SECRETS OF AN ODALISQUE - Cupp

Garrison Cupp woke on the dot of five, as was his habit each day. No matter what hour he might have gone to sleep the previous night, he never slept past five in the morning, a practice he had observed all his life. He was, after all, an Aries, a pioneer, a believer that the early bird catches the worm. For 47 years, Cupp had awakened with the conviction that it was the most important thing in the world to get up, because something absolutely fabulous was going to happen. The eternal optimist, he believed in the future, in his own place in the scheme of things, and in the important contribution he was making to society. This trip to Venice would fortify all expectations in that direction.

What to do in the canal city when everyone else was still asleep presented no problem to Cupp, who had always been resourceful. First he showered and shaved, finishing those activities in about half the time they would take the average man, feats which were a keen source of pride to him. Next, glancing at the clock and seeing it was still only 5:20, he mixed up a batch of the sweet-smelling herbs bought at the Seven Sisters of New Orleans and Algiers, Louisiana, which he had brought with him from New York, to apply a henna poultice to his genital organs. While the treatment (good for increased potency) was taking effect, Cupp glanced through a pile of books: Fodor, Baedecker, Murray, Mary McCarthy's Venice Observed, Mrs. Ruskin's Effie in Venice. He could flick through several volumes in a matter of seconds and get the general drift of things. By the time he had sniffed out all the aforementioned tomes, the henna pack had dried.

Cupp washed it off, hiked up his pants, reached for his copy of Major Douglas' 1907 classic Venice on Foot, grabbed his tape recorder, and left his room at the Danieli. It was still not even six o'clock. He had accomplished a great deal this morning, while the majority of the world was still wasting time in bed.

Many people didn't realize it, but Garrison Cupp, with customary introspection and understanding, had come to know himself as a man constantly germinating, assimilating, sifting, sorting, working out relationships, putting pieces together, weighing, balancing, making comparisons, synthesizing -- activities which consumed him day and night; as a result, his concerns could never be those of the ordinary person; he could scarcely be expected to bog himself down with mundane problems like worrying about dirt, stains on clothing, frayed cuffs, or the fact that he might have accidentally worn the same pair of undershorts three days in a row or have forgotten about having his laundry done.

For close to three decades now he had been laying the groundwork for a major achievement, although the world at large was as yet unaware. However, one day they would hear what it was all about. Every one of his actions had its rationale, Cupp reflected, though it might not seem so to outsiders at first glance. Perhaps at present no one entirely grasped his particular mindset, his iconoclasm, his genius. But when he built his art museum, they would! Which was the greater part of the reason he was here in Venice.

Downstairs it was possible to obtain a decent albeit expensive breakfast of brioches, juice and coffee for under thirty dollars. He was the only guest. The morning mist having spread over the al fresco dining area, Cupp chose eating indoors, while glancing over yesterday's International Herald Tribune, Wall Street Journal, and Rome Daily American. He was mildly perturbed by a mention of himself in the latter paper, which in its gossip column section, "Along the Via Veneto," announced his arrival in Italy -- "Prophylactics heir Garrison Cupp," they referred to him, no doubt taking cues from the stateside National Enquirer, which, during his last bastardy action, had heralded the story, "Prophylactics Heir Shuns Product That Built Family Fortune." This headline troubled Cupp for several reasons.

Theseus Prophylactics, Inc., of Elizabeth, New Jersey, represented only a small part of the Cupp family's interests, the larger portion which was begun on India rubber in the 19th century, spearheaded by his great-grandfather, Garrison Cupp, Senior -- or GC I. It had been his grandfather, Garrison Cupp Jr., or GC II, who had started Theseus, both as a sort of hobby and as a service to mankind. In the vanguard of lubricated tip contraceptives, Theseus had cornered a lion's share of the market, continuing to steamroll in sales well through the 1950's. Its popularity diminished somewhat with the introduction of the pill and later with the peaking of the IUD, but had picked up again recently with the plethora of bad press given female contraceptives and the onset of HIV/AIDS. Still, at no time had Theseus ever accounted for more than 12 per cent of the overall family income.

