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Chapter 1: Nikola Befriends a New York Artist

The two women entered the trendy Soho restaurant and were gestured towards a table in the back almost immediately. Nikola noted that her new friend Eddie personified the image of a young New York City artist as she followed her to the table. Eddie's florescent green miniskirt over black complemented her confident stride and curly mass of hair. Suddenly the city didn't seem nearly as daunting as it had a few hours ago.

As soon as they were seated, Eddie ordered a bottle of wine and filled both their glasses when it arrived. "I imagine you didn't get much notice on that exhibition," she said.

"Only three weeks," Nikola replied, "and it took almost that long just to ship the paintings from Germany. Most of them were already in storage when I heard about it. Now I'm afraid that the whole exhibit looks very disjointed. I had to pull paintings from everywhere, and from all different stages of my development. I don't know how many times I rearranged them today at the gallery, but no matter how I hung them, it never seemed to work completely right. There are just too many styles there."

"Nonsense. It looked wonderful when I saw it. . I like your style and it's much more unified than you think - I felt like there was real emotion behind those paintings. You're just worrying too much."

"You don't think that the styles conflict?"

"No, not at all. It's obvious that those paintings in the back aren't in your usual style, but I think that makes it more exciting. Everything there's realistic, so it's not like a major style change, even if some are more detailed than others. Besides, there's nothing wrong with being able to paint in different styles. After all, Picasso was famous for it."

"Perhaps, but I don't think that anyone since has been allowed to get away with it."

"Gallery managers do frown on that don't they?" Eddie smiled and shook her brown curls playfully. "Sometimes I think they want us to be little machines, always predictably producing the same painting over and over again. Quite the opposite of what art is all about, isn't it?"

"I thought people in America were freer."

"Think again, honey. But don't worry about it, the gallery looks great and you'll have a fabulous opening. Now tell me about those three in the back. They're fascinating paintings."

"They're from dreams," Nikola said softly, pulling nervously at a lock of her long blonde hair, "and are kind of personal. I never planned to exhibit them... Actually I painted them as a sort of catharsis... But I don't want to talk about that now. Tell me what happened to the guy that used to have this exhibition slot. When I was setting up the paintings, I kept feeling like he was looking over my shoulder. Probably just the thought of getting an exhibit because someone died. Did you know him?"

"Yeah, his name was Marty. I used to hang out with him and his girlfriend, Donna. He was a nice guy - very sweet, very down to earth, and a lot easier to get along with than most of the artists I know. Marty and Donna were really close too - they lived together for over five years. Can you imagine being with one person for that long? I certainly couldn't."

"At one time I could have, but now I don't think that's in the cards for me." 

"Me neither. You always hear about those couples that have been happily married for twenty-five years or so, but I can't imagine life with one man at all. Don't you think it would get horribly boring?"

"How old are you?" Nikola asked.

"Well, that came out of the blue."

"I used to feel that way when I was younger, much younger."

"How young?" Eddie asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Early twenties. I think I was more ready to settle down by the time I was twenty-five or so."

"Well, then I must have it for life, 'cuz I'm already twenty-five, and I don't feel any such tendencies. So how old are you?"

"Thirty-six. That must sound ancient to you."

"I'll admit that anything over thirty sounds old to me. But you don't look it at all. Did you ever settle down?"

"I was living with one man for several years. Actually, I rather enjoyed it and I didn't find it the least bit boring," Nikola said thoughtfully.
"So, what happened?"

"He died in an auto accident. We really communicated well. I shared thoughts and feelings with him that I never thought I'd share with anyone. Erik was a very special person."

"You must have been crushed."

"I was very upset about it for a long time. But that was years ago..."

"So I guess you can imagine how Donna must feel. It's been over three weeks and she's still very shaken." Eddie lowered her voice and added, "She's totally convinced that it was murder."

"Really? Did he die under suspicious circumstances?"

"Not really. He died of a heroin overdose. He didn't have a reputation as an addict, but who knows? It's common enough around here. What can you say about it? Donna insists that he would never touch the stuff, but she's his girlfriend, she's not exactly impartial."

"What do you think?"

