CHAPTER 1
Nash
My gloved fingers danced across the keypad as I punched in the access code. It beeped once and flashed green. When I turned the knob, it twisted with ease on silent, well-oiled gears—I’d made sure of that.
In my daytime role as a modern art specialist at Beaumont Antiquities & Auction House, I entered this room several times a week. I was often responsible for curating the museum’s many shows, rubbing elbows with snobby art dealers, collectors and very uptight museum staff.
Silent steps brought me inside, where folding aisles filled the space. Dense overhead infrared lighting gave the windowless room just enough detail to outline floor to ceiling sliding walls. I knew the museum archives so well I almost didn’t need light.
A large, round crank was used to file the massive five-inch thick walls left or right. This allowed accordion access to eachside of the hanging wall, crammed with priceless art.
In the dim, photosensitive red of the lights, I stepped lightly to the crank and rotated it to the aisle I was looking for. Locking it in place, I slid into the row. Moving down the aisle a short way, feet shuffled to a stop when I saw the PERL canvas.
I was a man who appreciated art, but more than anything, I was a man who appreciated a mystery. Art was fraught with it, and PERL was my current obsession.
The painting was modest, a mere 12x12, with vibrant shades of color, deep texture, and prominent sweeping brushstrokes. It was abstract, garnering a feeling of loose freedom, but also intention.
Art, and what art possessed or lacked, was a game. Part of the allure of art was why and what made it so coveted? It always seemed to come down to the tale it told. Did it offer notoriety, sophistication, or evoke an emotional trigger? Whether these tales spun by collectors were the true intention of the artist or not, it was these tales that made art and artists worthy of the history books.
Art was lifeless without a story to tell.
Talent, in my opinion, was unplanned. Many modern artists especially, leaned into the stories behind art to drive the want and need in the eyes of a collector. Collectors craved a story to tell, something that elevated them in the eyes of society.
Wealthy collectors wanted to mold their perception through their collections, wanted to be more interesting, or colorful, or enigmatic through the art of others. Bored, rich people, needing something to give them depth.
PERL had become a perfect avenue for this.
The title of the piece before me wasBlue. It was ironic. The piece contained almost no actual blue. Instead, what made PERL’s art special, giving it that gravitas all collectors looked for, was a two-part tale.
First, the artist known as PERL was colorblind, and not just colorblind, but so colorblind they only saw the world in shades of gray. It was a very rare condition, one I’d learned was called achromatopsia.This made for interesting and controversial color choices throughout the pieces. Their work told the tale of the color blue through their eyes, rather than using the literal color itself.
Second, they were a complete enigma. PERL was unknown—a ghost. Man or woman, old or young, one person or many, no one knew—or at least no one was admitting it.So who were they? And why hide?
PERL first appeared on the art scene about a decade ago. They came out of nowhere, a pop-up that was there one day and gone the next, like a figment of your imagination. As this happened year after year across New York, people talked about it and took notice.
Construction makeovers that seemed impossible in such a short timeframe engulfed abandoned and derelict properties overnight. This would happen all over the city twice a year. It was a heck of a philanthropic act; contributing to the revitalization of our streets.
Spectators and critics marveled at the mystery and logistics of such a feat. What always started as a run-down storefront one day, would transform into a gallery the next. After the show, and by the third day, they were gone again, and a newtenant could move in to a fresh and inviting space.
It was clear PERL did not operate alone; how could they? You’d figure after all this time someone would have spilled the truth, but nothing. PERL’s fans were loyal; the identity protected.
Collectors clamored to be part of the PERL story and mission. The philanthropy of revitalizing the city in such an attractive and selfless way was hard to resist. Meticulously, the PERL name grew into a titan—something the art community ate up.
PERL, having only ever shown 19 artworks, became infamous overnight. This was a feat not easily accomplished by a living artist.
The style of the PERL pop-up show was iconic to the brand. Everything was black—from the ceiling to the floor to the bathroom—zero color of any kind.
They catered the events with full bars, security, bouncers, a full staff—also dressed in black—and always offered free entry.
PERL only showed one piece at a time with a single sentence explaining their ocular condition—a fact I always found cocky, bold, and admirable. I’d surmised that despite their ambiguity, this was someone whowantedto be seen. Possibly, they were someone alreadyseen, perhaps a celebrity wanting a second identity to hide behind.
The first piece ever exhibited, titledRed, showed a handful of times until its sale in 2015. Since then, each piece—named after either a color or emotion—only showed once before selling the same night to private collectors.
The only reasonBluewas here now was that this collector,a rather pompous man by the name of Henry Barns, loved to show off his rare art. The museum held several of Henry’s rare pieces in this very room, all rich displays of secondhand philanthropy—not that he ever used his money for any original ideas of his own—but it was something.
As I stood there, transfixed by the swirling depths ofBlue, I felt a familiar thrill of admiration mixed with intrigue. I’ll admit I saw the allure of the entire story. I was caught up in it myself, and that’s why I was here.
The red overhead lights distorted the colors, and I felt for a moment the way the artist must feel—frustrated that I couldn’t see it in its full glory of color—transported to their universe where only monochromatic shades existed, rendering the color blue an enigmatic unknown.
