“Why are we stopping at the hotel? Shouldn’t we get going? We don’t have a lot of time here.” Nate was tossing some euros on the table to pay the bill. We had quickly finished our dinner as soon as I’d hung up the phone.
“Nate, it’s an art opening in Paris. One that we don’t have an invitation to. I’m not going dressed like this.” I indicated my jeans and boots. “Tai would kill me if he heard, and believe me, he’ll hear.” Plus, I had a feeling we were going to need a bit more subterfuge than a “lost invitation” excuse and the first name of a curator. The voice that answered the phone had not been very encouraging about entrance. I’d texted Tai to ask if he could get us on the list at the gallery but hadn’t heard back, so I could only assume that he was trapped in a visioning session. We were going to have to wing it. “Pray for us, Joan,” I whispered to myself.
“Do I need to change?”
“Not at all.” I had a plan, and Nate’s tweed jacket was part of it. This was going to be fun.
Chapter 15
From across the street, the scene at the Galerie Luna looked like a still life painting in action: a glass-fronted gallery lit from within with warm hues and track lighting, giant photographic prints of race cars visible in the background, and in the foreground, a swath of beautiful people of all colors, dressed in black and gray with the occasional pop of red. Each time the door opened, a wave of conversation and the beat of EDM made its way out onto the sidewalk across the street where we stood. A few paparazzi were hanging around outside, suggesting the guest list was as exclusive as the woman on the line had said when she’d answered my call an hour earlier. “Invitation uniquement. Invitation only. Pas de public.”
My heartbeat quickened, and I realized it wasn’t just because of our task at hand—to find Guy and get some information. It was because I’d been shut off from events like this for so long. This is what I thought my life would be like when I graduated from college, a mix of day-to-day scraping out a living in the art world punctuated by heady openings with handsome men, but that reality never materialized for me. My work at the museum was safe and steady; my evenings with Casey, the same. I could have used a little bit of glitter.
I wished for a second that Nate and I were simply here for the art and the scene, me back in my black dress and Nate in tweed. Then I felt Nate take my hand. “This looks amazing. I think it was that prayer.” Nate winked a sloppy wink. “Yeah, I heard you.”
“We’re going to need a little help getting in. Play along.”
“Got it.” We crossed the street, dodging traffic. “You’re killing me in that dress, by the way. And you smell really good.”
“I know.”
We were stopped at the entrance by a phalanx of gallery girls looking like all gallery girls the world around: thin, stylish, and dressed in black, black, and black with their hair pulled back tightly and grim expressions on their young but serious faces. I approached the first gatekeeper at the table, attempting what I characterize as a haughty nod to acknowledge her existence. She returned the haughty and upped me boredom and distain. “Votre nom?”
I presented the young woman with my card and then attempted some French. “My name is Joan Bright Blakely, and I’m an art consultant based in Los Angeles. I’m not on the list but heard about the opening from my friend Tai Takashita, a curator at the Wallace Aston Museum in California who knows Guy. We were hoping to get a look at the work and a word with Guy.”
Apparently, I didn’t completely botch the syntax or accent because Gallery Girl replied in French, “You are not on the list. This is a private party.”
I bent in and stage-whispered, “Yes, I understand. But I have a very wealthy private client here from Silicon Valley. And I know he’s interested in investing in this sort of art. So, I’m hoping you can make an exception.” I gestured toward Nate. Gallery Girl gave him a once-over. Nate, totally tweedy, stood there unsuspecting, with an all-American grin on his face that was perfect for the ruse, and he gave her a little wave. I appreciated his efforts, but Gallery Girl did not. She shrugged. “I don’t know where Guy is. I’m sorry. You’ll have to come back another day with the gallery is open to the . . . public.”
So I threw it down, using all I had left. “I believe Guy will be disappointed. He is an admirer of my father’s work. And my mother’s. Perhaps you know of the work of Henry Blakely and Suzi Clements?”
Gallery Girl #2 sprang to attention. I knew that even though she was staring at her list, head down, she’d been eavesdropping the entire time. She looked to be the oldest in the group at about twenty-five. “Ah, of course. You look just like your mother. I, too, admire the work of your father.” She pressed a button on her headset and said, “Guy to the front, please.” Then she spoke in English while turning her back on Gallery Girl #1. “One moment, please, we are happy to accommodate you.” Gallery Girl #1, either embarrassed or indignant, refused to even make eye contact with me and literally brushed us along with her hands.
I wished I had a little of her self-absorbed confidence at thirty-one, never mind twenty-one.
As we waited, Nate peered through the windows like a schoolboy. The opening was for a photographer who specialized in oversize prints of race cars in action, portraits of shirtless drivers staring at the camera, and a few shots of naked women posed strategically with car parts. The prints were huge, vibrant, and very solid in terms of technique and artistry. Not my kind of thing, but I could see that Nate was wowed. “These F1 cars are amazing specimens of engineering, masterpieces. I can’t believe what the engineers achieve year after year. Come on, look at that exhaust system. That’s a thing of beauty.”
Nate pointed to a five-by-three-foot photo of an unnamed naked woman, a lot of metal and carbon fiber pieces, and a prominent tailpipe. Luna did a robust business online selling limited-edition prints, and this photo was actually labeled “Bestseller,” which struck me as funny and demoralizing. “All the genius in the universe can’t compete with a naked woman,” I said out loud, quoting my mother. Nate turned and I explained. “My mother said that once when she was trying to console my father after one of his pieces was ravaged by the New York Times while that photo Demi Moore, naked and pregnant, was the talk of the town. Do you remember that Vanity Fair cover?”
Nate shook his head. “You appear to have had a very different childhood than I did. Pretty much all we talked about at my house in Portland, Maine, was sailing and the weather.”
Just then, a well-groomed, slim Frenchman emerged from the front door to the sounds of Afrojack and a few pops of flash from the paparazzi. “Hello, Joan. I am Guy, the gallerist here. So happy to meet you. Tai texted me that you might come tonight. Bienvenue.” There were introductions all around, a brief declaration of admiration for both my father’s work and my mother’s, and then some chatting about the health and welfare of Tai and his work at the museum. Guy’s English was fine, but I wanted to set the stage, so I switched to French, telling him about Nate, my wealthy tech client and neophyte collector. Could we please go in, take a look around, and then ask him a few questions about the photography scene in Paris?
“Mais oui. Bien s?r.” Guy bowed slightly to Nate. “I understand you are just starting a collection, Nate. Please. Let me introduce you to the photographer, Didier Durand, and maybe some of the drivers?” Nate nodded his head enthusiastically, and we were inside.