The Homeless Millionaire - Volume 1 Chapter 69 October 19th 1972 Afternoon
The girl at the reception in the art gallery had short shiny black hair, cut in a style familiar from sepia photographs. She had put on eye shadow and eyeliner with a trowel, and her small, pinched lips blazed red. But maybe that hit of pot by the car influenced my perception. I made a mental note of that, and told myself to think twice before agreeing to anything Chaz proposed.
Chaz led me into a little room at the back of the gallery. I thought it would be his office, but I was wrong. It was four bare walls with framed pictures of all sorts stacked against them. Some of the stacks reached higher than my knee. It felt like a mortuary for failed art. Maybe he used that room to soften up artists whose work he wanted, before offering them a deal.
“I’m sorry we’ve got to talk in here,” said Chaz. “I’ve got an office next door. But if we go there, I’ll see there are about fifty other things I have to do right away and what I want right now is a talk with you. Okay. Now tell me about yourself in a few well-chosen words.”
I did. I was very brief because there wasn’t much to talk about. I’d always liked to draw and paint and I had recently been accepted to the Ecole des beaux-artes in Montreal. I added that I’d basically quit it right at the beginning of the year.
Chaz wasn’t impressed when I told him I’d been accepted to the Ecole. But he seemed impressed when I said that I’d quit it.
“Mmm,” he said, and nodded as if it had been the right thing for me to do. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the mangled Marlboro pack and offered me one. I thought it was politic to accept, and took one and lit our cigarettes with my shiny Zippo lighter. I made the mistake of inhaling my first hit and got a dose of lighter fuel fumes along with the smoke into my lungs. I thought my eyes would pop, but I managed to stop myself from coughing.
“Yeah, these are strong,” Chaz said, watching me. “Not like this poncy Brit shit you guys smoke. Now listen to me carefully. I can sell your work. I can make a few bucks on it, and so can you. Are you okay with the general idea?”
“Yeah, sure,” I croaked, and coughed. I was actually happy to have all this trouble with my throat.
“Okay. The gallery takes a twenty percent cut. I personally take ten on top of that. And you pay for the framing. Not up front, we’ll deduct it from what you earn. And I’ve got more bad news for you there. We’re splitting the sales tax. We pay half, you pay half. Put it in your annual tax report and you’ll get most of it back.”
“How much is most?” I said. “I’m sorry, wait. How much is everything?”
Chaz grinned at me and said, puffing smoke:
“Initially, it’s not going to be that much. You heard I made twenty grand on a deal yesterday. But that was for a nine-picture set by Ludo. You know Ludo?”
I didn’t know Ludo, and felt vaguely ashamed of that.
“That’s okay,” said Chaz. “He’s new. And he’s hot. Let me give you an example. He does charcoal like you do. If he did that beer bottle you did, he would’ve gotten a thousand easy. Maybe more if someone picked it up for an ad. But you’re going to get seventy to eighty. I can’t hang it up for more than two hundred, because you’re Mister Nobody. Then the buyer’s gonna knock it down to one sixty, one fifty. Gallery’s cut, my cut, half of sales tax, frame – you’ll end up with roughly half the money from the sale. We don’t do cheap frames, the frame will be ten bucks for a picture this size. But you know something?”
I didn’t feel like I knew anything at that point. I shook my head.
“Your beer bottle is worth two or three of Ludo’s,” said Chaz. “He’s a client of mine, so I never said that. Understand? I never said that. You’ll just have to bide your time until you make a name for yourself. After a while, when your work is worth more, we can renegotiate. Right now your stuff will take up space that could be taken up by other, more highly priced stuff. We’ll make peanuts on yours, got it? And we’ve got to pay rent on this place and bills and Melanie and the cleaners and – it just goes on and on. Running an art gallery isn’t cheap, and we got to make a good profit or I’m out on my ass. Understand?”
“I think so,” I said.
“Good. Good! Like I said, the moment your work starts fetching what it’s worth, we’ll renegotiate. We really aren’t out to skin any starving artists.”
“That’s very nice of you,” I said. “But no sales tax split. Like you said, you put it in your annual tax report and you’ll get most of it back.”
I was scared of what Chaz would say to that, but to my surprise he broke into a delighted grin.
“The man’s got business sense,” he said. “That’s good. Okay, we fork up the tax. Now listen: all I’ve got here is charcoal, pencil, and watercolor. Do you do oils?
“No,” I said.
“Why?”
“I just don’t like them. The fumes give me a headache and a cough.”
