This is part IV of a serialized story, see part I, part II and part III.
That night Elsie had strange dreams. The Gothic windows of her great aunt’s parlor loomed before her. Their glass shone with crazy colors instead of the clear, warped panes that she knew from before. Fair-music bellowed from a nearby room; an unknown lady in red velvet caught Elsie up from behind, spinning her around like a carousel, grinning, and every so often planting a clammy red kiss on the toddler’s cheek. The lady’s wrinkled lips parted for a blast of guttural baby-blabble; her breath smelled like the outside of the grocery store- the place where mom never lingered, where skinny people drank and lit matches.
“WhatapreetygirlWhoooooooo!” Again the old lady spun Elsie, the music got louder and louder, “Daddysprettylittlelady…” Elsie cried out.
Click.
The lights went on around Elsie’s cradle and the warm, dry arms of her Great Aunt Margo scooped her up, blankets and all.
“What’s the matter little one?” Elsie’s eyes blinked and she pushed her face into her Aunt’s chest, the sudden electric glare was too much. Dreams, a new room, no mom- it was all just too much. Elsie began to sob.
“There was a lady and she was going too fast,” Elsie murmured, “I want mom.”
“I know, I know, princess.” Her aunt smoothed the hair on the child’s forehead. “Mom will be here tomorrow, she’s helping daddy now.” Margo held the child and rocked her gently until she went back to sleep.
“I’ll talk to daddy tomorrow, sweetheart,” her Aunt whispered.
***
“It’s not every day that we’re fortunate to have such a distinguished guest here with us- all the way from China– with us here at the Armory. It really is an honor.”
An aging man with a large, humble smile shuffled on stage. The man was thin, except for a pot belly, and tidily dressed in loose clothes. His hair was cropped jar-head style; his neck curved like a stork.
“Mr. Jiang is with us all the way from his hometown of Xi’an, where he’s already an acclaimed artist.” The Master of Ceremonies paused to glance at his notes on the podium, “Mr. Jiang’s works grace the local administrative offices in Xi’an, as well as Nike’s and Carrefour’s base of operations there.”
Mr. Jiang looked out towards the crowd and blinked; all he could see were the bright lights, but he could hear the audience’s gentle applause. Each person in that crowd had set down their drinks to welcome him to this American stage. So many people, so much admiration, what could he do? The artist grinned and nodded in a self-depreciating way.
How did Mr. Jiang and his two young benefactors, Alex Greene and Tim Davies, find themselves at the center of attention on this exalted night? Several months before, in a drawing room in Schaumburg…
“Nobody’s doing medieval. Try medieval.” Mr. Greene pulled down a hard-covered book, the size of a tea-tray, from his office shelf. The gorgeous dust-jacket was so shiny that it stuck to the books beside it. Mr. Greene thumbed through the pages until he found what he was looking for, then announced, “Giotto, gotta do Giotto.”
Mr. Greene held up the book for his son and Tim to see. Behind the glare of the study lights, a large image of The Kiss of Judas was spread across its pages.
“I’ll give my guy in China a call, have him do twelve like Giotto for you. But it’ll be better- I’ll tell him Giotto-style, but with contemporary Chinese images. This’ll be art.”
And art it was. Two months later, Mr. Jiang’s paintings arrived in a large Evergreen shipping container. The bright colors sang from behind their newspaper padding. The paintings must not have been quite dry when they were packed, because the newsprint stuck to a few of them, leaving the ghost of Chinese characters wherever the surface was white or yellow.
“That’s fine,” said Alex, “gives them an urban grittiness.”
The paintings hung on white walls in Alex and Tim’s Off-Gold-Coast gallery; each one bathed in diffuse light so that from the night-time street outside, the paintings shone like fairy-lights. Next to each picture hung a little cream-colored plaque, which explained what each work meant. These plaques were written by Mr. Greene’s assistant May.
The Mourning of Wealth 2003, read one plaque, Here we see a figure of the Great Leader Mao asleep as the People care for him. And indeed, Mao was lain Christ-like, very much in the manner of The Mourning of Christ, only the little faces of the angels above him were Chinese, wearing Gucci sunglasses and talking on cell phones.
At Any Cost 2003, Ex-party members eat delicacies in a Special Economic Zone. The ‘Special Economic Zone’ was represented by a white Gothic portico.
