Authors: Michele Drier
Phil puts a hand on my elbow. “Let’s head inside. We can make our way to the bottom of the ramp, then I’ll get us some wine.”
I nod as I scan the crowd. Some artists, in denim and black with lots of hair; some students, young and slightly vulnerable as they hugged the walls; some collectors, the slick women wearing stilettos with toes like needles and the men heavier, older, in power ties, all talking into the well of sound.
Then I jerk, almost spilling the glass of wine Phil is handing me. “Who’s that?” I say.
“If you really mean who is it, it’s Ben Nevell. He owns the gallery. Why?”
I’ve recovered from the shock that seeing Nevell in the flesh causes. “Well, actually I guess I know it’s Ben Nevell,” I say. “I just never expected to really SEE him.”
My back is against the wall at the very foot of the rising ramp and Phil leans over my left shoulder to speak into my ear. “You aren’t usually so cryptic, what’s going on...do you or don’t you know Nevell and how? I don’t remember that you’ve spent much time on the fringes of the visual arts world.”
His voice is low enough that no one can hear, but I lower my voice even more as I say, “There’s an old picture of Nevell in the
Marshalltown Crier
from when Robert Calvert first ran for office. Nevell’s standing with the family on the verandah of the Marshalltown Hotel. He’s just identified as an old Army buddy. That’s all I know about him and it jolted me to actually see him. He must be pretty old now. He owns this gallery? How long has he had it?”
Phil’s voice reverts to a more natural level as he gives me a rundown of Ben Nevell’s career as an art dealer. “He moved to San Francisco in the early 1960’s, probably just about the time that Robert Calvert was elected to his first term, come to think of it. From the time the gallery opened, Nevell was a mover in the political crowd. He’d host fundraisers and he’d donate, never big but consistently. He’s not nearly as active now, everybody thinks he’s pulling back and getting ready to retire. He must be in his middle-80s now but he still has the pull, look at this group. Over there are a couple of former councilmembers, that,” indicating a well-dressed black man standing near the plate-glass window and talking earnestly to two men and a woman in business clothes, “is the chief of staff to one of our U.S. Senators. He’s talking to the regional presidents of three unions. Ben can still mix it up when it comes to the mother’s milk of politics.”
Phil’s sardonic smile gives way to a more welcoming grin as he steers me away from the wall and over to Ben Nevell for introductions.
“Hello, Ben, one of your great openings, as usual,” Phil says. “I’d like you to meet someone I’ve know for years, Amy Hobbes. Amy’s from the Valley, come to the city for a change of scene and I couldn’t think of a better change then to bring her along.”
Close enough to shake his hand, I see Ben Nevell is aged, but his pin-striped suit is beautifully tailored, his pale gray shirt has monogrammed French cuffs held with heavy gold links and he’s secure enough to forego a red power tie, choosing instead a blue that sets off his eyes.
“Hello, Amy.” Nevell’s voice is strong and holds a trace of an accent, maybe East Coast. “Phil doesn’t usually grace us with pretty young ladies, we most often see him in his working mode and he can be merciless.”
He turns to Phil. “Well, I know you’re not officially covering this tonight, but what do you think? It’s a little different but we think it’s kicky.”
The exhibition is pulled together around the central theme of the West and Nevell and his staff have some Remington numbered bronzes, Russell prints, Georgia O’Keefe lithographs, a few small original oils from the California Landscape School and some current Thiebaud lithos
“We want the viewers, and buyers, of course,” Nevell says with a disarming smile, “to see, feel, sense the pull that the West has always had. Our biggest interest is California. I think there’s still a mystery, or maybe just more of an aura, about California. Writers from John Steinbeck to Joan Didion feel it and use it and we wanted to use our artists’ works to evoke that tug.
“Where do you live in the Valley, Ms. Hobbes,” he asks turning to me. “It’s a big place.”
“I live in Monroe,” I say, “and actually I’ve heard of you. I’m the managing editor for the
Monroe Press
. I saw a picture of you with the Calvert family back in the early 1960s when Robert made his first Congressional run. You were identified as an old Army buddy. I’m astounded to meet you in person…,” I catch myself before the
I
thought you’d be dead
and switch to “it’s always so surprising to discover what a small world it is.”