Cupp Tire and Rubber Co., the major earner, had always been the chief source of the Cupp wealth, whereas the Enquirer, and now the Daily American, made it sound like the entire family fortune had been made in birth control. Still, the Enquirer had been right about one thing -- Cupp did not use Theseus products.

Like his father, GC III, GC IV maintained a hands off policy toward family affairs. His father, a great gentleman-sportsman, habitué of Newport and Palm Beach, globe-trotting playboy and raconteur, had been a leading figure in polo, bridge, golf and backgammon, and an almost daily luncheon guest at 21, where he had his own statuette. Unfortunately GC III had died several years ago in a mysterious unsolved murder that had been hushed up, apparently the victim of a cuckolded husband in Florida.

Next it was Cupp's mother's turn. Having long been an admirer of William Van Alen's 1930 Chrysler Building with its many-splendored Art Deco touches, including its dazzling entrance of stainless steel, glass and black African marble, it seemed appropriate that Jessica Cupp, in 1966, had chosen this building for her suicide plunge.

That the world was a small place never ceased to amaze Cupp, who since landing in Venice two days ago had run into no fewer than two dozen people he recognized from New York, Hollywood, Florida and London. It was "the season," and everyone was here -- even two of Cupp's ex-wives. The next week would be replete with great balls, yachting parties, water festivities, and the film festival, held on the Lido, as well as the Regatta Storica on the Grand Canal. It was exciting to be a part of all this, and fortunately he was invited to several events. But above all, he was looking forward to meeting Gaia Blumenthal.

He had written her and received an answer. She would be expecting him. Having known both his father and his grandfather, she had recognized his name immediately. As soon as he had arrived in Venice, Cupp had rung her Palazzo Pazzi to invite Mrs. Blumenthal to dinner, but the person answering the phone had said she was fuori Venezia, out of town for a few days. He hoped she would return his call soon.

Finishing what the Italians called the prima colazione, Cupp seized Major Douglas and his tape recorder, to follow the Major's well-trodden path toward St. Mark's Square, where the streetsweepers and camerieri were just spiffing things up for the day's customers at Quadri's and Florio's. Already the mosaics gleamed in the emerging morning sun, the five great Byzantine domes a spectacle of eastern opulence, caught, as were the minarets, spires and arched windows, in the light of early day.

Cupp always enjoyed a leisurely stroll of Venice's ancient Byzantine and medieval monuments, mingling with tourists, being jostled in the narrow alleys and byways, except that it was still too early for other people. Cupp moved on toward the Piazetto, toward the pink and white creamy marble Doges' Palace and the Sansovino Library, but buried in the Major's recommended route, he had somehow managed to become thoroughly confused, something that often happened to him; even between Madison and Park in Manhattan he sometimes found himself with no sense of direction.

Winging it, he came out somewhere in a back alley close to Venice's second most important canal, the Cannareggio, and as the location contained a bench, and since nothing more threatening than intermittent garbage gondolas and vegetable vaporetti intruded, he decided to plant himself here to embark upon his next hour's work.

"Art is not truth! Art is a lei that makes us realize truth! Nature and art are two different things; they cannot be the same ... through art we express our conception of what nature is not. You remove the traces of reality and the idea of the object is what leaves us with its ineffable mark ... "

Cupp read the quote, Picasso's, into the tape. It had to be the most profound statement about art, perhaps about the entire 20th century, that had been uttered. That the idea of a thing was more important than the thing itself (Ding-an-Sich?) was absolutely mind-boggling, sheer genius to have thought of, and suggestive of infinite permutation. Hadn't Plato said something similar? Could he ever get off on this!

For so many years now he had been toiling at a tome which was to reflect the roots and interactions of art, philosophy, history, fashion, manners, social attitudes, and ideals of the 20th century. This morning's taping demonstrated but one of the many methods he employed to come by his material for the opus magnum. This particular technique he referred to as his explication de texte, thanks to the waspish Valentin-Henri Texier, his beloved prep school French teacher. At Exeter students sat in a circle around what were called the "Harkness Tables," one of the main teaching distinctions at the school. Presiding over these tables, M. Texier would assign a passage of no more than a few lines for the explication. One would then dissect the words one by one for precise meaning, following which a commentary was in order in the form of precise critique.

