[A Trick of the Light]The Cruel Art World

Any owner of a high-end art gallery was immediately suspect, of arrogance if not murder. Jean-Guy Beauvoir had little tolerance for either.

“She asked André Castonguay how big his dick was.”
 “I did not. I asked how big a dick he was. There’s a difference.”
Despite herself, Clara smirked. She’d often wanted to ask gallery owners the same question.

太好笑！

“And I say they are, and who’s to say who’s right? That’s what drives artists and dealers crazy. It’s so subjective.”


“That’s what makes my job like Christmas every day. While every artist wakes up believing this is the day his genius will be discovered, every dealer wakes up believing this is the day he’ll discover genius.”
 “But who’s to say?”
 “That’s what makes this all so thrilling.”

Andre Castonguay owned art. But Francois Marois owned the artists. Who was the more powerful? But also the more vulnerable?

Vernissages and art shows aren’t about what’s on the walls, they’re about who’s in the room. That’s the real work. I came to network.

Beauvoir watched Normand and Paulette. They looked exhausted. But from what, the Inspector wondered. The long night of free food and drink? The longer night of desperate networking, disguised as a party? Or just plain tired of swimming so hard but still going under.

It was a chronicle of life as an artist. Of balancing ego and creation. Of battling ego and creation. Of trying not to care. And caring too deeply.

“I’m not an artist.” He gave a little laugh. “Sadly, I’m not creative. Like most of my colleagues I dabbled in art as a callow youth and immediately discovered a profound, almost mystical lack of talent. Quite shocking, really.”

My paintings may not have been brilliant, but I was just starting, doing my best. And she dug her heels into them and ground. It was more than just humiliating. I might’ve recovered from that, it was that she convinced even me that I had no talent. She killed the best part of me.”

－－藝評人的殘忍。

Beauvoir在Clara的畫展預展中扮成一間法國報章的藝評人，欺騙了一班藝術人，很好笑！

Beauvoir turned his back on the smiling artists. “I told them I was the art critic for Le Monde.” “And why would you do that?” the Chief Inspector asked. “It’s a long story,” said Beauvoir. But it wasn’t so much long as embarrassing.

“Monsieur Beauvoir?” the man had asked, his eyes widening nicely.
 “But of course. Just Monsieur Beauvoir. I find no need for a first name. Too bourgeois. Clutters up the page. You read my reviews, bien sur?”

The rest of the evening had been quite pleasant, as word spread that the famous Parisian critic “Monsieur Beauvoir” was there. And all agreed that Clara’s works were a marvelous example of chiaroscuro. He’d have to look it up, one of these days.
－－Beauvoir聽到有人說chiaroscuro這個字，他又說。他根本不知道這字的意思！

“I love that an artist could be plucked out of obscurity and discovered at the age of almost fifty. What artist doesn’t dream of it? What artist doesn’t believe, every morning, it will happen before bedtime? Remember Magritte? Belgian painter?” “Ceci n’est pas une pipe?” asked Gamache, losing Beauvoir completely. He hoped the Chief hadn’t just had a seizure and started spouting nonsense.
－－Beauvoir對藝術無感，最後一句太好笑。