Lomita For Ever by Trevor Eve

Author:Trevor Eve [Eve, Trevor]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Unbound
Published: 2019-04-10T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-three

The Same Old Shit was about to get under way.

From SAMO to the biggest exhibition in town.

The valet parking had quadrupled in size and the lines were endless. Fortunately for Ever and Lomita, Manita was driving them in the black Suburban and was able to drop off, wait, and find her own space, in her own time.

Ever helped Lomita, resplendent Lomita, out of the car and waited while Manita extracted the wheelchair from the black mass. While standing, Lomita’s impact was evident and able to be fully appreciated.

She was adorned in a flowing black A-line dress, pintucked at the waist, which caressed her black velvet low-heeled shoes, just avoiding the floor, with rhinestones covering the body and the full flow of the skirt. Her hair was pulled into a chignon, she wore a white orchid pinned to the fabric at her shoulder, her make-up was minimal, a necklace of white gold with a pear drop diamond circled her neck, with earrings to match. A ring of equal diamond size adorned her finger. She was, by any standards, and there were some standards there, absolutely unquestionably beautiful, delicate, with the effortless quality of the unashamedly rich.

She floated through as Ever pushed her along in the wheelchair, which diminished none of her magnificence, and showed his e-ticket to one of the many security guards. They joined a gaggle of famous faces, many of whom had been early purchasers of Basquiat’s work before the record was set by Yusaku Maezawa, the Japanese billionaire, who set an auction record of $57.3 million for one of the artist’s series of ten ‘Untitled’ works, then the following year broke his own record, purchasing another Basquiat – Untitled (1982) – for $110 million including the buyer’s premium. Fair warning… fair warning, rang out twice, at Sotheby’s New York, before the gavel came down and his telephone bid was secured. The hope was that this piece would travel here, to the Lorken gallery to take pride of place at what was considered to be the most comprehensive collection of Basquiat’s work ever.

To see one or two – Ever had been fortunate enough to have seen ten in a previous exhibition at the Gagosian – was an extraordinary experience. But he was trepidatious at seeing this many, the emotional overload that possibly upwards of eighty pieces, almost two thirds of his catalogue, would carry.

At first there were drinks, Krug of course, served by an identically-dressed team of men and women with perfect diversity, in the lobby of this architectural monument that had a cold but dramatic metallic feel, softened by giant curls of shining steel. Natural materials represented by wood and grey slate, slate that glistened, as if permanently wet and continually moving. The whole space had the feel of an endless churn of energy on the move; though it was obviously going nowhere.

Ever could see Miss Money-Root, who was far too busy to make any efforts at communication at this stage, dealing, most likely, with those who had donated their works.

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