Chimera (6 page)

T
alking
about Sylvie makes my hand ache in a way only an artist can understand. The need to get home to create is so prominent that the last half hour of dinner with Sera is a blur, as is the ride home.

I sprint from the car into the house, tearing through the closets looking for the supplies Nate and I bought, finally finding a canvas and paints. I have no fucking easel, but I do have a hammer and nails. With four nails securely in the frame, it’s now on the wall, preventing movement. Blue is calling to me, every shade I can possibly come up with, combining, mixing those I already have. I don’t think. I allow my hand to move, my fingers to swipe excess from the subject. My knife creates lines and pushes the oils into waves.

I lose myself in the work; the darkness fades as morning rises. My eyes are blurry, weary. The painting isn’t complete, but I literally can’t see to continue. Stumbling to bed, I collapse, and slumber instantly takes me over.

The alarm jolts me from my sleep. Sitting straight up in a panic, I wonder what’s on fire before it dawns on me the incessant noise isn’t a fire alarm going off, but the clock next to my bed reminding me to get my ass up to meet Ferry. Having been off the grid for five years, suddenly having obligations is a tough routine to get in to. My eyes sting from lack of sleep, but I feel the same fire coursing through my body, the burn of art waiting to escape. I can’t help but accept the foreign feeling of excitement. With a hint of a smile and a little pep in my step, I start the day.

I grab my jeans and T-shirt, make my way to the bathroom to brush my hair and teeth, and pass by the painting I started last night. I stop to look at her. She reminds me of Picasso’s
Blue Nude
—the tone, not the visual. I feel the same desperation and sadness. Neither woman’s face is visible, but with arms outstretched, head back, and knees slightly bent, I feel the despair of my lady in the same way I feel that of Picasso’s. She’s thin, almost frail, as though life’s cruel. Studying her, I see how much my work is changing. I worried with the time that passed, my technique would’ve suffered, but it seems not to have faltered, just changed, evolved. I’m proud of her. Fighting off the urge to stay home to create, I make the trip to Ferry’s studio.

Over the next few days, we hash out the details of the final images—choose filters, paper, frames, and finally a title.
Kaleidoscope Dark
. At this point, the rest is in Ferry’s hands to pull together into a finished piece. The entire concept has been strange to me. I paint. There’s only one. An original. I don’t have prints available, and there are no duplicates. The one in my hand is the only one available, but that changes with photography. There’s no original—it decomposed on my wall, which was a bitch to clean up. I still catch whiffs of the aftermath.

My phone startles me, dragging me out of my daydreaming haze. When I answering it, Tara Winford’s voice chimes through, “Hey, Bastian. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

“Sure, Tara. What’s up?”

“Hang on. I’d like to add Ferry to the call if that’s all right with you?” Interesting, if she wants to talk to both of us, it must be about
Kaleidoscope Dark.
I wait in silence before I hear them both on the line exchanging pleasantries.

Tara stops yapping with Ferry and gets to the point of her call. “I heard through the grapevine the two of you have finished the project you’re working on. I’d like to offer you an opening at the gallery if you’re interested.”

I doubt the silence is as long as it seems. I’m beside myself. I never thought there’d be another opening for me. That night at Sera’s event, she did mention showcasing my work, but I never thought I would produce anything worth putting on a gallery wall, yet here the opportunity is.

She continues. “Bastian, if you have any other pieces you’d like to put in, we can certainly schedule the opening date out far enough to accommodate those works.”

“I only have one other painting I’ve been working on. It might take me a couple months to get enough pieces together.” My mind’s going a thousand miles a minute contemplating the reality of committing to the number of paintings needed for an event.

“Tara, I think we should put it off long enough to get Bastian up to speed.” Ferry’s matter of fact.

“Ferry, do you want to add pieces? We could do a joint opening and intersperse your and Bastian’s pieces throughout the gallery with the project you’ve both been working set center stage.” Tara’s good at what she does. She’s always thinking outside the box, looking at what will bring her the biggest return on her investment.

