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As I towel dry my hair, I think about the art-dealing branch of the family business. It’s relatively new and was my idea. So, yes, I realize I have a lot to prove. But I love beautiful things. I have an art collection of my own so turning my passion into a business was the obvious next step. I wasn’t sure what my father would say or how he would react when I told him about my idea. I chose my moment to talk with him in his study one day.
“I have been watching the international markets for Italian artwork and the United States seems to have consistent growth activity,” I say pointing to a graph on my laptop screen. “We must take advantage of this overseas interest right now. As long as I can source art from here, we are looking at some very lucrative returns.”
“Looks interesting, Gianni. Let’s investigate further.”
I supplied the projections for the next five years and covered all scenarios from best-case to worst-case.
My father perused the data with seriousness, then said, “Gianni, my son. Each generation brings something new to the family business.” He stands and walks a few paces to the window, then turns slowly. “For me, it was property. My passion is restoring the traditional buildings we have here and preserving the architecture. This house was rundown and almost derelict,” he says running his hand up the rough yolk-yellow wall. “But I made it beautiful and luxurious without losing the original character.”
I follow his gaze around the grand living space of our family home and understand what he means. There is so much care and attention in the details and authentic artisanal elements, but the historic features work in harmony with the contemporary design. Carlo extended the humble farmhouse and added a gym and sauna, an outside swimming pool and entertainment area, as well as garaging for the collection of classic Italian cars.
“So now, you have found something you can excel at and leave your mark.” My father smiles warmly. “Succeed or fail. It is all on you, my son. But you are a Moretti and failing is not in the family genetics.” He laughs.
And that was the green light I needed, although I still needed to convince the members of the board. My father was influential, but he didn’t have the final say. It would be down to a majority vote at the next meeting. I would need to get a compelling presentation together.
Of course, I thought I could run everything for my art dealership from my home in Firenze, but with the way the importation paperwork is over there, it became necessary to have an office/ gallery space in New York, the center of all U.S. art sales. So, when a commercial gallery came up for sale, I snapped it up without waiting for the board of director’s sign-off. Perhaps I was too quick with my decision, but it just felt right. Not a great business strategy, perhaps. But with my father’s blessing, I signed the papers.
Now I’m feeling the pressure. The gallery in Manhattan could be the golden egg for the Moretti. Or I could have egg on my face, be a laughingstock, and bring shame on the family name. I shrug off my doubts as I scroll through the M&L website. It could do with a refocus on Italian art, of course. But as my optimism grows, I am more and more pleased with this purchase. The glittering potential is clear, and I feel confident that I have made the right decision. I will need to be in New York and away from Firenze, but only for short periods and only at the start, until I get systems in place.
In my room, I choose a light grey Armani suit with an open-neck white cotton shirt: stylish and comfortable. I pack a few essentials for the day. I have an art sale in Arezzo, then dinner with friends in Firenze, later. I’ll stay at the city apartment tonight and probably for the next few days as I finalize the first shipment of artwork to the New York gallery.
Down in the cobbled courtyard, I open the door to the garage and select the vintage red Alfa Romeo convertible. It’s the perfect day to drive with the top down. Driving soothe my overloaded mind and on a beautiful summer day like this, it feels like heaven.
I wave to my parents who are enjoying their breakfast on the terrace by the pool. They wave back. Ciao.
I am looking forward to New York. It has been a few years since I was there. I haven’t told Mama that I’m going, but I can handle her. What I’m not looking forward to is telling Luisa I have to go. She is not going to be happy about that.
Chapter 3
Olivia
Contessaisloungingonthe sofa when I get home. She flicks the end of her tail in response to me saying hello and how beautiful she is. Her pure white fur is so soft I can’t help but run my hands through it. Contessa puts up with me. She glares and flicks her tail again then yawns and casually licks a front paw.
“I love you,” I tell her, and she tells me she loves me too. In her own way.
It’s true. Contessa isn’t so much my cat as I am her person. I can’t imagine my life without her. She sleeps on my bed at night and various places in the apartment during the day. The sofa is where I find her mostly, in the afternoon, when I get home from work. But if I arrive home later than usual (hardly ever) I open the door and she is sitting right there as if to say, ‘Where the hell have you been? It’s way past dinner time.’ I love her. She is my world.
I dump my bags and head into the kitchen where I boil the kettle to make some chamomile tea. Noises from the street and other apartments chug, bang and creak around me; a reminder that I am living in a densely populated city, every minute of every day.
I pour the steaming water into my tea mug and jiggle the teabag on its string before squeezing it out and popping it into the compost caddy. I return to the lounge where I perch on the sofa next to Contessa. The life noises continue, and Contessa adds her soothing guttural purr.
Life is going on out there but here in my apartment, it’s as if I have become immune to it. Life is happening to other people, somewhere else. When I shut my apartment door, I shut out the world.
Drinking my tea, I relax back in the available space left for me by my cat. The curtains are closed. They are hardly ever opened fully. The room is dim because I don’t want sunlight to fade the colors of my artworks. I’ve collected a few. Some were gifts. I don’t go out much and I’m not interested in clothes or shoes so, any extra cash I have at the end of the month, I spend on art.
I’ll go to auctions and browse charity and garage sales for hidden gems. Art collecting is my guilty pleasure. Each piece has its place on an eclectic wall display, which has so many pictures on it, there’s very little floral wallpaper showing. I have glass and ceramics, and bronzes too. My collection covers a variety of eras and styles. Like children, I’m not supposed to have favorites. But still, I do.
The Lalique Suzanne Art Deco Opalescent Glass statuette in my bedroom is hauntingly beautiful. Some people I work with at the gallery would sneer at my choice and say that Lalique is old hat, mainstream, and boring. They would say something like, ‘Oh, Lalique. It’s what people, who have no idea about art, buy as a wedding gift for people who have no idea about art.’ And when I hear this sort of comment I smile and think to myself ‘Snob’ and walk away. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion, but sometimes opinions are formed by fashion trends. I tend to ignore fashion trends.
My other favorite piece has pride of place above the fifties set of drawers that I restored myself. The main wooden structure was sound when I bought it at a swap meet for five bucks. It only needed a linseed rubdown to make the woodgrain gleam. New handles and replacement legs and the set of drawers was transformed from down-at-heel shabby to uptown chic. This furniture piece is another reason to block out the UV, to save the wood from sun damage. So, directly above my gorgeous, restored item of storage is possibly my most prized possession: a small oil sketch of the Ponte Vecchio in Florence.
The painting is probably a preparatory sketch where the artist has experimented with composition or technique for a bigger finished work. There’s no signature, so I don’t know for sure who painted it. I have never had it valued. I brought it back from Italy wrapped in a T-shirt in my backpack. Knowing what I do now about the fragility of old paintings, it is amazing that it wasn’t damaged in transit. The painting is still in the original frame. Up close you can see the brush strokes of pigment that have been applied delicately with a confident hand to the small wooden panel. The white underpainting makes the color palette gleam. But the artistic value of this piece is secondary to the sentimental. If there was a fire and I could take one thing on my way out, as well as Contessa, it would be this picture.
I reach a hand down to stroke Contessa’s head. She allows it. And even smiles up at me, half closing her blue eyes. Then I lean my head back against my worn-out sofa and my thoughts drift off to dream of Italy.
Chapter 4
Gianni
