if I hadn’t swallowed hard and managed, ‘Um . . . it’s yummy just as it is,’ nearly choking myself in the process.
‘Hmm, well, OK.’ She clucks her tongue reluctantly. ‘It is important to keep up your strength as we have a very, very busy day today. We have some new paintings arriving by an amazing artist from Columbia. Oy, the colours!’ She smacks her lips with her scarlet fingernails.
At the mention of the paintings, I feel the familiar tingle of excitement that I always get when I see work by a new artist. A sort of fluttering in my stomach, like when I was little and I would run downstairs on Christmas Day and see all my presents under the tree. The feeling of anticipation, followed by the discovery of something new and wonderful.
I’m sure the paintings will be amazing. Magda’s judgement when it comes to husbands and broken windows might be questionable, but when it comes to art, she has great instincts.
I glance around the gallery. She’s been running this place for over twenty years, ever since she won it in a divorce settlement from her second husband, a millionaire property mogul. By her own admission, she had no formal art background and just sort of fell into it, buying whatever took her fancy, whatever made her smile, and because of her unorthodox approach, it’s totally unique.
When you think of art galleries, you often think of those huge, imposing white lofts with several floors, but Number Thirty-Eight is housed in the converted basement of a townhouse. Most people walk past it on their way to the big-name designer stores and never think to glance down at the sidewalk, through the railings and into our windows. They never notice an amazing abstract painting by a new artist, or a series of striking lithographs that form part of our latest exhibitio I€est exhi Stion.
But if you do happen across us, and take a few moments out of your busy schedule to look inside, you’ll want to keep coming back. Because unlike those big, austere galleries, the moment you walk into Number Thirty-Eight and hear the stereo blaring, you’ll realise this is a whole new way to experience art.
Forget silence and speaking in hushed voices – Magda believes in having music playing (she has eclectic taste. Last week it was La Bohème; today it’s Justin Timberlake), along with fresh coffee brewing and a popcorn machine. ‘We are like the movies,’ she cries to the curious members of the public who wander inside and find themselves being asked if they want sugar or salt on their popcorn. ‘Here you can escape, be entertained, use your imagination. And even better, no Tom Cruise!’
Magda’s passionate dislike of Tom Cruise (‘If he jumped on my sofa, I would keel him!’) is paralleled only by her passion for art, and her desire is to make it accessible to everyone. ‘Remember, it’s always free to look’ is her mantra, and her enthusiasm is so infectious that people can’t help but be seduced by it. In the few weeks that I’ve been working here, I’ve noticed regulars coming in just to hang out and enjoy the art, with no pressure to buy. It’s not like any private gallery I’ve ever worked in.
‘And I have decided . . .’
I focus back on Magda as she pauses for a silent drum roll.
‘Yes?’ I brace myself. I’m fast learning to expect the unexpected.
‘It is time for us to do an opening. Show off our talent. Fling open our doors.’ She throws out her arms. ‘Fly in the face of this nasty recession!’ Curling her lip, she snarls at me.
‘Wow, er, great,’ I enthuse, flinching slightly. ‘That’s an excellent idea.’
I feel a secret beat of relief. My boss’s magnanimous attitude to art might be commendable, but we’re not the MoMA or the Whitney. We do actually need to sell some of it to stay open. In the six weeks I’ve been working here, sales have been slow to the point of zero and I’ve started to worry a bit about my job.
I only got it because Rupert knows Magda from his Studio 54 days, back in the seventies, when he lived here for a brief period. When he discovered she needed an extra pair of hands, he suggested me. He knew I wouldn’t turn down the chance to work in a New York gallery. ‘Plus I owe Magda a huge favour,’ he’d confided darkly, refusing to be drawn.
Not that I’d tried. To