"I figure he used the weekend Donna was away to try it, and totally blew the proportions or something. You'd think he would've been smart enough to have someone experienced with him. It doesn't really seem like something Marty would do, but what do I know? I can't imagine anyone having a motive for killing Marty. He was a struggling artist like the rest of us, and a really nice guy. That kind of makes me think that Donna's just not dealing with his death. She doesn't really seem unstable, but, well you'll meet her later, and you can judge for yourself. You are coming aren't you?"

"Coming where?"

"The Maple Bar, of course. That's where we hang out, and almost everyone should be there tonight."

"Who's we?"

"Oh, a lot of local artists. Even a couple of others from our gallery. You must come."

"Sure, I'd love to. I was really hoping to get a sense of the New York art scene while I was here. When are you going?"

 "Well, this is a late lunch, so if we just stretch it out a bit, we can go directly from here. How about another glass of wine?"

"I don't know, the stuff goes right to my head. I'm already getting a little tipsy..."

"Oh, come on. You only go around once - you may as well enjoy it as much as possible. Besides you've got something to celebrate - the exhibition is hung. There aren't many artists who can claim to have mounted a solo show on three weeks notice."

"Okay, you've talked me into it. I just hope I can find my way home after all this."

"Are you staying here in Soho?"

"Yes, the gallery found me an apartment for the year. They're even splitting the rent with me."

"Really? That's extraordinarily nice of them. They must really have a lot of faith in you."

"I've always gotten that impression from Peter, but Martha hardly acknowledges my existence."

"She's like that with everybody. She usually ignores you, but if she has a problem or something, she'll be at your doorstep instantly, and then you'll wish she was still ignoring you. What kind of apartment did they find you?" Eddie asked.

"It's nice. It's on the top floor, so I have a lot of space and light. The building's kind of shabby, though, and I don't know how secure it is. I just hope what I heard about New York isn't really true."

"What, that it's horribly dangerous?" Nikola nodded as Eddie continued, "I don't worry about it too much. I don't think it's nearly as bad as its reputation, but things do happen once in a while. Is your apartment on Wooster Street?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, it is. How did you know?"

"I think the gallery owns that apartment, they used to have parties there. I know they've put up some collectors there, but that was over a year ago. You know, when I think back, it seems to me that Martha was different then. She was much more involved with things - you might even say that she was psyched about the gallery."

"What happened?"

"I don't know, I guess she just lost interest. I never really noticed a change at the time, it's only now that I look back, that I notice it. But I don't really watch her, so I could be totally wrong. Back then I was so thrilled to be in a gallery that I didn't really expect all that much from Martha anyway."

Nikola turned the discussion to the reception, which had been in the back of her mind almost constantly for the past few days. "What are Martha's receptions like?"

"Well I have nothing to really compare them to, since this is my first gallery, but they definitely seem to be a little off-kilter. She always asks the artist to come late, for starters."

"We can come late to our own reception? Doesn't that convey a sense of laxity, like we have no pride in our work?"

"She thinks it's the thing to do - to make yourself more in demand. All I know is she always asks me to come twenty minutes late."

"What about setting up?"

"Cynthia takes care of all that. All you have to do is look great, and smile lots, no matter what kind of bullshit is being fed to you. So, party it up while you can, because two nights from now you'll be bored out of your mind."

"I take it you're not so fond of these receptions."

"I absolutely can't stand them. Talking to collectors drives me crazy. Either they're buying by the inch, with no concern for the artworks themselves, or else they're telling me what I should think of and do with my own paintings. I've come dangerously close to killing some of them on occasion," Eddie said with a twinkle in her hazel eyes. "But I just drink heavily and try to keep that stupid smile plastered on. So far, I haven't snapped yet, and that's all I ask for."

"I'm nervous about it. Things seem so different in Germany."

"How so?"

"I feel much more involved with everything there. The Munich office is run by a man named Peter, and he has a completely different management style than Martha. He likes to be personally involved with everything - and he gets the artists involved too. For receptions, we worked together on the guest list, what we were going to serve, where to hang paintings - everything. I was surprised when Martha had almost nothing to do with hanging the paintings."

