Page 48 of The Oligarch's Daughter

“I call them street portraits,” he said. “It’s a procession of humanity, a danse macabre of the marginalized and the powerless.” He lowered his voice. “A critic fromArtforumis here.”

“Oh, good,” Paul said. Gesturing to the pictures on the wall, he added, “They’re very different from her Moscow portraits.”

The gallerist cocked his head uncertainly.

“The old Russian ladies.”

“Ah, yes. Her early work. I think she’s developing her own voice, her own style,” he said. “I mean, you look at Annie Leibovitz or Richard Avedon or Yousuf Karsh—you can tell their style at once, right? Same is true for Tatyana Belkin.” He walked Paul over to a photograph of a strange-looking guy, shirtless and heavily tattooed, including on his face, with a strong overhead sun bleaching out part of his forehead. “Now, that’s a Tatyana Belkin. You can tell from a mile away.”

“Interesting, you know, it doesn’t look posed,” Paul said.

“Exactly. Though of course it is.”

“It’s like he’s proud of his warrior attire—his Iron Cross belt, his pierced nipple, the war paint on his neck. He’s a book you want to read.”

“Photographing in bright light, taking pictures midday in the hot sun—that’s typically advised against,” the gallerist said. “It can create a hazy, washed-out look. Even lens flare and color distortion. But for her, it works.” He looked over his shoulder, probably for the critic fromArtforum.

“There’s a contrast between the bright, sunny midday light and her subjects,” Paul said, thinking out loud.

In fifteen minutes, the place was packed with an affluent crowd, nearly everyone holding wineglasses. He heard the name “Diane Arbus” a lot, floating out of the hubbub. No surprise. Arbus did strange and powerful black-and-white portraits of people on the fringes, circus freaks, the mentally ill. But Tatyana’s photographs were very different. They were in color and bright, and they seemed to have been taken with compassion, not condescension or voyeurism, just as she’d said. He heard Russian being spoken, which wasn’t a surprise, either.

Tatyana was soon surrounded by admirers. One of them, a sixty-something-year-old man, was telling her that her images captured people at their truest.

Paul overheard two women next to him talking to each other and looking at Tatyana. “She’s wearing an Azzedine Alaïa,” the first woman said. “Think that’s Rent the Runway?”

“Please,” replied the second woman. “She’s a Galkin. Sheownsthe runway.”

Tatyana’s brother turned up at Paul’s side in front of a large picture of a Black man in a black hat and black leather jacket, an oxygen tube under his nose. The subject’s face was deeply lined from life on the streets, illuminated by a glaring noontime sun.

“Bizarre stuff, huh?” Niko said. His long, dirty-blond hair, combed straight back, was either unwashed or had a lot of product in it.

“This one?”

“The whole show. Weird, don’t you think?” Niko was accompanied by a beautiful girl in a short black dress and a low-cut spangly top whom he didn’t introduce and who stood by him and said nothing. He always seemed to be with a different woman, Paul had noticed.

“Actually, no, Niko. Her work is terrific,” he said. “This guy here shows vulnerability and, I don’t know, bravado? It’s surprisingly intimate.”

Niko’s eyebrows shot up. “Gotta wonder how she got this fancy gallery interested in her stuff, huh?” He chuckled.

Paul smiled. Niko was playing his mind games, trying to provoke Paul into saying something critical of Tatyana.

Paul looked around, saw Tatyana’s father enter, with his redhead security chief, Berzin, at his elbow. Behind them followed Polina and a couple of bullnecked security thugs. Paul wondered if Arkady had to take his security people with him everywhere he went. That could not be fun.

As usual, Polina was subtly competing with her stepdaughter, who was only a few years younger. They were both fashionistas, though their styles were very different. Tatyana countered Polina’s gold and glitz by dressing herself in clothes that weren’t flashy. She had a super-hip, Brooklyn vibe, whereas her stepmother simply and crassly dressed to show off her figure and beauty and wealth. Even their manicures competed. Polina’s nails were long and glossy, different colors each time Paul saw her—hot pink, classic red, salmon, that sort of thing—while Tatyana wore her nails short with pearl polish in an understated, natural shade. She looked subtle and hip where her stepmother went for a big, brassy look. Tonight, Polina was wearing a dramatic black fishnet dress with long fringe at the bottom. Very eye-catching, perhaps meant to steal attention from Tatyana at her opening. Smoky-eye makeup with tiny crystals on the lids. Very high heels with sparkles all over the spikes, and red soles.

Arkady hugged his daughter long and hard. While they were embracing, Polina gasped and took Tatyana’s hand. “Your ring!” she exclaimed. She faltered: “It’s—the diamond is so cute! I think the smaller stones are very chic now.” Then she eyed Tatyana from head to toe and said with a smile, “I’ve said this before—I’d never be able to pull off that outfit.”

“Thank you, I guess,” said Tatyana.

Polina turned to Paul. “Women, in our twenties we dress for men, in our thirties we dress for other women. Who do you think is more judgmental, men or women?”

“Women can be judgmental about a twenty-six-year-old, too,” said Tatyana. “Believe me.”

“Your pictures are surprisingly good,” Polina said. “Especially for a hobby.” She gave Tatyana a hug. “Good for you. I’m glad you’re having fun.”

Tatyana gave Paul a knowing smile and moved on through the crowd.

Arkady put a meaty hand on Paul’s shoulder. “We’re going to make some money with you on the board,” he said.

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