The mention of the Calverts’ photo causes Nevell to pale and suddenly get very still. For half a minute he’s silent, then I see a startling transformation. He mentally shakes himself and I watch him will the color back to his face and a smile to his lips. This smile doesn’t reach his eyes, which stay a wary, slaty blue.
“Good Lord, my dear,” Nevell says. “You almost took my breath away. That was in another time and another place. I can’t credit that we were ever so young. I remember that visit with the Calverts; wasn’t that at their old hotel in the foothills? What is the name of that town anyway? Marshall, Jamestown….something like that.”
“Marshalltown,” I say. “It’s still there and one of Robert’s grandsons is renovating the hotel. You might like to make a trip up there.”
“I might,” Nevell says. His eyes swivel sideways. “Delightful to meet you, Phil let’s stay in touch, I must run now,” and he smoothly edges toward the ramp to greet another group.
Whoa, that was weird. I feel like I’ve shocked him with that off-hand comment about the photo and I certainly didn’t expect his reaction. Maybe the “old Army buddy” was one of the ghosts. I’m going to grill Phil about Nevell’s background, but not now. Now is Saturday night in San Francisco with a date, no less.
Dinner is a treat. Phil chooses Clementine, a French restaurant in the Inner Richmond. It’s an eclectic neighborhood; Asian groceries, laundromats, clothing stores. The restaurant is a small storefront with a trimmed topiary in front. Phil and the maitre d’ have a conversational blur in French and we get a small, quiet table in a back corner. .
I’m stuffed with the meal and buzzed with a bottle of Cote du Beaune when Phil says, “Now what?” with a leer.
“I need some fresh air,” I say. “Can we catch a cab somewhere?”
Another cascade of French and Phil pays the bill. By the time we’re out on the sidewalk a cab has pulled up.
“We’ll go to Fort Point and listen to the ghosts,” Phil says.
As we come around the building by the stone jetty the wind catches us so hard that I gasp.
“This is your idea of fresh air?”
“Hey, this air has blown for miles just to get here and clear your head,” Phil laughs. I’m so used to the winds in the valley, I’ve forgotten what a stiff jolt of sea wind feels like. The south anchorage of the Golden Gate Bridge is built almost over the Civil War fort, so now the ghosts of past soldiers mingle with the thousand or so bridge suicides
Ghosts. Wind and salt spray have wiped away the lassitude from dinner. Ghosts. Ben Nevell is one. What’s his connection with the Calverts? I’d only run across his picture a couple of days ago. It seems too coincidental that I suddenly meet a living ghost with links to Marshalltown.
Oh my god. Maybe I still have some of the wine clogging my synapses. Nevell didn’t just surface, he’s owned an art gallery in San Francisco for the past 40 years; hardly a man who lives in the shadows.
Phil sees me shiver.
“Somebody walk over your grave? Or are you just cold?”
“I’m a little chilly, but I’m really trying to stop beating up my brain about Ben Nevell.”
Phil nods OK “We’ll go get a warm drink and you can ask me questions...even about Ben Nevell if you have to. I can think of other questions I’d like better.”
Back at Tosca with a cappuccino in hand I ask, “When did Nevell open the gallery?”
“In the early 60s, as far as I know. I can check on the exact dates Monday.”
“You say he’s interested in politics. Was he a Calvert supporter?”
“I don’t know; I would think so. Calvert was popular. He would have kept his seat forever, if he hadn’t retired.”
“How did Nevell get so involved in politics? It doesn’t seem to mix with art.”
“You’re being naive,” Phil says. “Art and politics have ALWAYS mixed. Look at Roman political sculptures, look at the Renaissance. If an artist wasn’t political, he couldn’t support himself.”
Art History 1A isn’t the lecture I wanted. “Well, I know all that,” I say, “but it just doesn’t seem that a dealer now is the same as an Italian duke or something.”
“The difference is in the middleman, now. Today the collectors aren’t the governments, they’re just people with tons of money. The gallery owner, dealer or agent who has a formidable client list attracts the politicians.”
