Banksy, the most renowned street artist in London, quickly became the world's leading street artist, at least in terms of commercial value. He managed to elevate street art to the same level as traditional paintings, fetching astronomical prices.
Interestingly, however, the artists who have been doing street art in London for years often don't like Banksy. They see him as an opportunist, someone who knows how to tap into trends and market himself. From the perspective of pure graffiti, they argue that Banksy's work lacks true artistic value.
In 2003, Banksy was an emerging artist with growing influence. Not long ago, he held his first solo exhibition in a warehouse in East London.
What surprised Anson was that Nora was also interested in street art. "So, do you like it?" he asked.
Nora replied, "No."
Straightforward and direct.
Anson couldn't help but smile. He thought Nora might make some polite small talk, at least expressing some public relations-level respect.
But no, she didn't.
Nora was very candid, "Kid, in essence, art is a commercial activity. Although I don't want to erase the cultural value of art itself, the harsh reality of today's market is that art is business. Clearly, Banksy understands this—he's an excellent product manager."
Anson asked, "But not an excellent artist?"
Nora raised an eyebrow, not giving a definite answer.
Anson understood. "A good product manager deserves recognition, at least. He ensures success. I'm sure there are plenty of people in Hollywood who think I'm just a good product manager."
Nora was momentarily surprised, then chuckled, "Oh, you're much more than just a product manager. That would be such a waste of your talent."
Anson raised his soda in a mock salute, "I'll remember that. But for now, this product manager might be able to give you a bit of inspiration."
Nora looked at him, intrigued.
Anson didn't beat around the bush. He pointed to the painting in front of them. "I have an idea. Why not add a zero to the price tag, put it at the entrance as the first piece, and mark it as sold with my name next to it?"
A "red dot" typically indicates a piece has already been sold. As for the signature, some people like to sign, others don't—it's entirely up to them.
Nora immediately understood.
In an exhibition of young artists, if a famous collector shows interest in a piece, or if several collectors start competing over a painting, the market buzz will follow, just like at an auction.
That's why top collectors often hire agents to attend exhibitions or auctions, so they don't reveal their interests too soon.
But conversely, if a collector wants to drive up the price, they'll put their name out there to attract attention from others in the art world.
Now, Anson was about to do the same thing—use the name "Anson Wood" to stir up the market.
But the key issue was, "Kid, your name might work in Hollywood, but it's not guaranteed in the art market. I don't want to discourage you," Nora said, her face full of warmth.
Anson's smile grew wider, "It's worth a try anyway, right?"
Nora laughed along with him, "Of course. So, any other ideas?"
Knowing when to stop, Anson didn't push further. When it came to her field of expertise, Nora had her strengths, and Anson trusted that his mother didn't need an amateur's advice. "Yes, I do. Would I have the honor of inviting you to dinner tonight?"
Nora glanced at the street outside. The number of people seemed to be growing. "Are you sure? I think tonight might not be the best time."
Anson replied, "Don't worry, James Bond always has a backup plan."
Nora smiled, "Well then, I'm looking forward to it."
...
Lucas Wood wasn't sure if he was seeing things.
The streets ahead were packed, crowded with people spilling out onto the sidewalks. It was as if the streets of New York, which were already not that wide, were getting narrower and narrower, like a bottle of soda about to overflow. He felt like he could be swallowed up at any moment. He wondered if he had taken a wrong turn.
This was New York, after all. The Lower East Side inherited the chaos and congestion of centuries past. Many roads weren't planned or named carefully, and the addresses didn't follow any logical order. A small misstep could land you in the wrong alley.
So what was going on up ahead? Was Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez making another high-profile appearance?
But Lucas didn't care. He wasn't curious at all.
All he needed was to find a street sign or address to recalibrate and get back on track.
He was in New York on a two-week business trip, and one phone call had turned him into a chauffeur. He had just finished an afternoon meeting and was rushing to the East Village, without even having time to change into more comfortable clothes.
Wait—
It seemed like this was the right place. He hadn't taken a wrong turn, but the crowd was so dense that he couldn't see clearly. He couldn't be entirely sure just yet.
Until he saw the gallery.
But—
The crowd was three layers deep, packed on both sides of the street. It looked more like the scene of a movie premiere than anything else.
So what were they all gathered for?
Lucas looked around, searching for any sign of Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez, or maybe Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston. It took him a few beats before a lightbulb went off in his head, and he made a bold guess:
Were these people here for Anson?
But why?
Lucas couldn't figure it out. Did these people have nothing better to do than crowd around to see Anson? Wasn't New York supposed to be so busy that no one even had time to stop and watch?
His thoughts swirled.
His face darkened even further, and now he finally understood why Anson had called for "help." He thought Anson was inviting him to dinner.
The murmurs of the crowd focused on the sleek black Bentley that had pulled up in front of the gallery. Its sleek lines reflected the thin Manhattan sunlight, its surface spotless, understated yet exuding an air of luxury. Without being flashy, it easily caught people's attention.
Whispers floated around, with wild guesses flying through the air.
Then.
The car slowed to a stop in front of the gallery, and for a moment, the murmurs paused, as if everyone had held their breath.
All eyes were on it.
The door opened, and a man in a black suit stepped out.
Black suit, black shirt, black shoes.
A tall, imposing figure perfectly clad in a custom-tailored black suit. His cool and aloof demeanor made it hard for anyone to look directly at his face; they could only sneak glances at his sharp, chiseled jawline, which resembled a glacier's edge.
His presence was overwhelming.
"…Who is that?"
"An actor?"
"Maybe a model."
"Is he here by coincidence?"
"Could he be the driver?"
Whispers and speculation mixed with the heat of their stares, stirring the air around them. Any small movement could cause the entire street to erupt.