This method of careful scrutiny, inaugurated in the French lycée by Napoleon in the early part of the 19th century, a method still used in France today, suited Cupp's intellectual bents to a "t." In his own variation, he would simply expound on his thoughts into the tape, then have a secretary type up what he had said, a lot of which was often pure crap and unusable, but some of which might sometimes contain a gem -- you just simply could never tell when a sentence or two here and there, uttered perhaps inadvertently, could take shape into an idea of major proportions. The thing was to keep talking.

Since Cupp worked hard at his projects, it distressed him to know that behind his back, people had the gall to snicker over him. Let them get up at five every morning to talk about Picasso's theories of art.

It also bugged Cupp no end that the painters he had selected for his personal art collection had yet to make their mark in the world. He had bought these unknown, emerging artists because he believed in them, then had done everything in his power to promote them. He still believed in them. There was his third wife, Trisha Stonemarten, for instance, who alongside Salvador Dali was, in Cupp's opinion, one of the two greatest masters of the second half of the twentieth century. Trisha attacked cosmic subjects in a style that was not derivative. While in the decade following their split he had continued doing his utmost to forward her career, despite the negative criticism of the many who undermined both her ability and the fact that she had taken him to the cleaner's in the divorce settlement, it was just tough to get a decent bite out of critics, museums, curators, galleries and private collectors.

He had really put himself out for Trisha, before, during and after the marriage, but for some unfathomable reason, her neo-cubist-abstract expressionist, quasi-dadaist/surrealist/minimalist canvases with their faint overtones of fauvism, pop artiness and impressionism that were midway between contemplative and disruptive, just didn't go over with the public. This, despite her being innately a true giant of the contemporary scene.

He had finally placed Trisha's canvases in a few small museums in Montana, Wyoming, North and South Dakota, and this, with considerable effort. Galleries the world over which had agreed to take her work (mostly with arm twisting, bribery, and always on consignment) never did more than tepid business on her. Sometimes he could not help the distinct feeling that some sinister force out there was against him. It had been ascertained that both the CIA and the Mafia had conspired against him in the past; now Cupp had to wonder what these two organizations might have to do with the problems he had confronted with his art.

So he was stuck with 22 rooms full of what clearly were the greatest unsung treasures of the 20th century, works he had paid a lot of money for, which by all rights should be appreciated and recognized -- but sadly, for which there was no market whatsoever.

The answer was to devise a market. Hence, the ingenious plan he was now hatching, by which he would be vindicated. This scheme would insure not only Trisha's and his other artists' reputations, but his own as well, with the added fillip of replenishing his dwindling estate. And furthermore, it would enable him to go down in history as a patron of the arts who had foresight and wisdom, who through thick and thin had stuck to his guns, who, refusing to allow himself to be influenced by public opinion, ended up being its prime mover and shaper. As the Medicis were to Florence, Cupp would be to the world, in this enhanced age of globalism.

Quite simply, the plan was that he would build an art museum. New York needed another one, and as it so happened, Cupp owned the land to build it on, property he had inherited. Primer real estate could scarcely be desired: a seedy hotel on 42nd Street, just off Times Square, in an area that was in the process of a renaissance. One of the big three insurance companies had recently offered him a handsome sum for the property, but the site was not for sale at any price, since it was the ideal location to build the museum that would be the apotheosis of his life, a museum totally dedicated to artists of the 20th and 21st centuries.

Times Square was perfection -- the museum would get all the subway and Port Authority traffic. This was a big gay area, and gays were enthusiasts of the arts. They might even manage to convert a few derelicts who were still hanging out in the environs -- particularly over on 8th Avenue. All in all, the project just had so many beneficial side effects that it had to go over big.

The main problem was going to be convincing the public to revere the works he planned to display there, largely his own personal acquisitions -- Trisha Stonemarten, to be sure, plus others of his proteges: artists like West Coast abstractionist Minerva Miller or the primitivist Lucille King; Dario J. Luis, whose specialty was the rendering of matador's assholes -- contrapunctual, highly ambitious conceptions; or even the tragic Anton Jacob, a past master (in both senses of the expression, since he was now deceased) of the last wave of cubism, who if the truth were told, had been able, at the top of his form, to give old Pablo a run for his money. Unfortunately Jacob had died penniless, his canvases were now next to worthless -- a terrible tragedy. Cupp had seven of them, now hanging in rooms on the third floor of his triplex -- an area no one but he himself had visited in the 18 months since his 5th wife Didi, an aspiring rock singer, had moved out.