Money. I know that running for county supervisor can be up to seven figures. A statewide campaign for U.S. Senate can be millions. He’s right, follow the money.
“I’m not sure what I want to know or why, but where did Nevell get his money? It has to take a lot of money to open a successful gallery. Does he specialize in a particular kind of art? The show tonight was really a combination. And what about...” I say.
“Hey, this is Saturday night. Email me Monday with all these questions,” Phil says. “I can dig through the morgue and get more information. Right now I have my own questions”
Making love in his bed this time is slower and more verbal. When Brandon left, he took a big chunk of my esteem. Having sex with Phil, a friend I’ve known for years, is safer and easier. Some of the insecurities Brandon left me with in exchange for taking my soul begin to untangle.
We make love again Sunday morning, staying in bed until a need for caffeine hits us. But after bagels and more coffee I look at the clock.
“Oh, hell,” I say. “It’s after one. I have to get on the road.”
It takes almost an hour to shower, gather my stuff and say goodbye. Especially the goodbye.
A part of my brain finally gets in gear as I drive onto the Bay Bridge. Oh, Lord, I forgot to call Heather.
My daughter is doing well this summer. For me, though, I need to talk to her at least once a week. She works at a Starbucks coffee shop. She has health insurance, a cell phone plan and free coffee every week. She shares an apartment with two friends from UC Santa Barbara and they spend their free time shopping, hanging or at the beach. Sometimes I’m jealous of her; thin, beautiful, tan and above all young. She’s sure that life will always be like this.
I hit her number coming off the bridge. To my surprise, she answers on the first ring.
“Where have you been? I left messages since yesterday! You didn’t pick up! What are you doing?”
“I spent the weekend in San Francisco. I turned my cell off before dinner Friday.”
“Who did you stay with? What did you do with Mac? You didn’t put him in some kennel, did you?”
Heather’s shrill voice is edging toward snide.
“Hold on. You were trying to get in touch. What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Jen and Jes had a big fight and now Jen is moving out and we can’t afford this place with just two of us and I don’t want to just put up a note for a roommate and it’s too early to look for someone for the school year and it’s just a big, fat mess and I’m so pissed at both of them.”
Heather’s roommates, Jennifer and Jessica, have been friends since high school and have always fought. The Js have a lot of pals but almost no close friends because of their emotional rollercoaster.
“This will blow over, sweetie,” I say. “I can help with part of Jen’s share of the rent for a little bit.”
Well, there go any plans for a week away. I hadn’t made reservations, but am testing the idea of a few days by myself to see if I can travel alone.
“Thanks, mom,” Heather’s tone tells me that the emotions and most of the fear is gone. “Hey, really, where were you all weekend?”
“I drove over to San Francisco Friday night and stayed with Phil, you remember him, right?”
“Yeah, but he’s a friend of yours; did you stay with him? What is this, a big romance all of a sudden?” Though Heather sounds cool with the statement, I know that she doesn’t want the details.
“We had a very nice time, thank you. Had dinner at a good restaurant, went to a gallery opening, it was sunny and warm all weekend. And no, I didn’t leave Mac in a kennel. Clarice came over to feed him and use the pool.”
“OK, good,” Heather says. “I’ve gotta run, mom. Jes and I are going to go for drink. I’ll call later, bye”
God, I love almost-adult children.
Clarice’s cell gives me the ubiquitous message, “Press five to leave a callback number... ,” I wait through the instructions and say, “Hi, Clarice, it’s me. Had a great weekend. Wanted to see if you and Mac are OK. “
Mac is home alone when I come in. He tells me he’s been abandoned, has never been fed and greets me with astounding jumps, licks and wiggles. I check his full food and water bowls which mean Clarice just left and find her note stuck to the front of the microwave.
“Amy, Hope you had a good time. I did, used the pool, walked Mac. Fed him early today. Going to the movies, see you tomorrow, C.”
Clarice left at four, so Mac was alone about an hour.
That dog lies to me.
I change my bed, throw in a load of laundry and make a grocery list. Mac is a limpet.