“That’s too bad. See, oils fetch more. Much more. But on the other hand, you can probably knock off six watercolors in the time it takes to paint an oil. But on the third hand, six pictures take up more space than one. You notice our name?”
“The Space?”
“Correct. Because that’s what a gallery is. It’s space to show people’s work.”
“I thought the owner, I mean your senior partner was called Space.”
“That too. But we’re still just a space with pictures on the walls and the occasional sculpture on the floor. Occasional, because modern sculpture is shit. And we don’t do shit. We only show good stuff. You’re actually privileged to show your work in here.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Great.” Chaz took a long pull on his cigarette, then another. I copied him. It was really getting stuffy in the little room. Eventually he said:
“I’m keeping everything you brought today. Melanie will write you a receipt. You got more stuff to show me?”
I felt like bouncing with joy, but I just shrugged and nodded.
“Good. Bring it in, uh, Tuesday. Space has to look at your pictures before we can sign a contract. I’ll get it drawn up by Tuesday.”
“You’re sure mister Space is going to approve of my work?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. But he still has to give me his formal approval. Business,” he added with a shrug that implied doing business involved plenty of nonsense.
“Okay. But if there’s a storm or something Tuesday I’ll come Wednesday, all right? I’m presently living on an island, and getting here involves a boat.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Wednesday’s fine, and so is Thursday. Just don’t come before Tuesday. I might not be ready for you.”
“Contract like we discussed?”
“To the word. Twenty for the gallery, ten for my personal representation, you swallow the framing costs, we swallow the sales tax. Twelve months, then we renew and renegotiate as appropriate. Deal?”
“Deal,” I said, and grinned. So did Chaz, and we shook hands.
“Okay,” he said. “Now let’s get out of here before we suffocate. Leave the door open.”
He walked out and went to talk to Melanie and I saw Harry was looking at the pictures on the walls. I walked up to him, and he turned and smiled and said:
“I see it’s gone well.”
I realized that I was still grinning from ear to ear.
“Yes,” I said.
Harry clapped my shoulder and said:
“I f.u.c.k.i.n.g knew it, man.”
“Let me invite you for lunch,” I said. “A proper lunch with drinks.”
“Sure! Only… Never mind, we can discuss that later. I think Chaz wants a word with you.”
I looked over my shoulder and saw Chaz waving at me to join him at the reception counter.
“Now listen, Melanie,” Chaz said, when I did. “This is, uh… Mike?”
“Yes,” I said, smiling at Melanie. She smiled back.
“Your second name,” Chaz said. “I don’t think you told me.”
“Ryman. Michael Ryman.”
“Right. He’s our new young genius. Take care of him. Now sorry guys, I gotta go finish my lunch.”
He stopped in the doorway to the street and turned and winked at me and said:
“Tuesday!”
Then he left.
Harry stayed in the gallery while I got the pictures from the car and got a receipt for them from Melanie. I wanted to go to Loretta’s for our lunch, but Harry didn’t think it was a good idea.
“Let’s not crowd Chaz any more today,” he said. “Let’s give him some space. Dig?”
“In more ways than one,” I said.
We went to get the car and drove to a restaurant Harry said was nice and inexpensive. We parked and went in there and got a table, and ordered club sandwiches. I was about to order beers when Harry stopped me with an upraised palm and said:
“Look, Mike, if I drink any more I can’t do any more driving.”
“Oh,” I said. “You sure? One beer?”
“That’s going to be the one drink too many. I can feel it. But you know what… hell. Get those beers.”
We did and after we’d both refreshed ourselves a little, Harry said:
“There’s a bus to Lion’s Bay. But I’ve never taken it, don’t even know what time it leaves.”
“I’d rather stay here,” I said. “I like this town. It’s been good to me.”
“Well, we have to find a place to crash.”
“Gastown?” I said, meaning the warehouse where I’d slept my first night in Vancouver.
“No, it’s way too cold for that. It’s either my Mom’s place or Gina’s. That’s my girlfriend. She rents a flat on the top floor of a house and might let you use the couch. We’ll see.”
“You want to call her?”
“She’s at work. I best leave it until she gets home, around six. She doesn’t like being bothered at work.”
“What does she do?”
“She’s an accountant.”
“Serious?”
“Goddammit, there you again. Don’t you start with that ‘serious’ stuff.”
“Sorry. I’d have never guessed your girlfriend is an accountant.”
“There are accountants and accountants,” Harry said. “As you shall see.”
When I did, I saw that he was right.