“Ha!”
Lulit approached us from across the booth where she’d been communicating with a Chinese collector. “Well, to what do we owe this great honor?” She kissed him in the double-sided French way, and with her it did not look awkward.
“I thought I’d see what the hullabaloo was about.”
“But the lines must be crazy. Did they make you wait in line?”
Hayes shook his head, an amused expression on his face. As if he’d ever in his life had to wait in line for anything.
“Thank you, again, for your very generous upgrade.”
“You’re quite welcome. And I brought macarons. You’re to share them.” That last part he directed at me.
“You’re not rushing off, are you?”
There had been nonstop foot traffic at the fair all day, but that late in the afternoon there was a bit of a lull and so I offered to give Hayes a quick tour, starting with our booth: the canvases by Nira Ramaswami, the sculptures by Kenji Horiyama, the mixed-media works by Pilar Anchorena. At turns haunting, inspired, political.
Anders Sørensen, our long-standing art preparator who was responsible for installing our fair booths, had flown in from Oslo at the beginning of the week to set up. We’d sold seven pieces alone during the private viewing, and Anders had already rotated out thesold works and reinstalled the booth. If we managed to sell all eighteen pieces that we’d shipped for FIAC, it would be a banner week. I explained all this to Hayes.
“So your mission here is to sell as much art as possible?”
“It’s not just about the sales.” We were circling the corridors of the second floor, surveying the other midsized galleries. “The fairs are an opportunity to make connections, see what new artists are emerging, how their work is being received. And it’s great exposure for our artists and the gallery. Not all those who apply get in.”
“Who decides where they put your booth?”
“There’s a committee. The larger, blue-chip galleries are always on the main floor. Better foot traffic.”
“Is that something you aspire to? A larger gallery?”
I smiled up at him. I loved that he had questions. I loved that he cared.
Daniel had never been fond of the art world. The proverbial camel’s back had broken four years earlier at MOCA’s annual gala,The Artist’s Museum Happening, where he was content to schmooze with the likes of Brian Grazer and Eli Broad but had little desire to peruse the actual exhibit. When I’d asked him what he thought of the show, he’d swilled his wine and said it was “overrated and self-indulgent,” and I wondered how I’d managed to marry someone so fundamentally different from me. I’d spent that evening fighting back tears and knowing it was over.
“I kind of like where we are,” I said to Hayes now. “If we had an operation like that, we’d have additional gallery spaces in New York, London, Paris, or Japan. Not so easy to manage as a single mom.”
He thought about that for a moment but said nothing.
We descended to the main level. There was so much I wanted to show him, so many spaces and bodies to navigate, that even in three-inch Saint Laurent booties, I was moving fast.
“Don’t lose me,” he said at one point, reaching for my hand. But when he gauged my reluctance, he dropped it and laughed. “We’re going to discuss this eventually. But just… don’t lose me. There are a lot of people here.”
“I won’t. Promise.”
Therewerea lot of people, although very few in his target audience and so I assumed he would be safe. But I did not know what it felt like to be him, to imagine that at any moment the throng could change and that panic might ensue, especially in the absence of a Desmond or a Fergus. I had no clue what it was to live with that reality.
I slowed my pace and walked beside him, and tried not to think about how people perceived us. Assuming they were paying attention at all. But the thought occurred that maybe we did not have to be holding hands. Maybe our chemistry was palpable enough.
“Are you going to show me what you love?” he asked.
“I’m going to show you what I love.”
I led him to two stunning works by Danish-Icelandic artist Olafur Eliasson.The New Planet, a large rotating steel-and-colored-glass oloid. AndDew Viewer, a cluster of myriad silver crystal spheres creating multiple reflections. Both mesmerizing, memorable.
“There’s quite a lot of us in there,” Hayes whispered into my ear before theDew Viewerinstallation. “All the little Hayeses and Solènes… like two hundred, at least.”
“At least.”
“I like us multiplied,” he said, soft.