"Yeah, she keeps herself pretty distant from day-to-day operations. She's a little better at the receptions - she seems to come alive in crowds - it's the only time I've actually seen her actively promoting my stuff, but I'm glad to be in a gallery period, so I don't complain too much. Is the Munich branch very different in other ways too?"

"Completely. You'd think they were independent galleries. From what I've seen, I'd say that the association is probably rather loose. Even though they share the same name, I don't think they share that much else."

"That doesn't surprise me somehow. I can't imagine Martha working that closely with anyone else. She seems much too set in her ways." 

"How long have you been with Vermes Gallery?"

"Almost two years. How about you?"

"Three years, but it's only in the last year that I've been earning enough money to support myself."

"You're lucky to do that at all. I still have to take on odd jobs all the time, even with the help I get from my parents. It's like that even in the big galleries in New York," Eddie lowered her voice down to a whisper and added, "I heard that even at Burch Modern, which is one of the biggest galleries around here, sixty percent of the affiliated artists can't support themselves on their painting. Sixty percent! Can you believe it? Those guys are old, well-respected, artists! But I keep hoping for that big collector to spot me and save me from all that."

Nikola laughed and said, "I think we're all hoping for that." She was enjoying the conversation and the company immensely, and hardly noticed the passage of time. She was glad to have found a friend in New York, especially one she felt so comfortable with.

Eddie raised her wine glass to offer a toast with, "Here's to our illusive collectors." The two women touched glasses and exchanged smiles. Eddie then refilled the glasses from the quickly diminishing supply in their bottle and said, "You know, when I'm talking to you, I feel like I'm talking to a native. I've never met a foreigner who is as fluent in English as you. You hardly even have an accent. How do you do it?"

"To tell you the truth, I'm not sure. I've known the language as long as I can remember. For all I know, I could've been born in this country."
"You're kidding. You mean you don't know?"

"I wish I did. The fact that I don't has haunted me my whole life." Nikola looked down at her slender hands resting on the table. It always made her feel vulnerable when she first told someone about her unusual background, so she hesitated momentarily before continuing. "I'm an orphan. I don't know anything about my real parents."

"Do you know how you got to the orphanage?"

"I got to St. Mary's when I was seven. I think I was in a hospital first. I must have been in an accident or something because my arm was broken and I had bruises all over. No one knew where I came from. Much later on I found out that the orphanage had received a package with a lot of money in it and instructions to pick me up from the hospital, but nothing else. No identification or anything. And even though St. Mary's is in Germany, and the money was in Deutsche Marks, I spoke mostly English. American English."

"Did you speak any German?"

"Not much, but I could understand everything they said."

"And you don't have any memory of anything before that?"

"Nothing."

"That must have been really rough."

"It was. I always felt very alienated. All the other kids knew their histories, and they made fun of me a lot. They taunted me about who my parents were, and picked all the worst possible scenarios, including aliens and monsters... You wouldn't believe some of the things that kids can make up. Plus, most of the other kids my age had been there much longer and had all their social circles already mapped out."

"Did you have any friends there?"

"Not really, but there was one nun that was nice to me. She got me started in art."

"Tell me about her."

"Her name was Sister Innes and she taught art. I'm not really sure how much of an art education she had, but she definitely had enthusiasm, which more than made up for whatever she might have lacked in technique. She encouraged me from the start and the more I got into it, the more I loved it. She saw my interest and fed it with whatever books and supplies she could gather."

"Really? That's fascinating. Your background is so mysterious, romantic even, it's perfect for an artist. I've always wished for a background like that. Mine's so boring that it's more appropriate for a lawyer than an artist."

"That's ridiculous, everyone's background contains fuel for art. What's your background?" Nikola asked, her blue eyes open wide.
"Totally middle class, all-American. I grew up in the suburbs of Connecticut. My father worked for an insurance company and my mother taught nursery school. They're talking about moving to Florida next year for their retirement. Boring, boring, boring."

"It sounds sweet. Are you close with your family?"

"They don't understand me at all. I'd much rather have a background like yours."

"It may sound romantic, but I would've given anything to know my parents. And with the memory gap - I feel like I'm half crazy sometimes."

