Brent had never heard the name before but this fact was not unusual in itself. Real artists were a retiring crew. They labored in back rooms and old garages, filling canvas after canvas for their own satisfaction. Their work might never be shown until long after they were dead—dead.
That word kept intruding in his thoughts. He turned angrily and walked towards the guard who leaned casually on a sworl of abstractionist sculpture.
“Shore, mister,” the guard answered. “You’ll find the curator in his office—the door there behind them old hangings.”
“Thanks,” Brent muttered, and followed the course indicated by a meaty finger. He found an alcove partially concealed by the luxurious draperies. It contained a photoelectric water fountain and a neomarble door bearing the legend, G. Andrew Kinnent—Curator, Contemporary Wing . He pushed open the door and stepped into the receptionist’s office. She looked up from her typewriter.
“My