Becoming Marta Page 9

  Marta wondered why Adriana had called Mauricio and not her. On the beach trip she’d felt they’d started a potentially important friendship. Using her index finger, she deftly ran through her cell phone’s contacts. When she located the one she wanted, she clicked on it and pressed “Call.”

  “Manolo, hi . . . Yes . . . Are you busy? . . . Call me back, okay? . . . Thanks . . . Yes, use this number.”

  Her nails glided over the tiny keyboard as she texted Mau: OK, will call me back soon.

  Fifteen minutes later, when traffic finally started to unravel and they were moving along the Periférico toward Reforma, Marta’s phone rang.

  “Hi, how are you? . . . Yes, I got back two days ago . . . How did you know? . . . Yes, it’s too much house for me. Too many memories . . . Yes . . . Well, we want to go to New York, and I remembered that you fly there all the time. So you’re going? . . . Can you take us? . . . Just Mau and me. You’ll let me know? . . . Thanks.”

  She hung up and quickly texted Mau: Got plane. Then she called him.

  “He has a meeting on Thursday. When he’s finished he’ll call us, and we can meet him at the airport in Toluca. Done.”

  The smell of roasted chili peppers cooking on a hot plate filled the street. Marta closed the window and asked Israel to blast the music.

  26

  The Sheep

  Adriana’s first few days in New York were a whirlwind: setting up the Lower East Side apartment that the gallery rep had loaned her; relearning how to use the subway; waiting for the art to arrive; renegotiating her contract with Larry Stein. Nothing was particularly difficult, but everything required effort, from activating a local cell phone to getting used to the food. But what really wore her out was seeing. Seeing! In Mexico she had more or less seen it all, and her gaze would fix on something that stood out, something unusual, which was not infrequent. But in New York everything was new: all the people—all the different types of people—the street signs, and the store windows. She wanted to see and memorize it all. The city changed at a dizzying rate. Having visited before did not make her feel any less a foreigner. English bounced around her head like a basketball.

  She’d asked Larry if she could remain in New York for two months after her show opened in order to work on a new project. Although she felt dazed by the city, Adriana realized that she needed to concentrate, to keep up, or else she’d never complete it. Besides, she was determined to disprove her dealer’s skepticism.

  She had been turning the idea around for months. But when she explained it to Larry, he was not impressed. However, she didn’t let up. Adriana knew that he could not envision the final product, and that she’d have to present a nearly finished work for him to appreciate her concept.

  Her idea for making nativity scenes seemed old-fashioned and generic to him. But what she wanted was precisely to renew the cliché. She sought to create contemporary nativities so that people would see them with fresh eyes, so they’d ask themselves about the implications of God making man in his image. Over time artists had depicted Jesus and the Virgin according to their era. In the Middle Ages there were wooden cribs, humble mangers, the swaddled Child, the Virgin wearing stiff veils that covered her face. In the Renaissance they did it according to the visions of Saint Bridget of Sweden, which had been translated into Latin and described the Child illuminated and nude, the blond Virgin kneeling, and the angels singing.

  It wasn’t only that each era’s painters learned new techniques; rather, they had different ways of seeing life and consequently the birth of Christ. People had always seen a Mary and a Joseph who represented them as they were in their own contemporary time. Even the nativities of the Conquista had needed to take on indigenous features in order to be accepted. When the first missionaries reached Japan, they made Christ with slanted eyes. Why not now? Nativity scenes had existed from the first century. Saint Francis of Assisi came up with the idea of creating the first human representation of the nativity and had to ask permission from Pope Honorius III.

  Influenced by the dramatizations of nativity scenes she’d seen as a child and the classic paintings she admired as an adult, Adriana wanted to portray men and women with their babies, the way they dressed daily, naturally, in jeans and skirts. She sought to cast a wide net of modern parents, from married gay couples and punk couples, to immigrants of all nationalities. The photos would be large format, mounted in polished aluminum frames and perhaps even lit from behind like spectacular billboards. They needed to be colorful and gleaming.

  After scouting the city for a good location, she decided that Sheep Meadow in Central Park would be the best place to find all sorts of families with young children. She hoped Larry would help her get the necessary permits from the city and that his three assistants would help with the staging, finding the families, and obtaining the signed releases.

  “I need a donkey, two sheep, and a cow,” she told Larry.

  “Live?”

  “They have to be. They’re in all the nativities. I can’t do it without them. They’re essential elements.”

  “I think it’ll be difficult.”

  “Ask.”

  “They’re not going to lend them to us.”

  “Ask! If they say no, I’ll see what else I can do, but I need you to really try, okay, Larry? I’m telling you that I need them. This is the project that will establish me as an artist.”

  “You’re already established.”

  “Larry, how much are my pieces selling for?”

  “Twenty thousand.”

  “Well, if you’d like them to sell for two hundred thousand someday, get me the animals.”

  With Larry it was better to discuss matters in financial terms rather than artistic ones, even if he would have sworn to the contrary.

  Stretched out on her futon, which she’d set up near the window to get some air and enjoy the view, dressed only in a T-shirt and black underwear, Adriana was on the phone with Marta.