"But that's the beauty of it. You've suffered - you're a tortured soul. Your art must be deeper than mine simply by virtue of that. Look at Van Gogh. He was the ultimate tortured soul and now people can't get enough of his work."

"I don't think I'm nearly as tortured as he was."

"I never meant to imply that you were, but many of your paintings are very intriguing, like those three in the back. Is that you in the paintings?"

"Yes. I didn't want to include those, but I had nothing else to fill up the space, and Peter thought I should show them."

"I'm glad he talked you into it, because they're wonderful paintings."

"Don't you think they're kind of morbid, maybe even gory? To me they just feel too personal."

"Please, Nikola. Obviously your grasp of the American public isn't nearly as good as your grasp of the language. Five minutes of television makes your paintings seem tame. Besides, art is supposed to be personal, and they're such a powerful metaphor: paintings of your own death. Is it some kind of premonition?"

"I don't know. It's directly from a dream I had repeatedly for several years. I thought I could get it out of my system by painting it."

"Did you?"

"So far. I used to dread going to sleep at night."

"Tell me about the dream."

Nikola looked across the table at Eddie and felt that here was a kindred spirit whom she could trust. "When it starts out, I'm watching myself from above, as if I were standing on a balcony or something. I look down on a foyer in some kind of large building or mansion - the kind of setting you'd see in some of the castles in Germany. I watch myself come in from one side of the foyer, and I'm dressed as if I'm going to some kind of formal ball or something."

"I remember it from the paintings," Eddie interrupted. "The vivid red of the dress is very striking. But go on."

"There's not much else to it. I start climbing up the stairs, and then fall back down. Then I land in that crooked heap like in the third painting. It looks as if my neck is broken. It's eerie.

"I've had this dream, or I guess I should really call it a nightmare, many times, and it's always the same. The weirdest thing about it is my perspective. It's very disconcerting to watch yourself and to be completely powerless over your actions. As I'm standing above it, I know what's going to happen, but there's nothing I can do about it. I even try to scream at one point, to warn myself, but nothing comes out and I'm rooted to the spot. It's very frustrating."

"What makes you fall?" Eddie asked, transfixed.

"I don't know. I can't see the top of the stairs - it's completely distorted - like there's some chandelier in the way or something, but that doesn't make any sense because no one would put a chandelier in the middle of a balcony like that. I guess it's one of those dream things."

"Do you have many dreams where you watch yourself from a distance?"

"No, I don't have any other dreams like that. In my other dreams, I always have my own perspective. I mean, I float around sometimes, or fly, or do other impossible things, but it's always me. It's strange - especially to see the fall. The way I tumble and tumble, and finally land in that twisted position. It's creepy. That's usually when I wake up screaming."

"Have you always had these nightmares?"

"I haven't always had this one, but I've always had nightmares in one form or another, ever since I can remember. I've only begun painting them recently, though."

"You should paint all of them. Those three paintings are very intriguing, and the whole idea that they're nightmares is great. They're directly from your subconscious. According to the Surrealists, that's the purest art form - directly from the subconscious with no conscious intervention."

"You mean Breton, Magritte and all? With the automatic writing and drawing?" Nikola asked.

"Yes, exactly. Of course, since you're awake when you're painting, there's actually a lot of conscious intervention, but I still love the idea that the images are from dreams. I try to use images from dreams for my paintings as much as I can."

"Are you a Surrealist?"

"Well, I would never use that word describe myself, because, for some reason that I've never understood, people in the art scene here totally turn off if you describe your work as Surrealist. On the other hand, surrealistic imagery frequently appears throughout popular culture, and even in 'high' art. Nowadays, with more and more artists using electronic media, you see it all the time. So I don't get it. I mean, I'm really into Surrealism, and I use it in my art, but I usually call myself an Expressionist, because that way people actually look at my paintings before judging them. Most of my paintings have a very painterly quality to them, so no one questions the Expressionist label."

"I'd love to see them sometime."

"I'm having a party Saturday, and I'd love it if you could come. If you really want to see them, come early and help set up."

"Sure, what time?"

"Seven or eightish. Here's my address." Eddie scrawled on a business card and handed it to Nikola.

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