In February 2002, my agent and exclusive representative for my work called me on the phone from Florida and told me that "The Big One" wanted to put on an exhibition of my paintings. I said fine and asked him for the details. He started saying something very strange to me:
"Look, I am warning you against them trying to seduce you so that you go to work for them and that you leave me for them." To which I answered that he already knew me, that I am an honest and moral person, that I always keep my word down to the smallest details and obligations, and that even if they offered me millions I wouldn’t do such a thing so not to worry....
Then he explained, "It's that they are gangsters - sharks - and they might invite you to their yacht and show you a 'good time' and offer you something great. Do you promise not to accept?" I was astonished. Ha, ha, ha! This scenario seemed more like a thriller movie than something to do with art. I calmed him down, stressing that I had signed an contract of exclusive representation with him and that I honor my promises and my signature, so not to worry.
As far as expenses for the trip to the exhibition were concerned, I asked him who would pay for the flight and the stay. He told me that he (my agent) would be paying for everything and that he would soon send me the tickets through a travel agent in my country with whom he worked and who sold him tickets at a great price.
I asked him where I would be traveling to and if he would be waiting for me somewhere. He told me that I would be flying alone to that country and that a limousine from "The Gallery" would be waiting for me at the terminal to take me to the hotel in the city where the gallery was located. I asked him when he would be arriving and he told me that he would be there a few days later and that I should enjoy myself in the mean time, that everything was arranged and not to worry so much.
When we arrived at the hotel, the driver took me to the room that had been booked for me and there was a note from the Director of the gallery: "Hello, I am the Director of the gallery. We want to welcome you. I hope you have a great stay here. We will be in touch today or tomorrow. Here is my phone number in case you need anything."
I had heard of the "Director" through the printing company in my country where "The Gallery" did a lot of printing. This company practically worked exclusively for them. That is where I always used to go to sign the limited edition prints made from my original works.
That company was in my home town, ten minutes from my home, which was very handy for me. That's where I heard for the first time the name of "The Director" pronounced with great admiration and respect, almost with awe. In time I understood that it was the "Director" who ran, from his own country, everything regarding the printing of that shop. The lads who ran the company were two young brothers, very pleasant, and there were many Russian immigrants working there.
I always wanted to see things there and sniff around to see what was new, which they were not too happy about. It was there that I met the artist "K" for the first time when he was visiting the print shop.
A couple of days before the opening of my show, a good looking African American girl came to pick me up at the hotel in a smart black Jeep and took me to "The Gallery" which had an impressive pseudo-Graeco-Roman façade. They were still polishing parts of the marble floor. All this monumental façade and the cathedral-like front entrance hall seemed very over the top and reminded me of a grand mausoleum. The echo of the voices and the rushing click-clack of the high heels of all the women who worked there, all very tense and flashing big smiles of affection when they introduced themselves, seemed very impressive and too majestic.
I was introduced to one whom we shall call "Z" who was to be my coordinator, a very pleasant lady with a strong Russian accent. She gave me a tour of the facility, through the "secret and incredible" parts of "The Gallery". That day I was given a sort of written schedule of dates and times, all very formal and dressed up. That didn't impress me much since I had been to so many diplomatic receptions especially in museums, embassies and universities so this did not have much of an effect on me.
What interested me the most was to see those many Rembrants, Picassos, Dalís and Renoirs which I had heard spoken of so much around there. So I asked Z to show me the collections. She excused herself and walked down a narrow corridor in the lower floor while I paid attention to the architectural details of the building. Everything was "like the original" somewhat like those sets in the films of Dino De Laurentiis, a sort of Ben Hur effect, all cheap and trashy but well made, better than in Hollywood.
Z returned in a few minutes, very hurried (presumably after she received permission from some figure in authority from downstairs) and smiling, telling me she would show me "certain parts" of the gallery. We started with a passageway which had collections of coins and old "engravings" all very well framed, the frames very, very large and almost out of proportion to the art they contained, with lights carefully trained and focused from different angles and on different levels, a theatrical lighting effect which gave one the impression of being in a "holy" place, as I have said, a mausoleum. The passageways had fine carpets and perfectly arranged furniture, all with the fine feel of a museum.
And so we went until we reached the room where my paintings were hung, that is to say, the actual exhibition. On the north wall (I believe) there hung a huge silkscreen print of my artist's signature in green-gray, impressive, about three meters wide by more than a meter high: "ME" wow!... I was almost dizzy with the impression. The strange thing is that in reality I was left with an unconscious sensation in my mind that something false and dangerous exists in the ease with which today one can extract an artist's signature out of a photograph of a painting, and I recalled the signature they had used on those fake prints with the impression of my signature extracted digitally from an original painting of mine and printed on the lower edge of the paper which I had complained to my Agent about a year before and which the Owner of the gallery had promised, in a fax to my Agent, not to print any more of without my consent. Well, as this was my show and so as not to create a scandal, even though that one on the wall was the very same signature used previously, I didn't say anything about it.