  “I can’t believe he doesn’t see it, that he doesn’t understand that I must have the animals.”

  “What will you do if he doesn’t obtain the permits?” asked Marta.

  “I don’t know. Photoshop, I guess. But he better get them. Do you know what this city is capable of doing in the name of art? They shut down entire streets, they build waterfalls, they assemble floating museums. One donkey and one cow are nothing next to that.”

  “Maybe I can get them for you.”

  “You?”

  “Sure, I know one of the main donors to the zoo.”

  “The zoo?”

  “The Central Park Zoo. I think the person I know donated the entire penguin exhibit.”

  “I didn’t know there was a zoo in the park.”

  “Right next to Sheep Meadow.”

  “How do you know this person? Forgive me. Why am I asking? You know everyone. What do I care?”

  Adriana marveled at Marta’s power and influence. The world was a small place to her. She could simply pick up the phone and get whatever she wanted, be it a plane or donkeys. She carried herself with a sense of entitlement, from the way she boarded the yacht to how it was no big deal knowing people in Milan.

  “We met when my mom was on the committee to rescue Bosque de Chapultepec,” Marta said. “They served as her advisers.”

  Since their afternoon on the yacht, Marta called Adriana almost every day. At first it had seemed strange, but soon Adriana accepted it as a pleasant reality and even looked forward to it.

  One day without meaning to, she asked, “Why didn’t you call me yesterday?”

  “I don’t know,” Marta said. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “You always call me.”

  “You can call me too, you know.”

  “Yes.”

  “So why don’t you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, then don’t complain.”

  Adriana felt closer to Marta now that she had permission to call her, a privilege she had not tho
ught was hers.

  “When do you arrive?”

  “Friday.”

  “Do you want me to come meet you?”

  Where had that come from? Adriana had never met anyone at the airport.

  “No, thanks. They’re picking me up.”

  Adriana breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Let me see if I can get you those donkeys. When do you need them?”

  “September fifteenth through thirtieth.”

  “That’s more than a week.”

  “I know.”

  “Okay.”

  Adriana mumbled.

  “What did you say?”

  “Thanks,” Adriana said.

  “What?”

  “Thanks!” Adriana yelled into the receiver.

  “Kiss.”

  “Bye.”

  Adriana hung up the phone. She felt Marta’s kiss on her mouth.

  Her mother had reproached her for being friends with Marta. “Don’t you see that she hates us, that she wants to destroy us?”

  “Mom, that has nothing to do with me,” she’d answered. But now Adriana understood what had impressed her mother so much about Pedro’s world. Now Adriana wanted to belong to it too. She was determined to ignore anything that got in her way, including her own mother.

  27

  The Donkey

  What was she getting herself into? What did it matter? Marta couldn’t remember the last time she’d had this much fun. It certainly was better than the doldrums she’d been mired in since her mother’s death.

  The trusteeship approved the sale of Villa del Mar, and Marta entertained herself chatting with real estate agents and potential clients. Two Americans were fighting over the property, and if all turned out well it would sell for a 30 percent profit. Perhaps she was not as bad at business as people imagined.

  Marta called her personal banker at Citibank. She’d never had any intention of bothering the zoo’s adviser, but she did not want to admit to Adriana that she was planning to buy the animals. Years of tutelage by her mother had taught Marta which favors could be requested and which were better avoided. Fortunately, that which could not be requested could almost always be purchased.

  “Michael, it’s Marta de León Tordella de la Vega. How are you? I need to ask you a favor.”

  Bankers like Michael existed specifically to grant people like her favors.

  “Whatever you need, Marti—sorry, Marta. It’s just that you have your mother’s voice.”

  “Everyone tells me that.”

  “You already have your usual suite reserved. What can I get for you? Tickets?”

  “No, no, it’s something a bit more unusual.”

  “You know we’re here to serve you. There’s nothing I haven’t heard before. Believe me.”

  “I need a cow, a donkey, and two sheep for two weeks in Central Park.”

  “You want what?”

  “I can ask someone else. I know it’s a strange request. It’s for a work of art.”

  “Sure, sure, I understand. Let me see what I can do for you.”

  Renting the animals and their trailer, plus securing the parking permit and two shepherds, cost ten thousand dollars. Marta paid happily. As soon as she’d arranged everything, she heard her mother’s voice saying, “Don’t expect gratitude.” Marta knew how often her mother had been let down after helping someone out.

  “When people need help and want something, they’re very good at asking for it. But the minute you give them what they need, their pride returns. They’ll never thank you. They think they’ve earned it, that it was owed to them. When you do give, do it without expecting anything in return, because you will receive nothing.”

  Marta couldn’t count the number of times she’d heard variations on that speech. She didn’t want to think about what she wanted from Adriana or how she expected Adriana to show her gratitude. She only wanted to help.

  28

  The Gallery

  We r coming. Adriana was in the middle of installing her work when she saw Mauricio’s text. She bit her lip involuntarily, her body reacting before her mind knew what to think. She was already on edge about the show. It was always like this—a nearly debilitating sensation gripped her. Normally, she was more than capable of walking and talking, of living, without giving much thought to what she was doing. Now every gesture took effort, every step strained her tendons, and every phrase felt like a battle. When she tried to speak, she turned into a stuttering mute.

