CHAPTER 47 – Red Envelope (2)

LAPA.
The Whitman Galleries.

Armand Armar spent three and a half years at LAPA, wondering if he had made the right choice.

For an undiscovered artist without family, museum, or industry connections, this was the norm. Visual Arts was a significant discipline at LAPA, but it occupied a strange ecological niche within the school’s hierarchy of the arts. First, it was immensely respected, having produced some true world-class artists in the last four decades. Secondly, it was invisible until a Gala hit, then all the artworks were everywhere all at once.

Before the Gala, his calling card was being a good-looking Iranian kid who looked like a Sufi poet of love. His usual engagement with the “theatre” class involved helping out with painted backdrops. Like his peers, he struggled to find his niche, his art.

Then he had pulled a mermaid out of the sea one night, and then spent the next four months pouring his soul onto a three-plane canvas.

When it was done, he was too afraid to speak to the mermaid, too fearful that she might not like his art, so he went home to sleep.

When he woke up, Principal Burton had set him up in the gallery for the day, where his artworks would remain until the end of January.

His first visitor arrived at 10 AM on the dot. It was a middle-aged curator from the Hammersleigh Museum in Pasadena, LA. She was a forty-something in a linen blazer that looked like it cost more than his pastel oil budget. She introduced herself, handed him a card, then straight away told Armand his vision was remarkable.

They sat and talked for about twenty minutes, about his inspiration, his artistic vision, about where he wanted to be in five years, and about an exhibition.

For now, he had only this—this singular vision Eppie inspired. There would be more, but here in this room, his whole world lay.

The lady thanked him. She would be watching him with great interest, she said. Come and find me anytime, when you have more work of a similar calibre. They would love to have him. They exchanged contacts.

Armand’s second visitor arrived at ten-thirty, a man this time, an art trader, from the Annenberg Foundation’s acquisitions arm. As if afraid of being seen as a critic, the older gentleman in his tweed jacket spent ten minutes explaining that he was not from the Gallery.

He was from the foundation itself. He represented the money.
He was very, very friendly. He praised Armand to no end and told him that the work—this work—would be important if his career trajectory were to follow its natural course.

Hence, the foundation wanted it. It was an investment.
In him.
In his art.
In his vision.

He offered a price. Six figures.

Armand did not barter, as was Iranian tradition, because he owed his uncle a great debt, both in cash and in the use of the family van. It was also proof. It was a repudiation of his Baba, who had sat him down and seriously told Armand he would not make it as an artist and that he should stop dreaming and become an architect. It was also proof that his Maman was right, that her artistic soul had a place here, in America, a country where anything was possible.

Two more businessmen arrived at noon, but the work had already been sold.
They gave him business cards.

The LA Modern Art Association.
Los Angeles County Museum of Art

In the afternoon, before he went home, a man stumbled into the gallery thirty minutes before closing time. It was a Middle Eastern man, a developer. The man explained in no uncertain terms that he admired Gogh and Juliana Vaughan and that when the two could arrive at a happy synthesis, his wallet would open generously. He needed an installation built for a mixed-use entry lobby on the top floor, serving members of the fine arts exchange market.

One of their directors called him at midnight and told him to find Armand. They wanted his work, “Girl with Almond Flowers”, or something like it, ideally a fresh, new piece. The deadline was the end of 2008, November.

The installation would remain for a year, then a new artwork would replace it. Each year, the chosen artist would be given full creative latitude and a generous salary as the “Century City Artist in Residence”.

It was the rarest thing in the world of young, burgeoning artists—a job.

They shook on it. Call us soon. The man said.

At 430. The museum light dimmed.

Armand Amar sat on the faux-leather bench in front of his sculptural impasto for a long time, looking at the impressionistic fragments that made up Eppie in Almond Flowers.

He thought about Vincent, who had sold one painting in his lifetime.

He had to prove himself now.
To Vincent.
To her.

LAPA.
The Stray Cat Society.

10 PM.

Fat Lim Wang’s body served as a living heater for the cats of the shelter. The kittens were not yet old enough for adoption or operation, but they still had to be socialised. The best way to socialise them was to play-fight, teaching the kittens the boundaries of teeth and claws.

Their mother was gone. Mrs Catch’em was not one to stay put, even when there were kittens about. He was already thankful that she stuck around for a month, probably because of Eppie. That or Mrs Catch’em no longer trusted Lim after she was taken to the vet and returned with her reproductive organs neutralised. Lim was sad, but it was fine. Losing her favour was better than her wasting away after too many litters.

Every few hours, he went back to watch a recording of Eppie’s performance on his phone. He felt better for watching it, but also grew worried. She was so powerful. So brave. The moment of the accusation, the changed lyrics—the first time Lim watched it, the cats had scattered in every direction as his muscles tensed.

Mr Chin rubbed up against his shins.
Together, they hummed her lines off-key.

My girl, my girl, don’t lie to me.
Tell me where did you sleep last night

Eppie had slept in the dorm.
Eppie was safe.
And Lim would keep it that way.

Monterey Park.
The Lantern Club.

11 PM.

Simone’s workplace was not one of those places that needed advertisements. There was no YELP page, no valet parking cones, no bouncers reading off a list. What it had was a heavy, red lacquered door on a side street in Monterey Park, a pair of brass knockers shaped like dancing carps, and an exclusive clientele.

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The signage was in Chinese, but there were no internal strobes to make it stand out. What stood out was a dozen lanterns that hung outside the entrance, but this was not the entrance used by the club’s clients.

A visitor to the interior would be shocked to discover that the multi-tiered building was one of the best mixed-use establishments in and around Chinatown. It was a nightclub in the sense of the old 1920s Shanghainese speakeasies, a bar, a supper club, a hangout, and a private dining hall with authentic Chinese chefs. The setup was the brainchild of Lee-Kwon Chen, who wanted to recreate his rose-tinted memories of Hong Kong nightlife before it was returned to China.

Its patrons were exclusively Chinese-American, comprised of the business community in and around Chinatown and those visiting from the old country. Membership was exclusive. The old inducted the new. The club’s doors did not open to those whose names were not known.