Of course I was given the inevitable tour of the outside, the garden and the famous "duck pond" at the back of the gallery, altogether the most gruesome kitsch which I had ever seen in my life; but, in terms of kitsch, the most exquisite was yet to come on the opening day of the show.
Meanwhile I was introduced to various people who worked in the gallery, auctioneers, salespeople, office staff and who else? None other than the famous "Director", an effeminate shrimp with the most false smile imaginable, black hair carefully combed, graying at the temples, and looking like he had make-up on, with a tanning parlor sunburn on his face. He seemed extremely "busy" giving orders on this kind of scale: "S, bring that Rembrandt and put it there,.... J, bring that Picasso down and put it over there," and so on as if they were plastic flowerpots they were so easy to move, raise and lower.
IMPRESSIVE!
In one of the offices near that dimly lit passageway downstairs, almost like a Dutch brothel, a guy with his legs stretched on his desk "à la Western" was talking on the phone, a computer screen in front of him. I was close to the entrance of the office looking at the engravings hanging on the walls of the passageway, so I was able to hear the conversation which went along these lines: "Jim, this Picasso is gorgeous and unique; I'll let you have it for only $100,000. It's a bargain and I'm only doing this for you." I was certainly impressed with that. I had never imagined that such a coarse, rude, uncouth fellow could sell or offer a supposed Picasso in that way and so casually, or rather, "How is it that such a crass lowlife is allowed to deal with works of art?"
When I got close to the entrance and looked inside, this fellow winked at me as if to say, "What do you think, huh? We're pretty great around here, huh?"
I was thinking to myself, "Great?" To me this smells of something foul. My concept is that selling art worth these kinds of figures and by such great masters is done with more respect, with more culture, more slowly, more refined and in a more orderly fashion. All that seemed false, imaginary and unconvincing. Everything there seemed like a Hollywood stage designed to impress the clients and unsuspecting visitors. Everything in that place was a carefully choreographed farce.
At that time I didn't know that they had a branch in the South where many more of this type of person were operating (it's worth describing that place in a future account). There in the upper floor of the Gallery there was no sign of auctions, photos or advertisements and there was this guy selling over the phone for huge sums, just like that, with his feet up on his desk!
The cherry on the cake was the visit, by mistake, to the basement of "The Gallery", a huge, dusty place, full of computers and people across from them, piles and piles of dusty auction catalogs scattered on the gray floor, a lot of dust, as if they had just finished constructing the place.
I was politely forbidden to approach the computers or to pick up any of the auction catalogs off the floor, and my guide led me to understand discretely that we should leave.
This place seemed more like the center of World War II military intelligence secret operations than a place connected with something as delicate as art. It was a sordid place where you could sense in the atmosphere that something sinister was being planned, managed and operated. A sinister headquarters is based there.
Presumably my guide made a mistake in showing me that place and the "KGB heads of staff" must have reprimanded her for it.
I did not understand for sure what was going on in this place and I asked myself, why so many computers? I began to realize that it wasn't a good idea to ask too many questions about this place, because it seemed they would not be answered. The general atmosphere of that part of the building was lugubrious and shadowy, gloomy compared to the luxury, light and sparkle of the upper floor of the gallery.
The day of the opening arrived and my Agent appeared in the lobby of the hotel in Bermuda shorts and sandals. I asked him if by any chance he planned to attend the opening of my show like that. He said, "What's wrong with that?" I was shocked with the lack of respect and asked him to buy something more in accord with the event and that he would at least show some respect to me, seeing that he was my agent and exclusive representative. He told me he was only going to be there for the opening because he was catching a flight to Europe and his presence at this event was not very important.... In an hour he appeared in sports clothes, a little better - at least he was wearing long pants.
At around 7 that evening they came to pick us up at the hotel to take us to the Gallery. Already there were a number of people in the exhibition hall with catalogs and invites in their hands, enjoying my paintings. The invites were very attractive, well printed on glossy card with various color photos.
All the paintings were tastefully hung with plenty of space in between, professionally lit. I had no complaints...I liked it.
Important figures started to appear, among them "The Director", sweating a bit as if he had just had an affair behind the footlights and apologizing that he wouldn't be at the opening because he had something urgent to do but he would be back in a couple of days to do a group video presenting the exhibition to be used as a promotion for the auctions of the gallery.
When the room was full of people with glasses of bubbling champagne in their hands, in a very orchestrated way the background music which filled the room was faded down mysteriously by some hand in charge of the "soundtrack" of the "stage".