The eight rooms upstairs were ideally suited for a recent new project he had undertaken -- indoor gardening, the growing of narcotic plants, magic mushrooms, soporifics, hallucinogens, aphrodisiacs, stimulants, hypnotics and other nepenthe. Here he could relax, tend and inspect his various species of psychotropic Psilocybe, dature metel, deadly nightshade and henbane, cannabis of different species, the opium poppy (papaver somnifora), his wolfbane, soma and peyote, the interesting Heimia syphilitica and Nymphaea ampla, as well as experiment in his small chemistry lab with extracting alkaloids. It was an absorbing creative outlet, but something he was keeping under cover -- it was, in fact, so top secret that even his closest associates, Aiuto and Born, as yet knew nothing about it.

But a propos of the art museum and the obstacle of getting the public to share his tastes, he had hit upon the answer to that one. The way was to hang his own fare alongside other, established works. Thus, over the past several years he had been corresponding with important private collectors and boutique museums, explaining to them that he wished to exchange ideas of mutual interest.

He had approached each collector as a fellow art enthusiast rather than a person who wanted something out of them. He had been prudent, scrupulous about never hitting anyone over the head, but merely feeling them out. Already he had canvassed collectors in the New York, Boston, Philadelphia and Washington areas. He had spent a delightful weekend with the Mellons in Pittsburgh and Virginia, to duly admire their acquisitions, which with due respects he honestly felt, despite their touted value, lacked the cachet of his own.

His father and Paul Mellon had been school chums who maintained a friendship over the years, due to a shared interest in horses. Finally on Sunday, after courting Mellon all weekend long in the tack room, paddock, ring and trails of his magnificent country dwelling, Cupp had cornered him to ultimately broach the subject of the projected museum. Mellon had been politely receptive, had all but endorsed the idea and had even offered to put Cupp in touch with his own people at the Mellon National Gallery and so forth. He had not said no to the possibility of loans. Now, if using Paul Mellon as bait he could hook Gaia Blumenthal, he would have it made.

As his museum would feature 20th century art, no loan could have greater impact than one from her. Her Palazzo Pazzi Museum, the works in which were valued at upwards of $500,000,000, was utterly unique. The Blumenthal owned Matisse's Odalisque in Orange, which was a good example of the type of painting he was going to need for the Cupp -- a real attention-grabber, something to which the critics would instantaneously gravitate.

Mrs. Blumenthal would be a joy to meet: she was one of those highly cultured, fabulous old women of a certain age of Hebrew persuasion, who like Misia Nathhanson, Alma Mahler Werfel, and Gertrude Stein before her, had been both inspiration, subject matter, muse, and source of unending support to countless gifted artists.

Secretly, though Cupp prided himself on his individualism and response to a different drummer, he nevertheless harbored a frustrated desire for the recognition of his peers.

The museum would provide this, of that he was certain. Thus, his great mission here in Venice was of utmost importance. The next few days would be crucial, in which he would solicit from Mrs. Blumenthal her cooperation, in the form of a promise or semi-commitment to offer some of her better-known works such as the Matisse Odalisque in Orange, to loan on a long range basis, say for a period of a year or more -- this would be ideal, would allow time for his museum to establish itself, after which all the artists of his own choice would have made their mark. For with their acceptance at a major museum, there would be no question of their value -- having a captive audience, their stock in the art world would skyrocket.

He saw no reason why Mrs. Blumenthal would begrudge him a few of her important acquisitions, since after all, it would be in the interests of humanity. The lady had had many years of personal enjoyment from her collection and she had in the past been known to make loans, so he could foresee no major obstacle. Others had responded; she ought to as well. After all, if Paul Mellon, for Christ's sake, had as good as said yes, what possible snag could there be? At any rate, he had brought along a batch of slides of his own works to show her, so she could get an inkling of what the permanent collection to be housed at the Cupp would boast.

