foreshortening—the kind you get when a camera zooms in on its subject—made the image highly confrontational. The most shocking thing about the whole composition, however, was that the face was all too familiar. It belonged to my new friend, Sandy Smollett. Nothing else about the painting remotely recalled the girl in the white dress, except maybe the pose. That reminded me of the way she had sprawled on the sidewalk while I was attempting to hail a taxi.
I asked Jimmy whose painting it was. He told me it was by Danny Fraser. That was a surprise. I knew Danny. He had always been a faithful, even slavish, follower of the abstract expressionists. Seems he had figured it was time to move on. He lived a couple of blocks away so I decided to pay a visit. I told Jimmy to let Murray know that I’d call him the next day.
I rang Danny from a pay phone at the corner of Houston. He said he was working and he didn’t seem too enthusiastic about being interrupted, but I told him I had seen the painting at St. Adrian’s and knew of a collector I thought might be interested in his new work. That did the trick. It usually does.
The first thing I noticed when I stepped out of the freight elevator and into Danny’s loft was that some serious money had been spent on the place since I had been there last. The floor had been polyurethaned and the old tin ceiling restored. There was now a butcher block counter in the kitchen and a restaurant-size refrigerator. In the studio area was a half-finished painting on a monster easel—another nude—and next to it, pinned to a sheet of particleboard, was a large print of the photograph he was working from. Not Sandy Smollett this time, but a sweet-looking redhead with ankles to die for.
Danny was cleaning his airbrush and squirting the cleaning fluid into a sink. The protective mask he wore while working dangled around his neck. A big, raw-boned Californian, he had moved east a few years earlier and had become a fixture on the downtown scene. I indicated the painting on the easel and asked how he had learned to paint like that. He told me that, back in LA, he had apprenticed as a billboard artist with Foster & Kleiser. That explained a lot.
“Not much to see here at the moment,” he apologized. “Nick’s got a couple of canvases at the gallery, but they’ve been moving fast. This collector of yours will have to get on the waiting list.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Does he have a name?”
I had a profile I called up on occasions like this. My imaginary collector was Rupert Nordhof, a commodities trader in Chicago who was married to the heiress to a pharmaceuticals fortune. Big apartment on Lake Shore Drive, country estate on the Apple River in Wisconsin. Good eye. A couple of stunning de Koonings, a big Rauschenberg combine, and so on. I brought the whole thing to life—the Warhol Electric Chair canvas in the master bathroom, the Rothko that matched the glory of a sunrise over Lake Michigan. I had to be careful not to get carried away. Bottom line, Danny was eager to meet Rupert next time he came to town.
He offered me a drink.
“By the way,” I said, casual as you like, “who’s the model you used for the painting at St. Adrian’s? She looks familiar.”
“Sandy something,” he said. “You may have seen her around. She’s a full-time model, I guess. I teach a life class at Cooper Union and that’s where I found her, which is about all I can tell you.”
He nodded toward a six-by-six camera on a heavy tripod.
“I shot her with the Hasselblad, trying out a lot of different lighting. She wasn’t into chitchat. Usually models like to talk, but not this one.”
“Maybe new to the racket?”
“No—I don’t think so. She didn’t have that uptight feel you sometimes get with girls who aren’t used to being looked at without their clothes on. In fact, she seemed almost more comfortable without them. You know—naked as nature intended.”
“You mean
I asked Jimmy whose painting it was. He told me it was by Danny Fraser. That was a surprise. I knew Danny. He had always been a faithful, even slavish, follower of the abstract expressionists. Seems he had figured it was time to move on. He lived a couple of blocks away so I decided to pay a visit. I told Jimmy to let Murray know that I’d call him the next day.
I rang Danny from a pay phone at the corner of Houston. He said he was working and he didn’t seem too enthusiastic about being interrupted, but I told him I had seen the painting at St. Adrian’s and knew of a collector I thought might be interested in his new work. That did the trick. It usually does.
The first thing I noticed when I stepped out of the freight elevator and into Danny’s loft was that some serious money had been spent on the place since I had been there last. The floor had been polyurethaned and the old tin ceiling restored. There was now a butcher block counter in the kitchen and a restaurant-size refrigerator. In the studio area was a half-finished painting on a monster easel—another nude—and next to it, pinned to a sheet of particleboard, was a large print of the photograph he was working from. Not Sandy Smollett this time, but a sweet-looking redhead with ankles to die for.
Danny was cleaning his airbrush and squirting the cleaning fluid into a sink. The protective mask he wore while working dangled around his neck. A big, raw-boned Californian, he had moved east a few years earlier and had become a fixture on the downtown scene. I indicated the painting on the easel and asked how he had learned to paint like that. He told me that, back in LA, he had apprenticed as a billboard artist with Foster & Kleiser. That explained a lot.
“Not much to see here at the moment,” he apologized. “Nick’s got a couple of canvases at the gallery, but they’ve been moving fast. This collector of yours will have to get on the waiting list.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Does he have a name?”
I had a profile I called up on occasions like this. My imaginary collector was Rupert Nordhof, a commodities trader in Chicago who was married to the heiress to a pharmaceuticals fortune. Big apartment on Lake Shore Drive, country estate on the Apple River in Wisconsin. Good eye. A couple of stunning de Koonings, a big Rauschenberg combine, and so on. I brought the whole thing to life—the Warhol Electric Chair canvas in the master bathroom, the Rothko that matched the glory of a sunrise over Lake Michigan. I had to be careful not to get carried away. Bottom line, Danny was eager to meet Rupert next time he came to town.
He offered me a drink.
“By the way,” I said, casual as you like, “who’s the model you used for the painting at St. Adrian’s? She looks familiar.”
“Sandy something,” he said. “You may have seen her around. She’s a full-time model, I guess. I teach a life class at Cooper Union and that’s where I found her, which is about all I can tell you.”
He nodded toward a six-by-six camera on a heavy tripod.
“I shot her with the Hasselblad, trying out a lot of different lighting. She wasn’t into chitchat. Usually models like to talk, but not this one.”
“Maybe new to the racket?”
“No—I don’t think so. She didn’t have that uptight feel you sometimes get with girls who aren’t used to being looked at without their clothes on. In fact, she seemed almost more comfortable without them. You know—naked as nature intended.”
“You mean
Similar Books
Angel of Oblivion
Maja Haderlap
Crushed Velvet
Diane Vallere
Letter to My Daughter
Maya Angelou
Overwhelm Me
A. C. Marchman
2006 - Wildcat Moon
Babs Horton
Art of Murder
José Carlos Somoza
A Dangerous Climate
Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
88 Killer
Oliver Stark
Five's Legacy
Pittacus Lore