The Contract

“I need to go into the city to buy more hard ground and benzene tomorrow.”

“Go today. Tzvi will be busy drawing, and I can babysit him.”

“You don’t mind being here alone with him?”

“He basically ignores me. It’ll be fine.” 

“Anything else needed?”

“Better get more solvents, paper towels, Mr. Clean, and rubber gloves. Tzvi is like a giant toddler. He managed to get hard ground on my drying rack and the printing blankets which he didn’t even touch. See his fingernails? They’re stained black.”

*

Tzvi returned from lunch at noon. He helped Ben fill two trays with the acid solution and after finishing his drawing, placed the first two copper plates into the trays. He stood guard over the plates in the acid with a succession of lit cigarettes clenched between his lips. 

“I’d like a cup of tea,” he said to Celeste as he tried to catch her eye. 

She cranked the etching press at the far end of the studio and didn’t hear him. He ignored Ben who was standing much closer. 

He called out to Celeste. “I prefer Lapsang Souchong or Darjeeling, but any black tea is acceptable.” He was not smiling.

“Tzvi, Celeste is busy,” said Ben. “All we have is Lipton tea, but I made a pot of coffee earlier. Help yourself in the kitchen.”

Tzvi made a face like he smelled something unpleasant. He dropped his cigarette into the sink, took his copper plates out of the acid and rinsed each one splashing water indiscriminately. He leaned them against the side of the sink and let them drain onto the floor. Then he ripped off his apron and stormed out, slamming the door.

“What happen, Ben?” asked Celeste.

“I seemed to have offended Tzvi.” Ben poured himself a coffee. “He’s gone.”

“Let’s open up all the windows. It’s smoky in here.”

“I should go buy the supplies later. On the radio, they said the transit strike is still happening. I wonder how bad the traffic will be. I heard that some businesses are reserving hotel rooms for their staffs, so they don’t have to go home at night.”

“I hope we can stay ahead of him. He’s voracious.”

“Like a hungry wolf?” asked Ben.

“Exactly.” Tzvi treated them like appendages of himself and it made Celeste livid. She’d never worked with someone so inconsiderate but knowing how important the project was to their future, she kept quiet. 

Tzvi returned a half hour later and put his plates back into the acid. Ben took the subway to the art store in Manhattan. Celeste continued printing. The afternoon slipped quietly away with the sound of classical music broadcast on the radio and each working as far away as possible from the other until Ben returned.

The next few days passed with Tzvi arriving a little earlier each day and staying later. He insisted on removing all the hard ground or aquatint from each plate each time he etched it. He’d douse it with so much solvent it dripped off the table and melted the floor paint. He required Ben to print a proof on good paper of each stage of each plate while trying different color combinations, so that most of the paper ordered for editioning was used before any plates were completed. Ben and Celeste watched the clock each day hoping he’d leave before they fell asleep on their feet but said nothing.

Celeste caught Ben looking at the proofs of an etching of his own he’d been working on before Tzvi had taken over their lives. She knew it was hard for him to put it aside half done. 

“I bet you miss not being able to do your own artwork.”

“I’m exhausted Celeste. He’s relentless. I’m pretty sure we’re in the hole already for supplies,” said Ben. “I’m starting to wonder if he’ll ever finish anything. He’s started over three dozen plates and nothing is done. His crap is all over the shop.”

“I should be here to help you, but I’m afraid to quit my job and have this project blow up in our faces.”

“Keep your job. We need to see it through. Tzvi told me Harold landed him a one man show in a gallery on Madison Ave with the prints we’re doing with him. This could give us real visibility and lots of work going forward.”

“You’re right, but I’m frustrated. When I get home and he’s still here, I want to scream. I wish I could start a piece of my own, but that’s impossible for the foreseeable future.”

One evening after ten o’clock with her feet burning, Celeste cleaned up the press area.

Her throat became irritated from the fumes as she approached the sink where the acid trays were placed. “Are these the two plates you were etching earlier? The acid is really clear.”

She looked below the sink and noticed both of the acid containers they’d purchased for the whole project were empty. 

“No, this is the third pair. The acid was so slow, I added to it, but it’s still not biting well. You need to buy more hydrochloric.”

“I’m sure it’s etching perfectly,” said Celeste. “Ben, can you come here?”

Ben saw the empty containers too. “Tzvi it’s dangerous to use a solution this strong. We need to dilute it.” He turned on the faucet adding a slow stream of water to both trays. 

“You think I’m a fool? I need a stronger solution, not less.” Tzvi glared at Ben.

“You’ve used everything we bought. And we need to do something about the ventilation. These fumes will make us all sick.”

 “I’ll tell Harold you refused to let me do my work,” Tzvi shouted at Ben while he ripped his apron off.  “You signed a contract.”

“Tzvi, it’s too dangerous,” said Celeste hurrying across the floor to open the windows.

“We can’t work like this,” said Ben as he followed the retreating Tzvi. “There’s going to be a transit strike; it’ll be impossible to get anything delivered.” He opened the door and Tzvi stormed out like an offended teenager. “Go home. I’ll call when you can come back.”

Later Harold called. “Ben, I know Tzvi can be impetuous, but he’s a great artist. We’ll both benefit from our association with him. Be patient. Remember the contract.”

“Okay, Harold. But try to get him to see reason. This strike’s going to complicate everything.” 

*

The NYC Metropolitan Transit Union after months of talks were unable to agree on a new contract. They called a walkout for the next morning Tuesday, April 1st, 1980. 

After contacting all the messenger services, Celeste discovered none would deliver to Brooklyn. Due to the strike everyone who had a car was driving it, jamming all the river crossings into and out of Manhattan. Ben quickly realized he had no choice but to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge to fetch the supplies. 

“God knows what lies Tzvi told Harold. That contract is our future. We need to find a way to work with him regardless of how difficult it is.”

“You’re right. He’s like working with The Alien.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

*

(Click on number 5 to continue reading the story.)