Cupp had finished his morning's work on the book project, was pleased with his output and ready to return to the hotel to pick up Aiuto and Born. Along the way back he allowed for much pausing on bridges to better view the local scene and discover intriguing new delectibilities and amenities of the water, as well as out of the way rii, as Venetians called their canals. The squares and open market stalls, dappled with golden sunlight, were showing signs of activity.

"Le gambe! Le gambe!" the Venetians called out to him, "Legs! Legs!" as pressed to the wall in the narrow corridors, he hopped between the greengrocers and the fish shops, watching in the canals the fascination of refuse collection and fire engine gondolas.

Predictably, he became lost, first ending up somewhere around Verrocchio's equestrian statue of Condottiere Bartolomeo Colleoni, then finding himself at the Arsenal. Having managed this morning to get a good view of all the many winged lions -- golden, marble, bronze and stone – that graced Venice, he came out to what, according to Major Douglas, would seem to be the Church of San Zaccaria, which allegedly contained the body of the father of John the Baptist, a place where priests in the 16th century had arranged nude bathing parties and nuns had entertained their lovers openly. When the police tried to raid the place, the sisters pelted them with stones. He wondered what, if anything racy, was going on there today. The place looked quiet enough.

Cupp ran his fingers through his long, bushy pepper and salt hair, contemplating pigeons, vendors, cafés. He was thoroughly mixed up now. But persevering, he ended up on the Riva degli Schiavoni and hailed a gondola to take him back to the hotel.

It was 9:30 – finally late enough to connect with civilization, to ring Gaia Blumenthal to see if she were back yet. He went to the phone in the Danieli lobby.

When the party at the other end heard Garrison Cupp was on the line, he said, "Oh, yes, Mr. Cupp. Mrs. Blumenthal phoned in and I gave her your message. She wishes you to attend a small dinner party she is hosting Wednesday evening. Why don't you bring your wife along?"

Cupp explained he was presently wifeless, but accompanied by two male companions. Would it be all right to invite them?

"By all means," the secretary replied. "Eight o'clock, then?"

"Wonderful," Cupp answered. "We'll be there."

Jubilantly, he hung up the phone and glanced at his watch. Only thirty-six hours to countdown!

Soon now, very soon, he was going to start seeing some real action.

Secrets of an Odalisque

Chapter I

1985

It was by no means his first trip to Venice, but in a sense, in a very important way, it really was. Arthur Hartmann knew his entry into Venice would be spectacular, the fabled city rising, like Venus, from ancient waters, and yet, nothing had prepared him for this total astonishment when the gondola arrived at the Grand Canal.

The pellucid light falling on the grandiose architecture of ten centuries, evoking a voluptuous, tragic past of romance and intrigue, captured his imagination and confirmed that his entire life had been building to this very moment. Soon he would become a part of something greater than he ever dreamed possible.

As the gondola traced the inverted S of the waterway, past the sights so familiar to visitors and extolled by guidebooks -- the Madonna degli Scalzi, the Fondaco dei Turchi, the Ca'd'Oro -- his buoyancy enlarged, from the sheer rapture of being here at last. Lights, color, the sounds of motoscaffi, vaporetti and traghetti, the chug chug of outboard motors, the Veneto gondoliers singing Neapolitan songs, the piercing shouts, all the noise and confusion, sirens and klaxons, added to the compelling enchantment.

The great palazzi of the maritime city rose, almost lifted themselves out of the deep -- hundreds of them, their reflections creating variegated patterns in the rippling, greenish waters. The liquid fairyland demanded permanent recording, but in such a multifusion of sensual barrage, Arthur scarcely knew which piece of his equipment to reach for -- the Hasselblat or the Nikon around his neck, the video camera by his side, the spare lenses in his camera case.

His artist's eye alternated between peering upward at the flower-decked balconies, arches, domes, minarets, and slender spires, to gazing downward at the patches of algae and moss clinging to stone, and the rusting bell-pulls, weathered by ancient tides.

As the gondola slid under the humpbacked Rialto Bridge, then into side canals with warrens of bridges, market stalls and sweeps of arches and buildings, Arthur clicked away -- he was using the Nikon – and it was as though he were going straight through the backlot of a movie set. There were more bends and bridges, windows and balconies festooned with flowers, further sweeps of arches and palazzi and clusters of domes in the dramatic meeting of theatrical architectural styles, and then they were gliding past the 18th century La Fenice, reflecting the grandeur of the Age of Goldoni.

