My husband was Dr. David Lerner, Northwestern class of 1912. He passed in 1963, after military service, a medical degree from Johns Hopkins, and a career in oncology. He spoke fondly of his time as a Wildcat and wished to do something for the school, a fact I’ve kept in mind as I’ve planned my estate. My grandniece, Fiona Marcus, encouraged me to contact you, and I hope this letter finds you well. I understand the Brigg Gallery to be building a permanent collection.
This was the aunt, then, that Fiona was talking about last night. The coincidence of it unsettled him. That she should mention it months after the letter was sent, and it would instantly land on his desk. Would Teddy Naples land on his desk now, too, conjured from Fiona’s drunken mind?
I am in possession of a number of pieces of modern art, most dating from the early 1920s. The paintings, sketches, and line drawings include works by Modigliani, Soutine, Pascin, and Foujita. These have never been exhibited, nor have they been in any collection but my own; they were obtained directly from the artists. I’m afraid I have no paperwork on the pieces, but I can personally vouch for their authenticity. In all, I have around twenty pieces that might interest you, as well as some corresponding artifacts.
I am in poor health and cannot travel, but wish to meet with someone who can speak to how these pieces would be cared for. I am concerned that they find a home in which they’ll be exhibited, appreciated, and preserved. I invite you to visit me here in Wisconsin, and hope we may correspond regarding a date for meeting.
With warmest regards,
Nora Marcus Lerner
(Mrs. David C. Lerner, Northwestern ’12)
Yale squinted at the paper. “Obtained directly from the artists” was a little suspect. The men Nora Lerner had listed were not, for the most part, ones who hawked their own paintings on street corners to visiting Americans. And this could be a logistical nightmare. Proving authenticity on any one piece—with no paperwork, no catalog listings—might take years. This woman would need to get everything authenticated before it could be appraised for her taxes, and it would either turn out to be junk, or she’d realize how much she was giving away and change her mind. In Yale’s last months at the Art Institute, a man was set to donate a Jasper Johns (numbers stacked in a glorious mess of primary colors), until he learned the current value of the piece and his daughter convinced him to will it to her instead. Yale was a development guy, not an art guy, or at least he wasn’t supposed to be an art guy, but he had let himself fall in love with that painting. He knew better. Farmers shouldn’t name their animals. But then, the whole reason he’d taken this job was the chance to build something on his own. He ought to be thrilled.
A small, cowardly part of him hoped he’d get up to Door County and find that the pieces were such obvious forgeries that Northwestern could refuse the gift. Better, in some ways, than finding a plausible van Gogh, an invitation to heartbreak. But no, it didn’t make a difference, really, what he found. He’d have to bend over backward for this woman even if these pieces were traced out of an art book, just so he wouldn’t offend an endowment case.
The rest of the file did little to clarify things. There were further letters, far more tedious, about meeting times, and someone in Cecily’s office had assembled a dossier on the Lerners. David Lerner was decently successful, and had given unremarkable amounts to Northwestern when he was alive, but there was nothing to suggest they could afford millions of dollars of art. You never knew, though, where people got their money, or where they hid it. Yale had learned not to ask. And hadn’t Fiona and Nico grown up on the North Shore? There was money up there, even if Nico and Fiona were always broke, even if he’d never heard them mention any millionaires.
On the bottom of one memo, a handwritten scrawl: “Cecily,” it said, “are we involving the Brigg people yet?” The memo was two weeks old. Yale should have been indignant, but he did see where Cecily was coming from. He was new, the gallery itself was relatively new, and this was, potentially, a major donor. She was involving him now, at least. Except part of him wished she weren’t. Probably he was just tired, but all he felt was a sort of pre-dentist-visit dread.
* * *
—
He didn’t know what condition he’d find Charlie in. He might be sweet and contrite, or he might still be angry about nothing. Or he might have taken off, buried himself in work to avoid the whole situation.
But before Yale opened the door, he heard voices. A relief: A crowd was good. Charlie and two of his staffers, Gloria and Rafael, sat around the coffee table poring over back issues. Charlie was in the habit of overworking his staff on the sly by inviting them over on Mondays to celebrate after the week’s issue was out. He’d feed them and then get them working again, right in the living room. As publisher, Charlie might have been hands-off with the paper, but he’d stayed involved with every decision from alderman endorsements to ads. He owned a travel agency with an office on Belmont, and he’d funneled its proceeds into Out Loud Chicago since the paper’s founding three years ago. Charlie wasn’t even particularly interested in travel or in helping other people travel; he’d bought the agency in ’78 from an older lover who was particularly charmed by him and ready to retire. Charlie only went in once a week these days to make sure the place hadn’t burned down and to meet with the few clients who’d specifically requested his attention. He had no problem giving complete autonomy to his agents, but believed his editors and writers required his constant supervision. It drove them nuts.
Yale waved and got himself a beer and disappeared into the bedroom to pack. It took him a few minutes to notice the bed: Charlie had spelled out “SORRY” down Yale’s side in M&Ms. Tan for the S, yellow for the O, and so on. He grinned, ate three orange candies from the tail of the Y. Charlie’s apologies were always tangible and elaborate. The most Yale ever managed was a feeble note.
Yale was debating sweaters when Gloria called him back to the living room. Gloria was a tiny lesbian with earrings all the way up both ears. She handed him an old issue, open to rows of beefcake photos, each advertising a bar or video or escort service. “Flip through,” she said. “Tell me when you see a woman. Or anyone who isn’t a young white guy, for that matter.”
Yale had no luck in the ad section. In a photo of the Halloween party at Berlin, he found two drag queens. “I don’t suppose this counts,” he said.
“Look,” Charlie said. He was worked up. “Ads will dominate the visuals no matter what, and we can’t ask a bathhouse to show, what? The cleaning lady?”
Rafael said, “Yeah, but Out and Out—” and then he swallowed his words. Out and Out was new, founded by three staffers who’d quit Charlie’s paper last year, in a huff that Out Loud Chicago still relegated lesbian-specific coverage to four color-coded pages in the back. Yale had to agree—it seemed regressive, and the headlines were pink—but Charlie’s remaining lesbian staffers preferred the editorial control it gave them. The new paper was cheaply printed and didn’t have great distribution, but even so, Charlie had stepped up his game in response. Same party shots but more activism, editorials, theater and film reviews.