The American Lady(119)
“So what do you have in your samples books?” Wanda asked curiously.
“Samples books—now there is another symptom of the mass-production mania. Believe me, if I showed any such thing to my clients, they would jump like a scalded cat! My wares are all one of a kind. They are poems in glass; they are delicate and fragile works, and each one reflects the feelings of the artist who made it. Every glass is a cornucopia of inspiration; every bowl is an expression of humanity’s infinite creative potential and boundless soul! These pieces are the very essence of one moment in the artist’s life—and who can ever repeat such a moment?”
Wanda heaved a sigh of genuine agreement. “You have no idea how pleased I am to hear you say so. So far my market survey has only turned up wholesalers who want cheap wares at rock-bottom prices—which is exactly what we wish to set ourselves apart from, in our workshop.”
Wanda treated Brauninger to one of the smiles that had always gotten her another drink in Mickey’s bar in Brooklyn no matter how deep the crowds. She sat forward on her chair and spoke to him in hushed tones.
“Do you know what I simply don’t understand? That these wholesalers put on airs and proclaim that their products are the very peak of the modern artistic style! When really, let’s be honest, they’re just production-line goods, aren’t they?” Wanda watched for the gleam of agreement in the man’s eyes and congratulated herself silently as it appeared. Perhaps she’d come to the right place?
If Eva had had any say in the matter, Wanda wouldn’t even be visiting Brauninger; the Heimers had never dealt with him directly, though they had done some work for his father years ago. After that, there hadn’t been any more commissions. “The old man was an arrogant pig, and his son won’t be any better!” Eva had said. But Wanda hadn’t budged from her plan—she didn’t want to go back home feeling that she had left even a single stone unturned. And it seemed her stubbornness had not been entirely in vain.
“Their dishonesty is precisely what I hate so much, my dear young lady!” Brauninger replied. “They call themselves revolutionaries, friends of the proletariat, and they take money from the poor worker’s pocket for gimcrack that has no real value! Whereas I come straight out and say that I sell art, and that not everyone will be able to afford it.”
Where many people would have been put off by such arrogance, Wanda felt that this was her chance . . . now she just had to take it!
She cocked her head and said, “Did you know that such a forthright approach is a very American way of doing business? I mean that as a compliment,” she added hastily.
“Well now, I can’t really be the judge of that, but if you say so, young lady, then . . .” He was blushing! Although Wanda hadn’t asked for it, he poured some water into a tall, elegant glass for her.
Wanda batted her eyelids demurely and thanked him. As she did, thoughts raced around in her head. Karl-Heinz Brauninger’s dislike of mass production could be just the chance she was looking for. The only question was how to start doing business with him. Wanda took a sip of water.
She need not have worried so much—her elegant outfit and the fact that she was from America had ensured that wherever she went, she was welcomed most civilly and politely. She had always made quite sure to say that she was not there to represent Miles Enterprises, rather she was inquiring on behalf of a new and very modern glass workshop that was just setting up in Lauscha. The wholesalers offered her a seat and listened to what she had to say about a market survey to find out what the customers wanted these days. However what they told her was anything but encouraging. Most of the wholesalers got their goods from factories, and the rest already had plenty of pieceworkers under contract.
“Is it fair to assume that most of your clients are galleries?” Wanda asked once she had drunk half the water.
“It’s true that I have a handful of gallery owners who buy from me, but even they seem to pay more attention to price than to originality or quality these days.” Brauninger waved his hand. “I do most of my business at the large art fairs. I know that my esteemed colleagues here in town find that rather ludicrous; they think that I am nothing more than a common salesman. But what do they know? Paris, Madrid, Oslo—there are art lovers all over the world who are ready to pay money for luxury goods. Indian maharajas, opera singers, bankers: the crème de la crème buy from me, and—” Brauninger broke off as he suddenly realized that he had said a great deal more than he intended.
Wanda swallowed. Maharajas and opera singers—she could hardly imagine that they would want Heimer’s warty glass bowls, or the goblets with pictures of deer . . .