At length, they emerged opposite the incredible gleaming white marble of Santa Maria della Salute, and directly out into the sultry air of the lagoon, to better view both St. Mark's Square and Palladio's San Giorgio Maggiore, in what had to be the singlemost breathtaking sight in the world. Once again, Arthur reminded himself he was no ordinary tourist, and that for him, all this had a meaning that was beyond what anyone could ever conceive.

"Dov'è il Palazzo Pazzi?" Arthur tried out his Italian on the gondolier.

"Eh?"

"The Palazzo Pazzi, the museum -- of la Signora Blumenthal -- l'americana --"

"Ah, si -- si, fra poco."

Here in the two mile long stretch of canal, in the 200 palaces dating from the 12th to the 18th centuries, had lived those patricians whose names were inscribed in the Golden Book, when Venice, crown jewel and dominant power of the Adriatic, had been known as La Serenissima, the most serene. Six centuries of palazzi, ten centuries of diverse architecture -- yet the mysterious, secret order of the Odalisques had been in existence far longer!

"Ecco! Ecco il Palazzo Pazzi -- ma non si può entrare oggi --"

One could not enter today; Arthur already knew that. The Palazzo-museum was open to the public only two days a week, and today, unfortunately, was not one of them. Arthur raised his camera to bring the palace into focus and snapped, his excitement mounting as he confronted the dwelling of the redoubtable Mrs. Gaia Blumenthal. He would have recognized it himself, from media photographs and from his research in the New York Public Library. He thought of the significance of that which lay ahead for him.

He thought of Mrs. Blumenthal. Gaia, primeval prophetess, first among goddesses and gods ... mother, the source, born of Chaos. God laughs six times bringing the cosmic elements into being; when he laughs a seventh time, his mirth is interrupted by weeping ...thus did the soul come into being, through God's laughter and tears, as God bent down to earth and whistled to the earth goddess Gaia, who accepted the soul into herself, opened her legs, and brought forth, out of Chaos, the first human beings ...

Gaia ... Mrs. Gaia Blumenthal ... this was the formidable woman he had come here to meet. Arthur was sure the Gaia creation legend had meaning. He believed implicitly in the significance of names. When he saw Mrs. Blumenthal, he would say everything he could not write in the letter he’d ultimately mailed. His first two missives, unsent, had sounded too foolishly adolescent and romantic, so he had decided to delay revealing the real reason he had come to Venice.

Everywhere he looked was gleaming gold and oriental opulence, the sunlight igniting the mosaics of the byzantine basilica of St. Mark's; he was surrounded by near-surreal activity, as the gondola swept its way through waterways, dodging traffic -- all seemed a mirage in this glorious September morning.

At the top of the clock tower, the pair of giant bronze jacks struck the hour, just as they had done for 500 years. A delicate pink patina glazed over the entire area that was Venice.

It could not have been a more appropriate moment for an apparition to appear: approaching from the opposite direction, draped languidly across the seat of a gondola, wearing a diaphanous gauze cotton dress, was a beautiful young woman just coming into her ripeness – dewy, fresh. She reminded him of a tender, graceful Botticelli, something out of the Ufizzi, part fantasmagoria, part embodiment of a vanished ideal of womanhood – elusive, captivating, her wispy golden hair as if stroked by the sirocco.

In a tribute to her very existence, Arthur raised his camera and snapped her picture, then reached for his camcorder, did some quick maneuvering with the zoom lens, and filmed the sensuous turn of the young woman's head toward the lagoon.

The gondola arrived at its embarkation point, the barber pole mooring of the Royal Danieli Excelsior Hotel, from where he would inaugurate his new life.

After years of searching -- of blood, sweat, toil and longing, he was ready, absolutely on the threshold at last. He was a 20th century Grail Knight with the chalice in sight.

Arthur put the lovely lady in the gondola out of mind, and thought now only of his upcoming meeting with Madame Gaia Blumenthal, the larger than life woman who held the key to the Odalisques, and the very answer to his existence.