an extensive collection of Boston painters from 1930s Expressionism to the
present. Genevieve, meet Juliana West, one of my favorite contemporary
up-and-coming painters.”
Tall,
angular, and draped in Donna Karan, Genevieve wore her platinum hair in a
flawless chin-length bob. She had a polished, sixty going on fifty look, and I
couldn’t tell whether to credit good genes or an amazing plastic surgeon.
Probably a bit of both. She smiled warmly, as Elsa fluttered away, probably to
make yet another introduction. No one worked a crowd better than Elsa.
“Wonderful
to finally meet you! I’ve heard so much about your work from Elsa. And from
others, as well.”
“And
I’ve heard so much about you. And your collection, of course,” I responded,
trying to contain my excitement. Genevieve was a trendsetter. If she liked my
work, others would follow.
“The
collection is my passion. It represents the best of Boston painting over the
past hundred years. My late husband’s father began it, and I’ve added a few
works every year for nearly forty years now. When I’m gone, the Museum will get
most of it—aside from a few small bequests to friends and family, of
course.”
Instinctively
liking her, I responded. “Elsa’s told me how amazing your collection is. Many
years from now, when the Museum gets it, I’m sure it will be an important
addition to their collection.”
“Not
so many, I’m afraid.” Genevieve smiled conspiratorially. “This old girl is
older than she looks. Come on, guess my age.”
“Sixty-two?”
“Not
even close. I’m a tribute to my plastic surgeon. Not to mention the lovely man
who does my Botox. Why, at this point, I’m nearly as much of a work of art as
anything in my collection.”
I
found her irreverence charming. “Good for you. I hope I look half as good as
you when I’m sixty-whatever.”
“You
have good bones. Classic features. You’ll be fine, unless you insist on smoking
or tanning yourself into a piece of jerky, of course. Like Anne Summers, poor
thing.” Genevieve lowered her voice, and gestured at a middle-aged woman
standing near the bar. “Look at that leathery hide. Years of roasting herself
to obsession, on one of those dreadful silver reflective things. Basted with
oil like a Thanksgiving turkey. Tanning disorder, I call it. Remember, there’s
only so much Botox can do. And of course, don’t get fat. Nothing ages a person
like rolls of fat.” She shuddered.
I
laughed out loud. “Tanning disorder. You’ve just described one of my college
roommates. Eve fried herself year-round. Even during the winter, she’d spread
her tanning blanket on the dorm fire escape and go out for ten minutes at a
time. I never understood Eve’s obsession with tanning, because she was a
beautiful woman, talented and smart. We used to warn her that she’d have skin
cancer at thirty, but she didn’t want to hear it.”
“They
never do. When I told Anne one day over lunch that her face matched her
handbag, she called me a bitch.”
“I’m
sure you meant well,” I said.
“It
was nothing less than the truth. And someone needed to tell her. But Anne’s the
sensitive type. Expects everyone to be nice. Whatever that means. If failing to
offer the human equivalent of trotting up to her with my tongue hanging
out—sniffing and lapping for all the world like a golden retriever—means
I’m a bitch, then I suppose I am. God, people are weak.”
Time
flew by as we moved on to talking about my work, and before we parted,
Genevieve asked for my card and promised to make a studio visit. I hoped it
would be soon, because she was one of the most fascinating people I’d ever met.
A scathing wit combined with a heart of gold.
Realizing
the evening was coming to an end, I looked around for Duncan. People were
retrieving their coats, and the bar was closing down. I spotted Duncan near the
entrance.
“There
you are! We should get going before they kick us out. Let’s get a cab. My
present. Genevieve, meet Juliana West, one of my favorite contemporary
up-and-coming painters.”
Tall,
angular, and draped in Donna Karan, Genevieve wore her platinum hair in a
flawless chin-length bob. She had a polished, sixty going on fifty look, and I
couldn’t tell whether to credit good genes or an amazing plastic surgeon.
Probably a bit of both. She smiled warmly, as Elsa fluttered away, probably to
make yet another introduction. No one worked a crowd better than Elsa.
“Wonderful
to finally meet you! I’ve heard so much about your work from Elsa. And from
others, as well.”
“And
I’ve heard so much about you. And your collection, of course,” I responded,
trying to contain my excitement. Genevieve was a trendsetter. If she liked my
work, others would follow.
“The
collection is my passion. It represents the best of Boston painting over the
past hundred years. My late husband’s father began it, and I’ve added a few
works every year for nearly forty years now. When I’m gone, the Museum will get
most of it—aside from a few small bequests to friends and family, of
course.”
Instinctively
liking her, I responded. “Elsa’s told me how amazing your collection is. Many
years from now, when the Museum gets it, I’m sure it will be an important
addition to their collection.”
“Not
so many, I’m afraid.” Genevieve smiled conspiratorially. “This old girl is
older than she looks. Come on, guess my age.”
“Sixty-two?”
“Not
even close. I’m a tribute to my plastic surgeon. Not to mention the lovely man
who does my Botox. Why, at this point, I’m nearly as much of a work of art as
anything in my collection.”
I
found her irreverence charming. “Good for you. I hope I look half as good as
you when I’m sixty-whatever.”
“You
have good bones. Classic features. You’ll be fine, unless you insist on smoking
or tanning yourself into a piece of jerky, of course. Like Anne Summers, poor
thing.” Genevieve lowered her voice, and gestured at a middle-aged woman
standing near the bar. “Look at that leathery hide. Years of roasting herself
to obsession, on one of those dreadful silver reflective things. Basted with
oil like a Thanksgiving turkey. Tanning disorder, I call it. Remember, there’s
only so much Botox can do. And of course, don’t get fat. Nothing ages a person
like rolls of fat.” She shuddered.
I
laughed out loud. “Tanning disorder. You’ve just described one of my college
roommates. Eve fried herself year-round. Even during the winter, she’d spread
her tanning blanket on the dorm fire escape and go out for ten minutes at a
time. I never understood Eve’s obsession with tanning, because she was a
beautiful woman, talented and smart. We used to warn her that she’d have skin
cancer at thirty, but she didn’t want to hear it.”
“They
never do. When I told Anne one day over lunch that her face matched her
handbag, she called me a bitch.”
“I’m
sure you meant well,” I said.
“It
was nothing less than the truth. And someone needed to tell her. But Anne’s the
sensitive type. Expects everyone to be nice. Whatever that means. If failing to
offer the human equivalent of trotting up to her with my tongue hanging
out—sniffing and lapping for all the world like a golden retriever—means
I’m a bitch, then I suppose I am. God, people are weak.”
Time
flew by as we moved on to talking about my work, and before we parted,
Genevieve asked for my card and promised to make a studio visit. I hoped it
would be soon, because she was one of the most fascinating people I’d ever met.
A scathing wit combined with a heart of gold.
Realizing
the evening was coming to an end, I looked around for Duncan. People were
retrieving their coats, and the bar was closing down. I spotted Duncan near the
entrance.
“There
you are! We should get going before they kick us out. Let’s get a cab. My
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