![]() I’m comfortable recognizing it as a personal defining moment of decision.Īt 4:30 on a Thursday afternoon, I left my office early and took a cab to the luxuriously understated high tech spaces of the Mellon Merrill-Forbes Foundation in the Chelsea section of Manhattan. I won’t allow myself the pretension of describing it as an epiphany. I can’t find a dealer who’ll even check out my slides. He thinks about what she’s just told him before answering. ![]() ![]() I work big–that’s a lot of paint and canvas. My dealer says she’ll give me a show next year if I can deliver twenty pieces by August. ![]() She loosens a small pipe, and adjusts another. In a huge, expensively furnished bathroom, a muscular female plumber lies on her back under a golden sink while a thin male assistant stands watching her. The Home Shopping Network is proud to offer the exclusive rights to this important self-taught artist’s recent work.Īn 800 number appears across the sculpture. On television screens across the nation, viewers watch magnified details of a colorful sculpture-collage composed of everyday household objects wittily placed together forming a human body in the shape of a weightlifter tensing his chest muscles.Ī smartly dressed Asian American woman stands next to the piece, smiling. This guy is one of my oldest clients, and he still tried to screw me. One of my clients backed out of an agreement after I bought a Stella for him. They continue walking along Fifth Avenue. Last night at the auction, a Swiss dealer asked me if I thought you’d sell him one of her paintings. Mace and Peter Marrell pass along Fifth Avenue in front of the Met. Japanese, Germans, Italians, Britons, Chinese, Australians, Canadians, along with Americans from all over the nation talk and flirt together while basking in the noonday sunshine.Įach is wearing a set of headphones, through which they hear: De Kooning, thirty and one half, up two Homer, eighty-six, unchanged Warhol, forty-four, up four Schnabel, three and one half, down twelve. Returning to the present, Mace turns off the shower.Ī gloriously sunny day finds hundreds of people sitting on the staircase leading up to the main entrance of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Mace turns a page, staring at the sensuous line drawing of a Matisse nude. He remembers himself at fifteen sitting under a lofty Dutch elm tree, studying a book of Matisse paintings while a pretty redheaded girl lazily draws circles on his naked back. Reflected from the wall behind him, a framed cut paper nude figure by Matisse catches his eye.Įntering the shower, Mace adjusts the showerhead to full intensity, letting the strong force of the water massage his neck and lower back. Last night, a portrait of his mother by the eighteen-year-old Czech prodigy Patocka Bloom was purchased by the Art Institute of Chicago for three hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars.īefore entering the shower, he studies his face in the bathroom mirror, deciding whether to shave today. ![]() Good morning, says the female news anchor, Prices continue to swing wildly at this week’s auctions in New York City. The television screen is filled with details of a contemporary painting: magnified brush strokes of bright primary colors dance across the screen in an acrylic symphony of color. Mace sits up and switches on the television, rolls off the futon onto a mat, and begins a series of lower backstretches, lifting his knees to his chest. He remains lying on his back on a futon, looking off into space, remembering details of his dream about Margo: her forest green toenails thick tufts of dark, curly pubic hair the look of intense sexual pleasure when she bites her lower lip during orgasm and his mouth biting her armpit. Mace Caslon’s eyes open slowly as he awakens. ![]()
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