“That would be good. I have a collection I’ve been working on that compliments Bastian’s work. They’re all portraits of sorts, highlighting emotion. Bastian, you’re not saying much. What are your thoughts?”

Reeling with all that’s in front of me, a showing of
Kaleidoscope Dark
and a joint opening with one of the world’s most renowned photographers is the opportunity of a lifetime, one I desperately need to seize if I have any hope of rejoining the artistic world. “Ferry, if you’re up for it, I’m in.”

I hear the excitement in Tara’s voice. “What do you think about planning a date two months out? Does that give you both enough time, or do you need three?”

“I’m going to default to you, Bastian.”

“Let’s do two, Tara. It’ll help me stay motivated.” The fear in my voice is palpable, but neither comment.

“Sounds good. I’ll need updated bios on both of you, and as you narrow down the concept for your portion of the opening, I’ll need blurbs on the subject matter. I also need pictures of a couple of the pieces you’ll have at the exhibit. If you can get me that in the next two weeks, I can start marketing and planning the event. Now, what do you guys need from me?”

“I’m sure I’ll have questions as we progress, but right now, I’m in awe of all that’s taken place in the last five minutes and need a couple hours to wrap my head around what I’ve committed to.” I laugh but it’s obvious I’m not joking. Luckily, they overlook my nervous anxiety.

“Ferry, what about you?”

“I’ll email you if I think of anything. In the meantime, I’ll start working on getting you the information you need. And, Bastian, I’ll send over what we have on
Kaleidoscope Dark
if you’re good with that?”

Knowing what we all need to do, the call ends. My immediate thought is to call Sera, but my fingers dial Nate instead. I can’t begin to repay him for putting up with my ass the last five years, but maybe telling him his faith in me has opened a door will give him a little bit back. Not one other person has stood by me, never wavering. Even my parents gave up. I don’t even hear from them on holidays anymore. They buried me and Sylvie that day. Nate is it.

“What’s up, man?”

“Nate, you’re not going to believe the call I just got.”

“Damn, Bastian, your voice is shaking. Are you okay? I’m not far from your house. Do you want me to come by?”

“No. I mean, you can, but I don’t need you to. I just got off the phone with Tara Winford.”

“Is that the art chick?” Leave it to Nate to completely oversimplify Tara’s clout in the art community with his ignorance. I roll my eyes and smile. God love him.

“Yeah, one of the most influential ‘art
chicks’ in the country. Anyway, she asked us to do an exhibit of KD.”

“Your food thing?” Jesus, I don’t know why I bother sometimes.

“Yes, Nate. The project with Ferry.”

“That’s fucking great, man! When is it? Are you going to put anything else in?” The excitement in his voice radiates through the phone. I feel his happiness for me.

“In about two months. Ferry’s going to put in a collection, and I’m going to try to provide some work, too, with KD being center stage.”

There’s a long pause. Nate’s mulling something over in that little brain of his, but he isn’t quite sure how to say whatever is on his mind.

“Just spit it out, Nate.”

“Do you
have
anything else to put in?” His voice is small, as though he is afraid his words will destroy me.

“Actually, I’m almost done with a canvas now, but other than that, not really. I’m going to have to get moving. I might’ve bitten off more than I can chew, but if I can come up with two to three more, it won’t be a train wreck. Well, if they’re any good it won’t.” My face scrunches at the thought of failure as if it’s not a possibility, when in reality, it’s a very real one.

“Congrats, Bastian. I’m proud of you, man.” I already know he is. I could wither away in my house and never paint another damn thing and Nate would hold me in the same regard.

Sera’s my next call, I can’t wait to tell her, talk to someone who understands the gravity of the conversation I just had, but any thought of exchanging joy comes to an abrupt halt when Sera answers the phone. She utters hello in an unrecognizable, broken tone—she’s either currently crying or has been crying recently. Tara flees from thought, my only concern becoming comforting Sera.