  The gallery was so pristine that she panicked, feeling ashamed to hang her pictures there. What if they sullied the space? Staring at the smooth white walls, the majestic space, the perfect lighting, Adriana started hyperventilating. The canvases were still boxed up, yet she was already being asked her thoughts on this or that wall. Adriana’s art burst with color, so they chose to leave the walls white. Except for the collage of her mother’s receipts; they would hang on an intensely dark-blue wall to serve as a foil for the thousands of white and yellow pieces of paper.

  The next day the gallery looked like it had been hit by a tornado. There were boxes and packages strewn about the floor, canvases leaning on every wall, and the lights weren’t working properly. The space had grown oppressive. Adriana felt like she had to flee. What if her work was not well received? There was already too much garbage in the world. What if her paintings were just more garbage, more duplicated garbage?

  She thought about Duchamp’s urinal and his bicycle tire on a bench. They were garbage that functioned as inflection points. But they were more than that. They had an aesthetic quality that defied temporality. Was that an intrinsic quality, or did it stem from having defined a certain trend that later became iconic?

  Adriana tried to recall the first time she’d seen them displayed in a museum. But no, she’d never really seen them with fresh eyes, just like she could not see her own work that way. There was always a prior photograph, an earlier image.

  “What about this wall? Centering the three canvases here would be a bit of a tight squeeze. We could put two and two here, although thematically—”

  “No, no, leave the three there,” said Adriana, forced to focus, “but put the Facebook one in the center.”

  If you looked at them closely—and Adriana wondered if anyone would bother—each self-portrait told a story. You could glean so much about people from their Facebook profiles. You got a picture of their face, the photographs they shared, the number of friends they had, whether they were extroverted, their date of birth, their tastes in movies, the places they traveled, and their marital status. In truth, that Facebook page no longer existed; her painting of it was not just a portrait, it was also a historical record.

  It was akin to looking through a stranger’s passport. So many “truths” become instantly accessible: age, place of birth, travel destinations. Yet no one believes that their passport reflects their authentic self. The contents are merely les chiffres—facts and figures that interest only adults and which Saint-Exupéry so enjoyed criticizing. How much money do they have? What street do they live on? No one asks about the tone of their voice or what games they like. What did Adriana’s paintings say? Were they the voice or les chiffres? Could you see a person’s soul in her portraits?

  Adriana left the gallery as soon as she could. She fled to MoMA in order to calm herself within its walls. It was here, in this museum—on this very patio, she was almost certain—that she had decided to dedicate herself to art. She had been eighteen years old then and bursting with things to say. She’d been flooded with feelings and ideas; she’d seen everything within those walls—beauty, hatred, anguish, disgust, envy, love, respect, passion. She had listened to questions and answers, to conversations that had lasted for centuries. She had wanted to be a part of that.

  When she got back to her room at the Paramount Hotel later that night after visiting MoMA for the first time, her boyfriend was watching television. She undressed and pulled off the bedsheet. She wrapped her body like a Greek goddess w
earing a cloak and jumped on the sole chair in that tiny room, announcing in a loud voice filled with rapture, “I am going to be an artist.”

  “You think you’d dig that?”

  “Yep, I am going to enroll at San Carlos as soon as we get home. I need to learn how to say everything I want to say.”

  How she had worked since then! Her mother didn’t approve, but in spite of her mother’s opposition she had her professors’ acceptance, her peers’ envy and admiration, and her own determination to sacrifice friendships, relationships, and even sleep. Adriana didn’t normally look back. The moment she reached a goal, her mind moved on to the next one.

  Last year MoMA had purchased one of her dressing-room photographs. It had not been displayed yet. Adriana knew the woman in charge of new acquisitions, a cautious buyer who preferred to collect a bit of this and a bit of that in order to avoid mistakes. It was a relatively inexpensive market, so when Adriana found out that they’d acquired her photo she was pleased but did not feel like a part of the museum. She wasn’t a part of the dialogue. Her voice remained no more than a whisper. She wanted to enter the conversation with a roar. How could she do that? By creating a perspective that the world wanted to see—or did not wish to see but would be obliged to—forming part of the public domain, part of humanity’s cultural heritage, like the early art of Louise Bourgeois. Some whispers are intense, she thought.

  The museum had undergone a complete renovation since the last time Adriana visited. Only the patio retained its former essence; the rest of the museum had been turned into an odd hybrid of luxury storefront and subway station.

  We r coming. Her cell phone vibrated again. Shit, she had enough worries without having to think about Mau and Marta. She tried to calm herself. It could be fun to have friends around. Marta could certainly introduce her to interesting people in New York. But Adriana didn’t want to enjoy herself too much. She had to establish boundaries if she was to complete her next project.

  On the third day Adriana’s anxiety turned into anticipation. She was excited. She vacillated between admiring her canvases and hating them. The gallery was transformed by her art. Her paintings made a statement. Moreover, they offered something original, which was the essence of her artistic mission. They were modern and original, yet the oils gave them a luster and a classic quality.