Cheyney Fox by Roberta Latow Read Free Book Online Page A

manner. But it seemed to work. Sebastian’s face relaxed. And Cheyney for one fleeting moment thought, It’s going to be all right, he’s listening.
    “Truman might bring Auden and Chester. And I am sure we will have two curators, one from the Metropolitan and one from the Museum of Modern Art. I’m taking an old Harvard friend out to lunch. He says if Tennessee Williams is in town, he will bring him along.” Cheyney was appalled. He hadn’t listened, not one bit.
    “Sebastian, we must have a talk. Not necessarily now, but we must.”
    “I couldn’t agree more. I am not very happy with the direction the gallery is taking.”
    Cheyney seized her opportunity and pinned Sebastian down right then and there. “Sebastian, so far your contribution to the gallery has been anything but constructive. The fact of the matter is that not one of the artists you introduced me to was available. All of them had commitments elsewhere. Embarrassingly for me, every one of them suggested that in future, if I am interested in their work, I should buy through their own dealers. I don’t need you to place me in situations like that, orto find me bad deals, Sebastian. All your work was fruitless, and it cost the gallery.”
    Enraged, Sebastian started to walk out of the office. Cheyney stopped him. “Sebastian, please, we’re friends, trying to work together. We have too much at stake for you to get huffy and walk out. This is an exciting time in New York for art, and we can make it. But I need you to work and not play at being in the gallery. This is not one long cocktail party, a teddy bears’ picnic, you are involved in. This is a hard, creative, and tough business. And you need this job, if you want to gain any measure of respect from your ‘friends.’ ”
    An awkward moment of silence. Then he asked facetiously, “Who do you want to exhibit? Picasso?”
    Cheyney tried to hold her temper. “Of course. And Rothko, and Motherwell, and Barnet Newman, and Miró, and Calder, Kurt Schwitters, and Mondrian, and, and, and … And don’t be bitchy with me, Sebastian. I spend eight, ten hours a day looking at works of art, trying to find artists who have in them that little something that is special, and who are available for me to handle. I am discovering, as I am certain is every dealer in this city, that something is rumbling, looming large on the art world’s horizon. Something that’s new, and very different from the American art of the fifties we’ve been told to admire. I fear
it
— whatever
it
is — is going to leave the art market in a turmoil. It’s almost as if American art doesn’t know where to go next. And that’s exciting, but could be unhealthy for us as a new gallery, because collectors and art institutions don’t like to buy unless the market is stable and knows where it’s going.”
    “You have an interesting viewpoint. Why haven’t you spoken to me about this before, Cheyney?”
    “Oh, I have been trying, Sebastian, and you haven’t wanted to listen. I would have thought that you recognized by now that I am having a difficult time of it, trying to put together an exciting and relevant gallery. Sebastian, I have poured everything I have into this gallery, have changed a life for it. And if you want to be a part of it, you have to open your eyes, forget the booze-and-chat parties, and get into this thing with me. I need you, not just your money. So get your brain working, and your eyes, and put your ego to bed for a while.”
    Cheyney and Sebastian stood looking at each other until thesilence became awkward. She was embarrassed for both of them and turned away from Sebastian to make herself busy at her desk.
    “I’m taking Jeremy Weintraub to dinner this evening. You know they think he will be made curator of drawings at the Met. It will be a big jump for him from the position he holds at the Brooklyn Museum. I went to Harvard with him. The last time I saw him was in Paris at Caresse Crosby’s. Or was