Technical merit was part of it, Julie said. Composition and where it fit historically.
But more than anything, she looked for the essence of the artist within the work. There were thousands of exquisite Renaissance paintings hanging in museums. So why did everyone cross the room to study only one, the Mona Lisa? Because inside the painting was a piece of Leonardo da Vinci.
The board members murmured and nodded. Julie had helped them see. The president thanked her for her time and promised to be in touch.
Just over half an hour, and her interview was finished.
*
The second week in December, Doni called Julie to tell her to come to Talbot’s office immediately. Julie jumped out of her chair, not bothering to close her open files. She’d heard nothing since her interview and the suspense had almost crushed her.
Talbot’s shirt collar was uncharacteristically unbuttoned—on his last day, he must have allowed himself one concession to casual dress—and without his purple tie he looked like a younger, more callow version of himself. The moving boxes were gone and the desk empty. Any trace of Talbot had been scoured. “I have bad news,” he said.
He wasn’t at liberty to disclose who they’d chosen, but Talbot was confident Julie would be pleased with their decision and helpful during the transition. The golf-ball-sized lump in Julie’s throat made it difficult for her to talk. It was a few seconds before she choked out, “I appreciate your going to bat for me.”
“You’re terrific,” Talbot said. “That much is true. Also true is we fielded some outstanding candidates. Tops in their field.”
She waited for him to say something else—about her dedication or talent, or how much he’d enjoyed their time together—but Talbot looked as dismayed as she felt. “We’ll introduce the new director at tonight’s reception. You and Mark will be there?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
Talbot stood and stepped around the desk, opening his arms for a hug. Their relationship had always been one of handshakes and distance, but in this case, an embrace seemed appropriate. She wrapped her arms loosely around him and squeezed.
“Count on me for anything,” he said. “I’m an email away.”
She walked past Doni’s desk with the golf-ball-sized lump still lodged in her throat and toward the office maze. Eames leaned out, his face a question mark. Julie shook her head.
“Idiots,” Eames said.
Dropping into her chair, she swiveled toward the office’s back wall. She’d never aspired to be a director of anything so not being one shouldn’t devastate her. It was a job, not life or death. She swiveled her chair to her bottom drawer for her purse with its packet of tissues. Inside was the Ziploc bag with its photo of Juan. She pulled it out gently and pressed him against her heart.
A few hours later, both of them showered and polished, Mark stopped the car a block from the Clay. He never valeted, always parked in the public lot three blocks away. Julie didn’t complain; she was grateful he came. Mark cringed at crowds and hated small talk. He attended because it made her happy. That, and the free food and drink.
“Chin up,” he reminded Julie. “You’re the best at what you do, and everyone knows it.”
She flipped down the lighted visor mirror over the passenger seat and plucked a speck of mascara from underneath her bottom lashes. “They can’t forgive me for going to Guatemala,” she said. “How could we not meet Juan?”
“It was the right decision. End of story.”
She flipped up the visor. “I know.”
“It’s done. Don’t second-guess yourself.”
“How does it feel to always be right? You make these pronouncements and never back down.”
“Better than punishing myself.”
Julie sighed. “True.” She pecked him on the lips and put her hand on the door handle. “Meet you at the coat check.”
“You’re a champ,” he called after her as she stepped onto the curb. She merged into the stream of donors and artists alighting from taxis, limousines, and cars, the donors red-carpet ready in cocktail dresses and suits, the artists dressed down in immaculately clean, expensive tennis shoes and artfully disheveled hair.
Two searchlights set up on the Clay’s roof criss-crossed white beams in the night sky, and buoyant riffs of jazz saxophone wafted out from the lobby. Julie stepped into the dazzle inside. White-clothed tables topped with carved platters laden with shrimp and beef en brochette, vegetables arranged by color into modernist decoration, bouquets of white peonies blooming from vases shaped like Picasso-esque figures. White was the favorite color of a donor they’d been soliciting. Flowers this quarter were decreed white. She moved through snippets of conversation like turning a dial: vacations to Europe and studio visits and new restaurants and divorces and children off to university.
Her name being called broke through the static and she veered toward Talbot. Talbot with a woman wearing enormous, red-framed, circular glasses and a fitted black pantsuit. She was built like a runway model and towered over Julie.
“May I present our new director, Dr. Amelie Conrad,” he said. “From the Kentridge in New York.” The new director’s black hair was chopped into bangs like a thirties film star. The shade of her matte red lipstick matched her eyeglass frames. Her skin was as white as paper.
“Julie’s our ace curator,” Talbot said.
Dr. Conrad’s eyes behind gigantic red glasses appraised Julie, and even though Julie was dressed in her best— little black cocktail dress, statement silver and onyx necklace, and Stuart Weitzman high heels—that one glance reduced her to the category of a rube who’d crashed the party.
“Charmed,” the new director said.
“Would you mind escorting Dr. Conrad out for a bit of air? We’ll begin the introduction in ten.” Talbot was tightening up the knot on his purple tie, practically sweating. Julie had never seen him so nervous.
She led the way through the throngs in the Atrium and out the side door to the sculpture garden. The night was dry and chilly. She walked over to the Calder, the large, sheet metal sculpture protected by a low concrete wall. Its flat orange and blue paddles lifted and fell on invisible winds, like small sailboats on a lake. Usually when Julie directed guests to the Calder, they were impressed. But the new director came from the Kentridge, with ten times the status of the Clay. She didn’t glance at the Calder.
The new director grasped the lapels of her black suit jacket and pulled them tight. “Brrr. They said California was warm.”
“That’s SoCal,” Julie said.
The jazz combo was playing “I Left My Heart in San Francisco,” a standard at Clay events. Most major donors were over sixty, and bands chose a songbook they would recognize. Later, when the oldsters had gone home, a techno band would take the stage and the artists would dance.
“Smoke?” Dr. Conrad asked.
“Cigarettes?”
“Out here, you must think marijuana.” Dr. Conrad reached into a pocket and produced a pack of red Marlboros, along with her first smile. She inserted a cigarette between her red, matte lips and flipped open a lighter.
“No. No, thank you,” Julie said. Dr. Conrad lit up, her eyes opening widely behind her red glasses as she took a long draw. Julie hadn’t smelled cigarette smoke up close in years.
“Interesting necklace,” Dr. Conrad said. “Who makes it?”
Julie told her the artist’s name.
“You do what?” Dr. Conrad asked.
“Curator