FFM 2012, July 11 - Power of Change

Ms. Tracey Dugas was a looker. Long, blonde curls, piercing blue eyes and a petite face coupled with that unattainable sense of fashion some women seem to possess. Despite the gravity of my mission, I couldn't stop myself from glancing at her legs and behind when she turned around to lead me into the office.

"Yes Mr. Johnson. It was AIDS." Gay cancer. That explained why the article hadn't said anything about cause of death. I had no idea what her actual job was, but she sounded very professional.  "Mr. Gallo's will is waiting for you at the office."

The Manhattan office/gallery/workshop was an old warehouse, and it showed. The walls were adorned with Gallo's paintings, including a near-life-size one of none other than Ms. Dugas. In the nude. I tried not to stare.

"Mr. Gallo was very private, and did not want a media circus around his death." She explained as I sat down with the will. It was duly witnessed and signed – one of the witnesses was Ms. Dugas herself, her signature a feminine twirl. The other a name I didn't recognize, some 'Doctor Luc Kramer'.

The will itself was, at first glance, very much like Gallo. He was the archetype of the eccentric artist, as far as I knew – I'd never actually seen any of his art before today – and a lot of the will would really have needed my help. There was a lot of washy talk about donating this or that piece to this or that friend, some matters regarding the funeral (minimalist, cremation), and a lot of talk about how death really was a chance to matter again.

That was, until I got to the end. I looked up at Ms. Dugas, who was standing primly in front of the desk, her manicured hands folded in front of her. I tried not to imagine her naked.

"It says here there's to be a final art exhibition with his newest, never-before seen work, arranged exactly one month after his death. All the proceeds, from entrance fees and sold artwork, are to go to a special account." I said, studying her closely. "It doesn't say whose account it is, though, or who it is for."

Tracey blushed, very prettily, and looked down at her feet, but said nothing.

"It says here Mr. Johnson...that's me...is to use whatever funds remain in the estate to make the exhibition happen, including hiring personnel and...hm..." I glanced up at Tracey and ventured a smile. "I suppose that means you. I wouldn't even know where to start!"

Would it be some kind of breach of etiquette, I wondered, to ask a dead man's personal assistant out for coffee the same day you learn of his death? Probably.

"Oh no, Mr. Johnson. My contract expires tomorrow, and I have other engagements." She half-stammered, still blushing. "But you're awfully kind."

"Can I see this exhibition of his, then?" I asked, gingerly closing the will.

"I believe it says the pieces are to be kept hidden until the opening day." Ms. Dugas pointed out, and I was reminded she had been a witness to it. I frowned and looked, and indeed this was the case.

"Well, nothing else to it then." I sighed. "I hope you will still attend the exhibition?"

Ms. Dugas just smiled lightly, and replied enigmatically: "Sort of." I left it at that – she didn't seem interested in me, sadly.

Gallo turned out to be one of those artists who, the moment they were dead, became incredibly sought-after. I had no trouble finding the money in the estate to organize the exhibition, which in itself became a huge event. I hired various people to handle the practical matters, while I saw to the rest of the will. I found Ms. Dugas had already taken care of the cremation and dispersal of the ashes, so that was one less thing to worry about.

The paintings – a dozen in number, on large canvases – had been covered very dramatically in black satin drapes, and were moved as-is to the gallery. I secretly hoped they wouldn't just spell out "Screw You!" or something. But then I knew that, even if they did, they'd still sell like hotcakes.

Still, I was nervous at the official unveiling. The man I had hired to do it had been a distant acquaintance of Gallo, although the way he acted during the evening it was as if he had known him his whole life.

I sighed a sigh of relief when the first painting was unveiled. A self-portrait. His signature beard, bushy eyebrows, hostile expression. Already I could hear astronomical sums being bandied about in the audience. Whoever that fund was for would be a rich man or woman.

The second painting was also a self-portrait, but subtly different. He stood straighter. His beard was shorter. Everyone was palpably excited as the unveiler turned towards the third, as he did so talking a volume about what a surprising and exciting artist Gallo was, even after his death.

The third and fourth and fifth were also self-portaits, and by now everyone else had begun to relax. It was a series, a series that seemed to go back in time (at least that's what people were saying). He lost his beard, his bushy eyebrows were scaled back, his wrinkles slowly disappearing. A reverse Schjerfbeck.

By the sixth, seventh, and eight portraits, something else happened. Something that made my mouth slowly hang open. His lips were given colour – dark red. Eyeshadow, mascara, blush on his cheeks. His hair transformed from balding to curly, long. It was the same man, but it wasn't. He wasn't a man any more. When the final painting was unveiled, the transformation was complete: everyone applauded rapturously at Gallo-as-a-woman.

A very pretty, blonde, curly-haired, blue-eyed woman.