Portrait by the Artist, 2003. The face of Li Peng scowled down from under a red headdress.
Needless to say, the pictures sold like hotcakes. In six weeks, Alex and Tim ordered twenty-four more paintings from Mr. Jiang and May, who turned out to be Mr. Jiang’s daughter, moved into Alex’s apartment, leaving the one Old Mr. Greene got for her on Argyle street empty.
Business was going so well that the partners decided it was time to bump up the gallery’s profile. Tim consulted Lillian; he never did anything without consulting Lillian.
“Clearly, the next thing to do is an exhibition,” Tim suggested, and Lillian agreed entirely. She called a friend at the Museum of Contemporary Art. ‘The Armory’ was the only place for a fashionable art-world showing; anyone who was somebody had an exhibition there, and Mr. Jiang should be no exception.
So, here stood Mr. Jiang under the bright lights of the stage; the Master of Ceremonies continued to flush out the artist’s resume:
“Mr. Jiang’s work also hangs in the offices of Xi’an Aircraft Industrial Corporation,” the MCs teeth gleamed white behind the black microphone and his voice stopped. There came a round, warm sound of applause from the audience. Mr. Jiang nodded and thanked the crowd with very formal language, then surrendered the mike to Tim, who had stepped quietly into the spotlight behind him. Tim explained Mr. Jiang’s vision to the crowd:
“Thank you. I never hoped to represent a talent as great as this one- especially as our gallery’s maiden exhibition. But Silk Road has opened a new vista in the Chicago art world- a vista that has so much to teach us all.”
Mr. Jiang’s pictures sold like hotcakes, but not without some prodding. The first few paintings were bought by Lillian, who donated them to the right museums. Her charitable act guaranteed an appropriate amount of press. Lillian even threw a dinner party with The Mourning of Wealth hung behind the table. Two weeks later, one of her guests bought the picture from Tim’s gallery; the guest couldn’t believe his luck when he saw that Lillian had sent The Mourning of Wealth back. With these few acts, Lillian had set Tim’s star alight.
Mr. Jiang never let Alex and Tim down, although the speed at which the master could knock out a collection of paintings made Tim suspect that a small stable of starving artists ghost-painted for him.
“Silk Road was only the beginning though,” Alex addressed the well-heeled crowd, “Mr. Jiang has brought us something new tonight- something bigger and bolder than what came before. I announce the opening of Metamorphosis.”
As the word ‘metamorphosis’ left Tim’s lips, the spotlight on him died and lights flooded the stage’s background. A giant red canvas, filled with jewel-toned dancers, reminiscent of the Ballets Russes, burst into view under the hot lights. Gold leaf glittered on the canvas surface, gem-like beads were glued around the painting’s edges with golden gesso; the largest of these beads were back-lit with tiny LEDs. The whole canvas– which stood over two meters high– looked like something out of Aladdin’s cave.
“The title of the work behind me is Egg-1 and is inspired by the famous Easter eggs of Fabergé,” Tim let a small tremor enter his voice as he turned toward the riches behind him.
Why market jeweled eggs in Millennial Chicago? Fabergé Eggs had been in the news recently: a Russian oligarch who caught the collector’s bug had sent egg prices soaring. “It’s a perfect theme for our next collection!” said Mr. Greene, and of course, it was.
Naturally, there were many more Eggs in the series- all the way up to Egg-42. A steady trickle of Eggs were sold through Tim’s exclusive gallery; but never more than one at a time, and each for a slightly higher price.
Soon, editorials in art mags bloomed about the excellent return enjoyed by investors who got in on Jiang-Eggs early.
And now, that gold-plated artistic wizard stood before his market on the Armory’s stage.
Thunderous applause. Tim took a small bow, and left the podium. Ushers opened two stairwells at either side of the stage, and patrons crowded up to get a closer look at Egg-1. Tim milled around the guests answering questions; he stayed late into the night. At around 2 a.m. he made his way to a quiet table at the far end of the theater.
“You’re a rich man now, darling,” Lillian smiled lazily over her martini. Tim grinned back at her; he knew he would be rich. A couple of hundred went to Jiang for each painting, but they were selling for many thousands of dollars each. Forty-two times how many grand… Tim was too tired to add it up just now, he gently took Lillian’s martini from her hand and finished it with one gulp.
“I’m going to be. Going to be rich,” he said. Lillian smiled even wider.
Part V is available here.
