I am very fond of David Schoffman. And though there is no balm to be found in such sentiments between men, there are times when I think that my affection for him borders on love. But it is a backbreaking exertion, toil of excruciating industry, a labor that rewards with only the wages of humiliation and grief.
His character is the small voice of weights and measures. He is a striver who sees human interaction as trade. Long ago he renounced his faith in art in favor of the puny stanchions of acclaim. He would barter his Atman for even the slightest material advantage. He would betray a colleague, double-cross a friend, denounce his kin in order to till the clay of his career.
The first-fruits of his labor were quite impressive. As a young man, fresh out of art school, he caught the gleam of Patricia Paschal, chief curator for contemporary art at the auction-house Betise Françoise. She recklessly sponsored his assent by planting bogus bidders to swell the estimates on his under-incubated paintings. The product of David’s vigorous coital enterprise ended badly for Patty - her marriage to film director Sandor Van Hoght was shattered, her credibility as an art dealer, destroyed - but quite well for him. It was a succès de scandale that sent his prices soaring.
Ever since, Schoffman’s story has been one of professional bouquets and personal iniquity. He has banished grace to garner eminence and he has been triumphant.
I am his only remaining friend.
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