The term “art courier” has glamorous connotations. Who wouldn’t want to escort a priceless piece of art to a famed museum or high-value art dealer in London or Tokyo or Saint Petersburg? That sounds like a first-class ticket to adventure. But in reality, it’s a lot of paperwork, a lot of standing around in cold warehouses monitoring the packing and shipping process, talking to shipping agents, who are, for some reason, all loquacious Irishmen, spending endless hours in customs offices in airports and then long days on your feet as the artwork is secured and displayed at the destination point. There is a reason that senior curators don’t raise their hands for the job. It’s schlepping, albeit culturally inspired schlepping.
My first courier gig had been a bit of a fluke; I was a last-minute sub for an associate curator who came down with a case of adult chicken pox so severe she required hospitalization and a year’s worth of dermatologic follow-up thanks to the scars. Poor thing. The museum was loaning the painting Allegory of Touch, part of the Five Senses series by Spanish artist José de Ribera, to a show at the Prado. Ribera, who painted in the early part of the seventeenth century, was a follower of Caravaggio, and his work features the same depth as the master, but in smaller scale, with greater warmth and humanity. The Five Senses series featured a single subject exploring taste or touch or the rest of the senses in gritty composition. Our painting featured a blind man trying to re-create a face in a painting by touching a three-dimensional bust. Simply put, it’s a beautiful piece, just beautiful.
So, when Gwen went down with the pox, I raised my hand to go as a standin. I was happy to do my part to reunite all of Ribera’s Five Senses at the Prado. Frankly, I wanted to see them all in one room.
I’d had a lifetime of traveling with art, one of the skills you soak in as the daughter of artists and travelers. My father’s “work” was unwieldy, not the kind you could shrink wrap in a four-by-six-foot box. We would travel to shows and commissions with trunks of materials for him to create his pieces, with strong black-and-stainless cases, more like a film crew. My mother managed the logistics like a general, and I spent half my life standing in lines with her, much to the amazement of shipping agents who were struck by the fact that a woman who had once been in a sexy Gillette ad was now filling out forms in their unheated warehouse. Eventually, my mother turned over those duties to assistants, but during my childhood, she did the hands-on work, and I stood next to her, bored but learning, apparently.
I executed the Prado job without a hitch, staying awake for thirty-six hours straight to get the painting from Pasadena to the walls of the Prado. Then, I collapsed in my room at the Ritz, one of life’s truly glam moments. I had a knack for being both in charge and incognito, one of the key attributes of a successful courier. You can’t go blabbing to the nice woman next to you on the plane or chatty cabdrivers that you’re carrying a piece of art valued at millions. You have to blend in, keep your head down, and get the job done. After that, much to Gwen’s chagrin, I became the go-to courier for the museum.
Unlike many museums who loan out works on a regular basis, the WAM was a reluctant participant in this grand art tradition. When the opportunity arose, once or twice a year, I viewed it as a treat and not a chore. I’d safely escorted works to the Frick and to the National Gallery over the years. The curators were happy to let me do the physical labor, and they would swoop in after the piece was settled to make sure the museum and the art was well represented and then attend the fabulous openings. I also got the nod for assignments like the Panthéon Sketches, when pieces of the collection were being sold off and the art needed to get to the new owner. Those courier jobs were executed with less fanfare, but the same amount of paperwork, hassle, and attention to detail. I’d delivered lesser medieval tapestries, minor modern sculptures, and a gorgeous seventeenth-century footed silver serving bowl to new homes in Aspen, Milan, and Berlin.
Casey used to tease me, that I fancied myself some sort of secret agent, and called the trips my “missions.” It’s true; I often thought up new identities and wore a wardrobe that featured a lot of black and leather. (I stood out in all the wrong ways in snowy Aspen; leather isn’t a wicking fabric.) But role-playing made it fun, and I wasn’t having a lot of fun in other areas in my life at the time. As I packed my bags for Paris, my mind wandered back to what Casey might have been doing while I secured a truck in Berlin or stood in the Italian loading docks. What does it matter now.
I pulled out my black leather jacket. Perfect for late April in Paris.
“I put together this list of galleries you should check out. Some great shows happening now. There’s a great group show with some Marcia Hafifs at Le Plateau gallery. Didn’t your father know her? And, please, check out the new Luna space by the Pompidou. It’s just opened and they are putting up a new show like every week to attract press coverage. But a lot of their stuff reminds me so much of your mother’s work. Street photography, black and white, rock and roll, and fashion from the seventies and eighties. Ask for Guy and tell him I sent you, and you’ll get a private tour.” Tai handed me a neatly printed sheet of paper with names, addresses, phone numbers, and his personal notes. He’d come back from a week in Paris earlier in the month, so he felt up-to-date enough to tell me what to do. “I’m so glad you’re taking a few extra days. You won’t want to come home. Wander around and explore. The art market’s starting to pick up, so the gallerists might not be friendly to random Americans, but you have the right look.” I don’t know who was more excited about my trip, Tai or me. My mother was definitely the most excited, but second place was pretty much a tie. “And the Messerschmidt exhibit at the Louvre is great if you feel the need to experience a roomful of angry Germans, both in lead and in the flesh. It was packed when I was there a month ago. Real Germans looking at sculpted Germans. Redundant, right?”
“I’ll skip the Germans, thanks. But I saw the Cluny has a show up about the Virgin Mary I thought I’d go to. Illuminated manuscripts. Looks good.”
“Sure, cut loose with the Virgin Mary. That’s the way to see Paris.”
“I like blue.”
“I know. You have that medieval thing, which is fine, and the Musée Cluny is a gem, but get out of the fourteenth century if you can. I wish I could go with you, instead of to the retreat.” The curatorial staff was off to the desert for a long weekend of visioning and professional development, courtesy of a wealthy board member who hosted the event at his compound. Tai wasn’t really a team player, so the thought of being trapped for four days with his fellow curators like Robert the Whitest Guy in LA going on and on about the Near Asia collection and its relevance to Asian hip-hop scene was not his idea of a retreat. “Think of me, dehydrating, while you’re enjoying an aperitif in my name. Have some fun, okay?”
If one more person told me to have fun, I might scream. I knew everybody meant well, but really, I wasn’t a sullen twelve-year-old headed off to AstroCamp. I had taken some pretty big shots lately, and if I needed a few months to get my feet under me, why all the pressure to have fun? Though all the mandates made me wonder if I even remembered how to have fun anymore. What does fun look like for a thirtysomething divorcée who prefers cathedrals to clubs? Every time someone said the word “Fun!” an image of Euro Disney popped in my head, manufactured merriment served up by corporate conspirators. I had no ideas for fun. The constant encouragement only made me feel worse about the tame and mundane life I was leading. “Planning on going nuts. First, I have to do my job, though.”
Chapter 6