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Circumstance had provided us the opportunity to work together, a collaboration

which culminated in a slick bit of legal craftsmanship which had all the

hallmarks of a jurisprudential masterpiece, at least when viewed by someone who

could appreciate the invisible strings we fashioned to manipulate a sensitive

artistic universe. Raising a toast of some rather exquisite champagne, Steven

and I indulgently acknowledged our own handiwork, well aware that our finest

accomplishment lay in the fact that no one outside the room would ever really

appreciate our delicate touch. If things went as planned, we laughed, they would

never even realize we had been there.

One bottle from Steven’s extensive cellars led to another, and we spoke that day

at great length, in ways our work had never allowed. Working together had been a

great joy for both of us, I like to think, because Steven and I shared a sense of

focus which meant every working hour of those two months had been devoted solely

to the task at hand. I’m almost ashamed of the single-minded intensity that I

dedicate to my tasks, although I know no other fashion of approaching a problem,

but all too often the obsessive devotion I suffer in the course of a serious

project has cost me bitterly, both in my professional and personal relationships.

Yet with Steven, for once, it had been different. He was every bit as

concentrated as I had ever been. With a grin, I might even admit that he could

turn the flame a notch or two further than I. How could I not enjoy the company

of a man who not only appreciated my tendencies, but challenged me to demand more

of myself? As neglected as our subtle monument would be, I took great pride in

knowing that Steven understood. We raised another toast, and again, until the

sun slipped orange beyond the dark wooded acres of Steven’s estate.

Those two months, dedicated as they were to the definition and protection of the

intangible property rights of visual artists, taught me a great deal about a

subject I had really never paid any mind. I understood the vagaries of copyright

in the abstract, and had done the cursory rounds through several great galleries

during my travels, but before that summer, art remained a decorative item for me.

In fact, the work we did with the Foundation did much to increase my exposure

and augment my vocabulary, but Steven provided the catalyst which turned on the

light.

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Champagne had led to Chablis which led to a Chardonnay “we simply have to share”,

to a special unlabelled bottle from a tiny Swiss monastery to a very old bottle

of Scotch and the tenth hour of our celebration had warmed my spirits into a

pleasant sense of incautious confidence.

“What it really boils down to,” I said, pretending wisdom, “is that much of the

work that is being done in this country derives again from European influences.”

Steven smiled, distracted. He put down his glass and leaned forward, his high

brow slightly wrinkled.

“I don’t think we go very far describing an artist’s work in terms of

influences,” Steven said. “There is always an evolution of linguistic terms, so

to speak, but language is a living component of our expression. Substance always

triumphs over form, yet without comprehensible forms, the expression becomes

lost.”

I remember listening carefully, because I respected Steven more than anyone I had

ever known. Part of me had always believed the arts perpetrated a fraud, that a

conspiracy of critics and galleries operated to decide one piece would be

valuable and another would not. To me, a painting was pretty or it was not. The

rest sounded like poppycock. Yet Steven seemed to believe.

“I want to show you something,” Steven said and with my assent, he led me

upstairs to a large room I calculated to be his study. The south wall of the

grand space was almost entirely built of glass, windows that seemed to draw in

the broad reaches of landscape, the small pond, the gentle roll of pasture, the

…End of the part1. To be continued..