels, descends the steps with a rapidity that shocks the nearby socialites chit-chatting.

Elianne, as if sensing that something’s up, glances up at me and smiles. She leans over and whispers something into the ear of her companion. He makes a face, but a second later, fades into the rest of the crowd, leaving Elianne all alone by the time her mother comes around.

That girl doesn’t miss much.

I’m tempted to watch Holly try to pin down Elianne from afar, but as I lean on the railing to get a better look at the view below, a familiar face leans in next to me.

“Thought I’d catch you around these parts,” J says, swirling the martini in her hand.

“I thought you hated me,” I smile, thinking back to the way she made her quick exit from the Playboy Party.

“Well, work is work, and like it or not, you’re part of this story I’m doing, so now I’ve got to talk to you lots and lots,” she says, the teasing smile on her face letting me know that, whatever it was that set her off last time, it’s water under the bridge.

“The Times has got you covering this? Must be a slow week,” I say.

“Hardly high praise for your star pupil,” she replies, raising her eyebrow as she takes a sip of her drink.

“Are we on the record?” I ask, glancing at her.

“That depends,” she smiles. “Would you like us to be?”

I tap my fingers on the railing, taking a second to think. Getting more positive coverage is always a good thing. And sure, Sean mentioned that I should stay away from reporters, but this is J that we’re talking about. She’s a friend that goes way back, according to Mr. Samuel’s records. If there’s any part of the press I should be talking to, it’s her.

“Only for you,” I say, returning her smile.

“So, what do you think about Salome getting her work exhibited at the David Zwirner?” she asks. “Not bad for a first credit, huh?”

“Very respectable,” I agree. “And I think she’s just starting to hit her stride. You should see some of the pieces she’s been working these days! They’re very inspired.”

“That’s an interesting choice of words,” J says. She points at one of the painting hanging on the side of the room. “That one, clearly a Tanguy study, am I right?”

“You got it,” I say.

“This one’s a Dali with a hint of fauvist flavour,” she says, “that one’s reminiscent of Dubuffet, and you can’t tell me Segall wasn’t on her mind when that one was painted.”

“All correct,” I nod. “Impressive, that you picked out the influences so quickly.”

“It’s my job,” J says with a slight roll of her eyes. “But that does pose the question. Why did you think she was ready to exhibit?”

“It wasn’t my call,” I say simply.

Let her think what she will of that.

“Must be difficult, being the artist in residence with the Najbreits,” J says, putting a hand on my arm. “Can’t say no to those folk.”

“They’re good people,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “Not much of a reason why I’d want to say no.”

“Give me something to work with,” J laughs. “I don’t want to write a scathing review of Salome Najbreit’s first ever exhibition, I mean the story really is more about the Najbreit patronage of the arts, but this is…”

“Nothing that an run-of-the-mill art student couldn’t come up with on their own?” I offer.

She nods.

“Think of it this way, then,” I say. “She’s only been studying with me for a little over a month at this point. To be able to master such a wide variety of styles, to be able to pay homage to all of the greats…”

“It’s not groundbreaking, but it’s a celebration of the arts as a whole,” J says.

“Exactly,” I say. “Or, at least, that’s an angle that could work for your story.”

J nods and polishes off the remainder of her martini. She looks down and sees Holly, still having a stern talk with Elianne, who doesn’t look the least bit concerned.

“You think Holly or Salome would be free to talk candidly?” she asks me.

“The Najbreits care a lot about their image,” I say. “You’ll probably be vetted and have to run all your questions by them first. But I imagine you’d get your interview, especially if I put in a good word for you.”

“You’re the best,” J says, and she gives me a peck on the cheek before walking away, jotting something down on her phone.

Somehow, I can’t shake the feeling that I just got used by her.