The gallery kept saying in its newsletter that the time had come for miniatures. “Incorrectly thought of as curios,” as “works that evidence a certain technical skill but are otherwise without consequence,” they were “returning to currency” and would “rule the day.” That pleased Dennis greatly, because that is what he had been making. He forwarded the email to Julia. “My time,” he said. “My time.” But the next time he went to see a show, and the time after that, he walked in the front door to see huge canvases covering the walls. The third time he called ahead. “I see that your newsletter keeps signaling a return to smaller scale,” he said. The woman on the phone agreed with a pleasant young voice. He imagined her ankles. But when he and Julia arrived, he saw that the ceiling had been peeled away along the back edge to allow a portrait, fifty feet square, to be lowered into the place. The portrait was of Arthur Jettelson, the owner of the the gallery and the author of the newsletter. Had it all been a feint? A sadism? Dennis went looking for Jettelson. He didn’t have to go far. He was leaning on the front desk, talking to the woman with the ankles. “Hey!” he said. “Hey! Hey!” He imagined that the repetition was an accumulation of power. Neither of them looked up at him. He turned toward the massive portrait of Arthur Jettelson and began to run. At his back, Julia called his name but it was far too late.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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