At least not by me.
The gallery,I think. It’s a long shot, but it’s also tangible—his family name is engraved into the brick. And though I know hisinvolvement is limited to occasional appearances for exhibit openings and the ability to refer or recommend artists, I also know that it’ll be harder to abandon. If there is anywhere I might get clues to track him down, it’ll be there.
The door to Winona’s house closes, and I set my GPS to the Harrison & Conrad Galleries.
The gallery looks completely different in the daytime. It’s smaller than I remember, and without the effect of amber uplighting on the walls and the haunting creep of shadows from the nearby trees, almost quaint. The dead brown remnants of last summer’s ivy creep up the crevices in its concrete back, draping over the stucco facade like cobwebs. Its grounds are the most impressive thing about it, a sprawling green lawn that’s hard to come by in the city, but they’ve wilted in the winter chill, the once glorious hedges reduced to well-pruned carcasses.
I walk through the main entrance, lowering my beanie over my ears and huddling into my jacket. They’d clearly dimmed the lights in the lobby during Margaret’s exhibition event because the room I walk into is bright white and gleaming, with chrome overlay around digital screens and placards on the wall introducing new exhibits. For all its gleaming glamor, I am its sole guest.
I head toward the concrete counter that sits in front of an extra-large screen that I realize had previously served as the coat check. A young man with an eyebrow piercing smiles hopefully at me from behind the desk. He straightens as I approach. His name tag identifies him as Matt.
“Welcome to Harrison and Conrad Galleries,” Matt says. “Is this your first time here?”
“Yes,” I lie. “But I’ve been wanting to visit for a while now. Can you tell me a little bit about this place?”
“Of course,” he starts excitedly. “We’ve got a lot of great artists in here, a few Basquiats, a Warhol, but I would really suggest the Wadsworth Jarrell exhibit on the third floor—”
“I’m actually really interested in the founders,” I interrupt, and he nods animatedly, launching into a spiel about the gallery’s beginnings. William Harrison and Robert Conrad were wealthy English hoteliers who landed in Chicago by way of London and took the social scene by storm. The gallery was once a small-scale bread factory, he tells me, but sat abandoned after the Great Depression until they acquired and restored it. Avid appreciators of the arts, they opened their eponymous gallery in 1960, filling the first two floors with contributions from their personal collections. As a thank-you to their newfound homeland, the collectors prioritized work by American artists, and their tradition of supporting up-and-coming talent through artist residencies and scholarships was continued by their successors; Julian’s penchant for art appreciation is apparently genetic. It is all both interesting and so unhelpful to my mission that I wonder if I should turn back, but then I remember that this is the only lead I have.
So I try a new angle.
“I hear you house some of their personal collections here,” I say. “I would love to see them.”
Matt grins wide. His enthusiasm is so palpable that I smile back, even through my nerves.
“I love their personal collections, but unfortunately they were closed to the public last week,” he says. “Which is a pity, becausethey contain some of my favorite works. Like, recently we had Margaret West, and she has this stunning recreation ofThe Nightmarethat we got to keep.”
“Oh my gosh, I love that piece!” I say, hoping my expression gives easy, breezy, and not at all ravenous for more. “But it’s so different from Margaret’s typical work. I wonder why they chose that one.”
“They seem to prefer more allegorical or figurative paintings,” Matt supplies. “You know, big moral scenes, people, character. High drama, I like to say. The collection is pretty eclectic otherwise, but that’s the common thread.”
“That’s so cool. I wish I could see it,” I say, even as my heart races. I reach into my purse for my wallet to pay the gallery’s twenty-dollar entrance fee, and when he accepts my card, I hold on. He gives me a quizzical look, and I return it with a smile that I know is both sultry and conspiratorial. “I mean…maybe I could. Maybe you could sneak me in.”
Matt gives me a squeamish look, but his eyes brighten, and I know already that I will get a yes. It’s true that I’m not great at getting people to like me, but I do have a decent handle on my feminine wiles. It’s the combination of a direct stare, an inviting smile and a dash of charm that does it every time.
“Well,” Matt says, “I probably shouldn’t, but…”
“There’s no one else here, Matt,” I say. “And this is your fault. You got me all excited for it. Besides,” I release my card and lean forward on the counter, balancing my chin on my hands, “I won’t tell if you don’t.”
He bites back a grin. So do I.Still got it.
“Fine, but we have to be quick,” he says in a stage whisper. “And if we get caught, you told me that you’re a professor of art history from Northwestern, you have permission to look at our special collections, and I had no reason to think that you were lying, okay?”
“Got it,” I say.
We sneak up three flights of stairs and stop at a locked white door with the label “Special Collections.” Matt pulls a key ring from his hip, searches the area for any onlookers, then unlocks the door.
“Everything is bolted down and alarmed,” he warns me. “So if you’re secretly a burglar, you’ll have a really bad day.”
“I promise not to start my life of crime today,” I tell him. I squeeze his shoulder. “Thank you, Matt.”
Matt shrugs, and I can tell he already regrets his moment of insubordination.
“In and out,” he warns me, and then he hustles back down the stairs and I am alone.
The pieces in this room are eclectic in style, medium, period, and place of origin: pastel-toned Impressionist paintings set next to hyperrealistic works next to black and white photographs next to Japanese ukiyo-e woodblock prints. Even their presentation lacks cohesion: some of the pieces are mounted in elaborate gold frames, others plain wood, more than a few in glass, modern frames that wouldn’t look out of place in my condo. I wander farther in, confused, until I find the decal introducing me to the space. It is simple, nondescript, and contains far less information than I’d hoped for:From the personal collections of Robert E. J. Conrad, William A. Harrison & the Conrad Estate.I can understand why this floor isn’t yet open to the public; compared to the well-manicured, well-organized setup of Margaret’s exhibit, it almost feels like a glorified storage space.
Matt’s assessment of Harrison & Conrad’s tastes was spot-on: they like scene and story, mythos and high drama. I recognize an exhausted Sisyphus pushing a boulder up his hill as spectators watch below, Sirens luring a ship of sailors to their demise against rocks, a room of medical students peering over a corpse, a family of peasantsgathered around a cluttered dining table as their pig noses its way through the front door.