“Hey. What’s wrong?” I receive heavy breathing as a reply before a labored verbal response.

“I’ve had a tough day. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have answered until I wasn’t acting like a girl.”

“Do you want to talk about it? I’m a pretty good listener.”

“I need to get out of my studio. Do you want to go get some coffee or something? I need some fresh air, so maybe someplace downtown with a patio?”

“Uh, yeah…sure. Let me throw on some shoes and I’ll come pick you up. How about that little cafe on Coffee Street that you like so much that has the balcony that overlooks Main? Rulatta’s?”

“That’d be great.” Her voice hangs in the air. “Thanks, Bastian. See you in a few.”

Driving to her studio, every thought runs through my head of what could possibly dim Sera’s light. She’s always so upbeat and positive; she’s the personification of a sunny disposition. I’m getting out of the car in front of her studio when it becomes painfully obvious what caused the change. Standing half in the door of my car and half out, I lift my sunglasses to the top of my head to ensure my eyes aren’t playing tricks. I attempt to smile but I think I probably look more like a constipated duck. The right side of her face is black and blue. She looks like someone hit her upside the head with a two-by-four.

In an attempt to eliminate my obvious stare, I call out, “Hey, Sera.”

She puts her dark frames over her eyes, effectively covering a large portion of the marks, and gives me a half-hearted smile before asking me if I mind driving the three blocks over to the cafe. I’d planned to walk since parking near Main Street is virtually impossible, but if she wants to ride, I guess we’ll ride.

A
fter driving
around in circles for fifteen minutes, we finally find a parking place close to the cafe. She hasn’t said anything, not a single word, but I don’t push. If I’ve learned anything in life, it’s that people will talk when they’re ready to. I grab our coffee and follow her to a table on the balcony. She chooses the one on the far end, farthest away from the people mulling below us on the street. Taking a sip from her cup, she puts her elbows on the table and smiles at me, a bright smile, silently opening the door to probe, even just a little.

Pointing toward the bruise on her face, I ask, “What happened?” I’m careful to keep my tone light as though it’s an everyday occurrence for a woman to have a huge-ass bruise covering half her face.

Reaching up, her fingertips brush the bluish gray skin. I can’t see her eyes, but her face falls just slightly before she waves it off. “Freak accident with the kiln.”

“Must’ve been one aggressive oven. Have you had it checked out? It looks like you took one hell of a blow.”

“I’m all right. Just a klutz.”

Something about the way she blows me off doesn’t sit well with me. She doesn’t offer any descriptive story or animated tale about her blunder, which makes me wonder what she’s hiding. I’ve been there. I’ve hidden pain, consciously making the choice not to discuss things, and most of the time, I was happier when people didn’t keep digging. So I don’t.

Changing the subject, I still want to share my news with her. “Tara Winford called me today.” Her head snaps up, knocking her sunglasses down to the tip of her nose, and I see fear. Unadulterated fear. Just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone.

“Yeah? What’s she up to?” Her tone’s off; she isn’t asking because she’s curious, it’s as if she already knows.

Tilting my head slightly, drawing my brow in, I respond in the same tone she just issued me. “She wants me to do an exhibit.” Watching her closely for some sort of response, I continue. “Well, not just me. She wants to showcase
Kaleidoscope Dark
and have a joint venture with my work and Ferry’s.”

She gives me an obligatory smile. “That’s great, Bastian. When is it?”

“Have you talked to Tara? You don’t act like you’re the least bit surprised.”

“Bastian, why would I be surprised? Tara’s an entrepreneur. She makes her living finding and showcasing artistic talent. She would’ve been a fool not to snatch you up the moment you announced a completed project. I guess I’m surprised you didn’t expect it. You’ve been the talk of the town since people saw the article in the paper, and you showing up to my opening was huge. It was like you were coming of age again. You have always been the town’s Golden Boy. Your fans have missed you. I don’t know the depths of what all you have been through in the last few years, but your departure from the community left a vacancy no one has filled since. People are excited about it.”