Page 31 of Go Now
Kate thanked her and waited for the email to appear.The server could be slow, especially in the mornings, when everyone in the building was sending, receiving, and replying.She wondered what Morrison meant about 'the sentiments on that site' and so, more out of boredom than curiosity, she opened the email and clicked on the link.
The first thing she saw was a post written just yesterday.There were two large photographs of Vasquez and Ashworth.The title of the post was a well-known Bible quote; she’d seen it many times.Growing up in Chicago, she remembered a rangy old man who used to walk up and down Michigan Avenue with it written in stark capitals on a sandwich board.It came from St.Paul’s Letter to the Romans.
THE WAGES OF SIN ARE DEATH
Her heartbeat quickened as she read the accompanying post.
For a long time now, the art world has become a bloated, arrogant parody of itself. And the recent deaths of the ‘artists’ Ashworth and Vasquez only serve to prove the levels of justified anger which are felt towards these servants of darkness. They trample on the quiet dignity and faith of the ordinary, hard-working American man and woman.They laugh in the face of the things that many Americans still hold dear and consider sacrosanct.Each champagne cork, each glowing review of a friend by a friend, each generous grant and subsidy becomes a whip-hand, a tool with which to beat down the ‘little people’, who apparently don’t get the gigantic joke being made at their expense.
But they do.And they are not laughing.They are angry.And they want justice.
She started to look through the rest of the blog.Whoever was behind it seemed to bear a grudge against the art world in general.Although she disliked the cliché, it was true that love and hate were very close to one another. And this blogger’s hate for the art world had caused him to devote hours of his time and resources to his obsession.
There were pages and pages of photographs, most taken in secret with a long-range lens, featuring various artists going about their daily business: walking the dog, taking their kids to school, picking up groceries… Then there were the gallery pictures: the champagne receptions, the unveilings, the canapes.
Even at a distance, the blogger seemed to have a knack for capturing their subjects at the worst possible moment.As they air-kissed one another, as they laughed too hard at a joke, as they applauded and celebrated and shrugged off compliments with modesty, false or otherwise, he’d somehow made each and every one of them look ghastly and grotesque, disingenuous, puffed-up with pride and an exaggerated sense of their own significance.Kate suddenly remembered with a smile the earthy description her father applied to such people – legions of whom he’d encountered in a different realm as a top surgeon and stem cell researcher.High on their own farts.
But this wasn’t funny.The blogger had published their addresses.Not just their addresses, but staggering quantities of private and personal information: the medications they were taking, the cost of their last car and holiday, the names of their pets, the end-of-year school marks of their children.This was both stalking and shaming, a rupture of privacy on a grand scale, justified by… what?Some burning hatred for the art world.Did they really deserve that?They weren’t arms dealers.They didn’t rob old folks of their savings or harm children. This treatment of them was out of proportion.
‘This is just…deranged,’ she muttered to herself.She forwarded the blog address to Marcus and Chen.
‘What have you sent me?’Marcus asked.
‘Just open it.’
For a while, there was almost complete silence in the office, punctuated by occasional clicks of the mouse and sporadic, whispered expressions of shock.Then Kate found the author's profile.
His name was James Caldwell. His photo was a surprise, all of itself.Caldwell was a large, hulking man, his hair combed flat over his forehead, his features heavy and somehow unfinished, like a sculpture abandoned halfway. He had some skill with a camera, that much was obvious. The blog suggested quite some talent with words as well, or at least, for writing angry polemics.But from the look of him… You would think James Caldwell broke rocks for a living.Possibly with his bare hands.
‘James Patrick Caldwell,’ Chen announced, having swiftly delved into his background.‘Born in Washington, Missouri, 1985.Won a scholarship to the Montroy Academy of Arts, studying sculpture, graduated cum laude.’
She went quiet.
‘And?’Marcus prompted.
‘And nothing.No sign of him exhibiting or selling any works.Doesn’t seem to have an agent.His father sold the family brewery in 2005; Caldwell seems to subsist on a small annuity.Current address, Apartment E, 1106 Kennedy Boulevard, NYC.I know it.It’s near me, in Queens.’
‘Wait.Caldwell’s beer?’Marcus asked.
‘That’s the one.’
‘Man…’ Marcus shook his head.‘After three months in Afghan with no booze, we finished up on a transporter ship in the Gulf.All they had behind the bar was Caldwell’s.That stuff sucks.’
‘So he lives on Daddy’s money, but he claims to be a champion of the people,’ Kate observed.
‘He wouldn’t be the first.’
‘Where are the photographs from the Hauptmann Gallery?’Kate asked.
‘I’m on it,’ Chen said, deftly retrieving the footage from the protests outside Ashworth’s exhibition. Marcus and Kate scooted across to see her screen.
‘It’s him.No doubt about it.’
‘He looks like the kind of guy who could be dangerous with a flint hammer in his hands,’ Chen said.
‘Definitely got the upper body strength,’ Kate agreed.
'I'll send it to Ashworth's agent,' Marcus said.'See if it's the same guy she saw hanging around.'
