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..
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