Then appeared no one less than "The Owner", descending the huge staircase from the upper floor, greeting the crowd with a wireless microphone in one hand and the other raised Mussolini style, he seemed like a Roman emperor of the 21st Century. It was pathetic to see how he clamored for the attention of the people there, many of his acquaintances among them, looking up in wonder. "Hello Richard! How are you? How are you all?!! Hi Clair, where is your husband? Playing golf?!!!!!" and slowly descending the wide pink marble staircase with totally orchestrated steps, in sync with the number of stairs, as if the performance had been rehearsed thousands of times in front of a mirror. It seemed so noisy and vulgar. He was acting as if it was the opening of a circus show, almost dancing, a sort of Dean Martin entrance to a casino in Las Vegas in the sixties, sadly comical. I looked at the people, noting their reactions to something which to me was the most ridiculous and artificial spectacle I had ever seen in my whole life.
When he reached the lower floor, an "assistant" hurried to take the microphone from his hand, also pre-orchestrated. He seemed like a happy guy in the middle of his wedding in happy California, reeking of strong perfume and as if he had just bathed, as if he was just coming out of a spa or sauna. I had to restrain my mirth to avoid letting out an insulting burst of laughter in the presence of his Supreme Majesty, feeling I was in danger of being put on a plane home that same night.
A very interesting detail: when he approached me to greet me, he looked closely at my shoes and for a moment I didn't understand what was so interesting about them. It so happened that they were exactly the same as his, black and of classic design. I felt weird and wanted to go and change them.
He took me by the shoulder, as if I was his pal, and invited me to see his architectural and interior decoration "achievements" in the gallery. We were accompanied by Z, my Agent and various other people whom I did not know. It all seemed like a Royal retinue with the Emperor in the lead showing his riches to ambassadors from distant and poorer lands. This ceremony had something ridiculously biblical about it. He seemed like the High Priest in a great Babylonian temple.
His pride and joy were the Toilets which, according to him were all fine granite of a deep red color and with a huge mirror of pure crystal, according to his proud explanation, his eyes were shining like those of a drunk when he was telling us the "VERY IMPORTANT" history of the gold frame of the mirror which according to him was from the 17th Century and which had cost a fortune. Those toilets were a strange mixture of design somewhere between a tomb and the bathroom of a French rococo brothel.
After showing us the "achievements and details" and explaining that he had to insist that the whole marble floor in the entrance of the gallery be re-polished because they had not done it right which, he explained, bothered him exceedingly. In the meantime my Agent would every now and then give me furtive glances and smile at me as if to say, "Didn't I tell you three years ago when I introduced you to him that he loves to impress and that he seems like a cheap gangster?"
I was enjoying every moment of that circus act. I am a good observer and have excellent visual memory which leads me to notice many details (fortunately and unfortunately), and which in such circumstance few people are aware of, as it all happens very rapidly and as the key protagonist in this case is a loud "Owner".
He is an artist at what is known as "clamoring for attention", a very sick egomaniac, a sad and harmful guy with a chip on his shoulder, a seller of cheap goods, any goods, whether it's beans in a farmer's market or valuable paintings. The trouble with this kind of uncouth lout is that they would treat both types of goods in the same way, with the same lack of respect. I reconfirmed mentally what I had already predicted long before with regard to this individual, from an opportunity three years earlier in which I had the unfortunate experience of seeing him for a few brief moments. I now finally understood that this man has absolutely no respect for art or culture and even less for artists.
The delusions of grandeur of this humanoid, his envy of cultured people, his contempt and lack of respect for true professionals, his resentments and dangerous inferiority complex which gnaw away at him inside and as a result of which he himself eats away and systematically destroys the little good remaining in the commercial art market in this country, defrauding and tricking his innocent art buyers who fall in the web of his lying and fraudulent sales empire.
This Antichrist, who has given himself the most unlikely titles, with his black Bible under one arm and a panel of unscrupulous lawyers and pseudo-experts on his other side, has been responsible for colossal damage to art and artists, collectors and art lovers, friends and employees. In general he has caused the greatest harm that has been perpetrated in the art market in the 20th and 21st centuries, spawning a criminal and fraudulent scheme out of which he has been enriching himself for decades at the expense of the trust and innocence of honest people who have fallen for his impressive, detailed and criminal con game of questionable businesses and his aggressive system of fraudulent sales.
In those three days while I was there, by my presence I helped sell $150,000 of my works, which my Agent had already sold some time back to "The Gallery". No one thanked me for it.
The day before I left "The Director" took me downstairs to shoot a video, but that is for a separate note. It’s worth relating.
At around 11 am they came to fetch me at the hotel to take me to the gallery for the making of the video with the "Director". This video was to be a sort of interview with me after the exhibition, to be used, according to them, as a means of promotion for the Gallery's auctions. This meeting had been arranged two days before between the Director and myself. The day after the video shoot I would be on a plane on my way home.
