The Colorman Read Free Page B

gallery.
    Rain pivoted around the doorway and into Gwen’s office. “ Gwenny ?” she said incredulously.
    Gwen looked down to find the bottle of scotch still in her hands. She returned it onto her desk. “You know, I USED to be good at this,” she commented with vague irony.
    â€œCome on, now,” Rain said, gathering the glasses and bottle and putting them away.
    Gwen didn’t notice what Rain was doing; she was so accustomed to being served.
    â€œThat man is a boor,” Gwen declared, smoothing her Missoni dress and rubbing a hand down her fine, still-shapely calf.
    â€œNo sale?” Rain asked.
    â€œTwice a year I shipped out crates of important works so he could view them,” Gwen complained. She stood and came through her office door with Rain. “Funny how he always shopped for art right before one of those famous parties of his. All very impressive, showing off dozens of important works on your vacation home walls. He even had the nerve to invite me once.” Gwen shook her head. “And I actually went! The Hamptons. Everyone there thought I was raking it in.”
    â€œI always thought he bought.”
    â€œOne. He’d return all but one. Now he won’t even do the one,” she said. “I’m getting out.”
    â€œWe’ve all heard that before,” Rain said.
    â€œI’m serious. Rain, you should really forget about painting. It’s not a smart move right now. Don’t do it if you don’t have to.”
    Rain rolled her eyes and said flatly, “I have to.”
    Gwen insisted, “I mean it. Don’t do it. It’s a disease.”
    â€œYes, it’s a disease,” Rain echoed with a sigh.
    Gwen smiled tiredly, “Alright. I’m getting senile. Just wheel me out into the storage space and cover me in bubble wrap.”
    They lingered in the doorway looking out at the milling crowd.
    â€œThanks for this,” Rain said.
    â€œSummer show,” Gwen said, shrugging. “Why shouldn’t you be one of them?”
    â€œBut it’s a big deal for me,” Rain replied.
    â€œWell, I can only do it once, so don’t get too worked up about it,” Gwen said, dismissing Rain’s gratitude as if it were a kitchen moth.
    Important artists never showed in the summer months in New York City. Those months were often given over to a gallery’s junior directors to curate as they like. For many artists these group shows were second-tier, but still added an important name to the resume.
    â€œIt’s changing, Rain,” Gwen said quietly. “It’s always been hard, but it’s getting harder. We had an awfully brief renaissance in this country.”
    â€œThat was a renaissance? I thought it was a will-it-go-with-my-couch .”
    Gwen laughed, “It was a will-it-go-with-my-stock-portfolio .”
    â€œAnd you’re sure the Medicis weren’t thinking the same thing? Do we really care why they collected?”
    â€œCollectors shape art,” Gwen said, shaking her head lightly. “Come on, Saatchi? And yes, when collectors’ motives go off-kilter there are odd bends in the market.” She gestured out to the gallery goers. “Still, what are vacations and clothes and diamonds going to mean to generations to come?”
    Rain had heard Gwen rue this same thing during all of the fifteen years she had known her. “You’re right. There won’t be much for the kids to fight over.”
    â€œRain,” Gwen turned away from the gallery and leaned back against the door jamb looking at her. “Don’t do it. Get a sensible job at an ad agency, raise babies and don’t torture yourself with this. I’m serious, Rain. It’s all falling apart. Even Sotheby’s is feeling it. It’s nothing about what you deserve, or your promise. Nobody cares if you make good art. Nobody can stand still long enough to see it.”
    Rain shook her head,