Doorman Wanted By Glenn R. Miller - 46

CHAPTER 44

Nine months later . . .

A s I enter the gallery, the band that has been hired for our opening night event begins playing, “Didn’t Leave Me No Ladder,” which, given my arrival at that very moment, strikes me as a tad bit theatrical, but I did, after all, leave the playlist up to the bandleader. I grab a glass of champagne from a wandering server, as well as a lobster canapé from another.

The walls are lined with scores of paintings from Terry, Tomata, Suze, Johnny, Emily, and others. They have been working for months on creating new paintings, gathering up old ones—many of which had been left in the storage closets of Manhattan shelters and community centers—and exploring new media.

The gallery, I’m pleased to say, is packed. Beyond most of the building’s residents, along with numerous friends, there is also a strong contingent of neighbors, council members and representatives from the mayor’s office, press members, and those who are simply curious. I see Terry addressing a cluster of a dozen or so attendees near his largest displayed painting, a depiction of the Majestic Apartments and the Dakota at night, as seen from the far side of Central Park Lake. It is a beautiful, moody painting and anchors the centerpiece wall of the gallery, the first thing a visitor sees upon entering from our street entrance. Within the foreground are the silhouettes of two people gazing upon the skyline. The multiple shades of blue within the painting are deep, dark, and prevalent.

“Yes, well, what you have here, of course, are two small figures, diminutive against their surroundings,” Terry says, giving me a slight head nod in recognition of my approach. “What the artist— I —am attempting to say is that nature is a far more powerful force than man himself. Notice that I have incorporated a slight whitish hue, a slight tinge, within the western sky. That is intended to give a sense of hope and optimism. Also, the fact that the two figures’ backs are to us immediately draws us in as viewers.”

“Yes, I see that,” says one of Terry’s audience members. “It draws you in immediately. Do you see that, Frankie?”

And so on.

About half of the paintings have a red dot affixed to the wall next to them, indicating that they have been purchased. In the world of New York City art openings, these paintings are highly affordable, ranging in price from $500 to $5,000. I suspect that, given the energy in the room, all will have a red dot upon them before the night is over.

“I believe we may have a hit on our hands, Mr. Franken,” Ted Harrison says to me. “Well done.”

“Well, you, sir, are a big part of the reason for the success,” I say. “Your guidance and expertise in the legal matters helped us get this up and running far more quickly than I could have.”

“Ms. Guncheon took the lead on that matter,” he says. “I simply filled in a few empty squares, so to speak. Speaking of which—”

“Kid, I gotta hand it to you,” Judith says, before clinking my glass with her own, “You done well.”

“The artists did well,” I say. “They just needed someone to believe in them.”

“Spoken like a true director,” Ted says. “By the way, speaking of needing someone to believe in them, did I tell you that Terry has offered to give me painting lessons starting next week? He said he saw a spark of talent within some of my recent doodles. He’s willing to take me under his wing. All is not lost yet, Mr. Franken. All is not lost.”

At which point, Charlotte approaches and asks, “Are you ready for your comments? You guys need to get going. Let’s go, let’s go.” Charlotte takes her new role as gallery manager seriously, moving tonight’s speakers, me included, into position. I offered Charlotte the post contingent upon her taking provided courses on diversity and inclusivity training; she accepted with the stipulation that she have regular access to her immediate supervisor. She pointed out that her last position was less than satisfactory in that regard.

As board chair, Mr. Harrison makes the introductory comments, acknowledgments, and thank yous before introducing me. I move to the microphone stand, look at those gathered around me, at the artists standing near their work, and begin.

“Let me paint you a picture,” I say. “One nowhere near as provocative, engaging, or captivating as what you are surrounded by, but I’ll do my best. My name is Henry Franken.”

I continue, explaining the genesis of the gallery, brief synopses of each of the displayed artists along with their individual backstories, and the vision and mission of the Opening Doors organization.

I conclude by asking that all in attendance consider supporting our mission by becoming members of the gallery, by contributing, and, most importantly, by purchasing the art. As I make my final appeal, I notice a recognizable figure at the back of the crowd. I step down from the platform to welcome Wendy but am immediately surrounded by folks wanting to shake my hand or ask further questions.

“How did you conceive of the—”

“I’m Laurie and I represent the mayor’s office of cultural—”

“Henry, will you be expanding the gallery space or moving into—”

Peter Pelletier, 5D, wants to introduce me to a friend from Connecticut who has collected twentieth-century folk art for decades. Lois Wallin, 2B, wants to make an introduction to her younger sister who runs a gallery in Tribeca. Brendan Stewart—even Brendan—approaches me and asks me to introduce him to the artist behind the blue series on the eastern wall (“He captures the depressive spirit perfectly, Henry. I could really do something with that artist.”). After weeks of threats of legal action from Brendan following the board vote, he eventually came around to seeing that the Opening Doors Gallery did not actually put either his own gallery or his reputation in danger. It may have had something to do with my purchase of eight of his larger de Smet canvases for hanging within the public spaces of L’Hermitage. The words quid pro quo were never spoken, but they seemingly were understood.

Finally, I break free and find her holding a glass of champagne while speaking with Ted.

“A board chair’s work is never done,” Ted says upon my approach. “How did I ever let you talk me into this role, Henry? Excuse me, both of you, while I go mingle and twist arms for some contributions.”

“Discreet,” I say to Wendy upon his departure.

“Some would say transparent,” she replies.

“It’s an important quality, I hear.”

“Meh,” she says. “Occasionally overrated.”

We joust like this for the next couple of minutes, with me asking about her current professional status (“I turned down the Gaux Bars position. Who wants to market overpriced snack bars for the rest of their life, or even for the rest of the year?”); her residential status (“Moving back to New York temporarily. Neither Aunt Wendith nor her orchid collection seemed pleased with my rash decision to leave”); her months in Wisconsin (“You can’t find good cheese anywhere back there. I so missed Zabar’s”).

“Well, should you know of anyone, I’m aware of a fledging organization that is seeking marketing expertise. I could put in a good word for you. I think it pays fairly well and, if I’m not mistaken, they toss in a cheese platter for all new hires.”

“Pfhh, not a chance,” she says. “I’ve heard the boss can be detached and, worse, duplicitous.”

“But my sources inform me that he’s been working on that issue.”

“Well, we Wisconsinites have a saying around such matters.”

“Go, Packers?”

“No. Never say never.”

And then a cheer arises.

“Ah, my thoughts, exactly,” I say, responding to the outburst. Or possibly Wendy’s comment.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Ted shouts out. “May I have your attention, please? Hello! Attention please. I would like to make a very important announcement to the full room. Our designated centerpiece work of art—Mister Terry Matthews’s painting, Two Men Contemplating the Skyline —has just been purchased for five thousand dollars by an anonymous art collector with the stipulation that the entire amount goes toward the artist—”

Cheers and hand clapping momentarily drown out Ted.

“Beyond that,” he says, once the applause has died down, “Beyond that, the collector has contributed an additional five thousand dollars to Opening Doors .”

More cheers and huzzahs.

“This might just be the start of something good,” Wendy says to me, and, if I’m not mistaken, her eyes appear a bit more moist than normal. “But you know,” she adds, “I always felt a more appropriate name for the organization would have been Starting Over. You may want to get your marketing director thinking about that.”

I open my mouth to respond—something glib, something clever, something, perhaps, transparent—but the band’s renewed startup drowns me out.