The Director, some members of the video team and I went down to the lower level of the gallery, walking down some long, poorly lit passages until we reached another passageway, very narrow, like an underground tunnel. I imagined what it would be like to be passing through the Bridge of Sighs in Venice in the 17th century headed for some "terrible sentence", because the entourage advanced towards these depths in absolute silence.
We eventually reached a rather narrow room where heaps of paintings were piled up on the floor leaning against the walls, framed with heavy, showy pseudo-Baroque frames of gaudy gold and bronze colors and over-the-top brilliant stuccos. There were also three of my paintings there, framed and displayed on easels. Some dim lights hardly illuminated the space and there were two thick leather arm chairs in the middle apparently already arranged there waiting for someone to sit in them. They seemed more like two out of proportion rhinoceroses brought there specially for the occasion, because they took up a large part of the cramped, crowded space. I couldn't understand how they had been able to get them in there. It seemed like they would have had to have been built in place; otherwise I couldn’t figure out the disproportion of the environment.
While the crew were rapidly installing a tangle of cables and wireless audio devices behind my waist, the Director, sitting in the armchair opposite me with my paintings behind him, was getting comfortable as he stretched and flattened his lapels, straightened out the creases in his shirt, and the sleeves of his dark gray jacket with light gray pinstripes, and adjusted, with the aid of a hand mirror held by his personal assistant, the knot of his tie which had diagonal tricolor stripes. His armchair seemed higher than mine and of better quality. Another assistant was doing his make-up.
I was already seated in the chair which had been previously assigned to me and was observing with studious attention the ritual Rococo spectacle of the dusting with powder of the Director's face. He looked like an effeminate 17th century French Marquis. I was waiting for them to paint on the artificial beauty spot, typical of that time, on his cheek and for them to put on his gray wig, like some Louis XIV. He sat there, a complete Sun King, while the make-up artist, a mirror in her trembling hand, helped the Director to examine himself in front and behind. This activity, so ridiculously effeminate to my mind, took ten long minutes, while I was sweltering under the heat of the floodlights which had been jerry rigged behind me on the Gallery's strange, cramped "film set".
While they were doing some sound tests with the Director, and he was changing his voice from squeaky and high pitched to low and serious as if he was a contralto in the Opera exercising his voice before ascending to the stage at the Scala in Milan, I noticed that he had in his right hand a sheet of paper which seemed to contain a list questions prepared and written down previously with which to "interview" me. From time to time he would place the paper on the floor near his chair, also on his right, and would look down at it out of the corner of his eye, making sure that his face make-up didn't dirty the lapels of his three-piece suit, all perfectly adjusted to his narrow shoulders. Judging by his gestures he was memorizing the questions. He was very serious, almost somber. It gave me a slight feeling of fear, as if he would suddenly start to say: "The accused shall stand; I hereby find you guilty of this and that!...."
Suddenly, while I was deeply immersed in observing this fascinating and strange scene which had already been going on for more than twenty minutes, one of the shoot crew with earphones over his ears and a camera over his shoulder, yelled out behind me "ACTIOOOONNN!!!!!". I almost fell out of my chair but did catch sight of the drastic, theatrical change in the face of the Director. From a previously inexpressive and somber countenance he automatically broke into a incredibly wide, artificial smile, bristling with white, carefully maintained teeth which gave me the impression that we were about to start shooting a toothpaste commercial.
I could hardly contain my laughter, causing me to have a sharp pain in the stomach, while the Director surprised me by firing the first question at me. Because I was trying to suppress my laughter I wasn't able to answer him in time. This caused some sort of commotion amongst the shoot crew and the Director automatically extinguished his wide smile and returned to his previous expressionless look, as if he were a robot digitally programmed to change expressions from one to another so rapidly.
I could no longer hold in my laughter so I broke out into uncontrollable hysterics, holding my stomach in both hands and feeling that I wouldn't be able to hold it in for much longer. It was just at that moment through the tears which were blinding me that I managed to catch sight of my Agent in his Bermuda shorts, leaning on a piece of furniture with his hands in his pockets in the darkest part of the room watching the spectacle with great astonishment and with the characteristic satisfied smile printed on his face. It seemed he was enjoying the circus just as much as I was.
In a few minutes, drawing on my strongest and deepest powers of self-control, I managed with difficulty to return to some semblance of seriousness so as to continue with the video, whose purpose I had already lost sight of. The Director also made some mistakes which had to be corrected and reshot. At the end of the video shoot and after getting the all-clear from the shoot crew chief, the Director came out of his physical and mental strain and said to me, "WE ARE IN THE MOVIES!", shook my hand and said goodbye. He did not thank me, but nor did I expect him to.
A few years later a couple, friends of mine, told me that they had seen the video at one of the gallery's auctions.
That was one of so many ridiculous incidents that took place in that gallery. Nowadays those events in my past seem quite funny. These are the ones from before the great tragedy which was yet to come.
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