Oliver
IT TOOK THE entire month of May to settle into the new normal. Overnight almost everything about my life changed, and there’s no time to process the impact. It’s like I took a seat on the conveyer belt that runs between obscurity and renown. I feel it moving further along every day. I just need to sit tight and there’s a chance I’ll get there. No one knew my name four weeks ago, and now at least the two hundred do who were invited to my first showing tomorrow night. And if Piper’s right, more have begun hearing whispers.
I haven’t been this busy since never. Days of sleeping till ten, painting when I had the studio, and spending nights finishing off a cup of noodles while tossing a ball to Louise are gone. There’s barely enough time to jack off in the shower. It’s left to me because there’s no room for even a casual hook-up. Even though I’ve had a fair share of signals sent my way by lovers of art and the lovers of artists.
Not a day passes that I’m not expected to show up to one of the openings, parties, interviews, or shoots Piper’s booked. I never was good at small talk. It makes me uncomfortable. But I’m getting better by default. It’s mostly just listening. Even if you don’t give a crap about how their five-year-old’s showing signs of artistic genius, or their interpretation of an overpriced piece of modern art by an uninspired painter, I listen. I let them know I’m paying attention. Turns out when people are heard they think you’re a good conversationalist.
My priority is to keep painting, keep producing product. That’s not a problem because its where I’m happiest. Piper’s a beast when it comes to her passion of lifting artists. Creating buzz and demand is her specialty. There’s an actual list of people who have shown interest in buying my work, on just her word. The list exceeds my portfolio. She’s made them wait, so they think I’m in demand.
After cutting my hair and buying new clothes, she had me professionally photographed. My suggestion that I could take a few selfies instead made her double over in laughter. Ended up I had a shoot with one of the best photographers in Manhattan. She got what she paid for. The brochure for my showing looks better than any I’ve seen. The photograph looks natural and relaxed, but it’s the best picture I’ve ever taken. I’ve got to admit she knew what she was doing.
The paintings have been on lockdown till the showing. And out of fourteen canvases we’re debuting, twelve have been reserved for the most influential contacts on the list. Maybe the biggest shock of all was how she priced my work. I thought asking forty-five hundred for a 20x30 was pushing things. It took me years to reach that level. So, when she said twenty thousand for that size I nearly pissed myself. We had an argument when I questioned her opinion.
My cell calculator has never gotten so much use. Twenty times twelve is two hundred forty thousand dollars. That’s more money than I’ve made in all my years of selling combined. I’ve got thirty-three canvases in storage, all different sizes. If all of them sold, plus the twelve already promised, I’d be a millionaire and then some. But that’s like celebrating your lottery winnings before the numbers have been drawn.
The apartment she provided, a roomy two-bedroom in the heart of the city, is as expected better than anything I’ve ever lived in. I’m screwed, because it didn’t take long to get used to living this way. Now I rely on all the amenities, Doorman, dishwasher, elevator, and central air. And it came stocked, from new sheets to silverware. It wasn’t necessary to bring my 1984 barely blowing floor fan, or the oversized fork I used to scramble eggs, open cans, or hold up cords.
There’s no logical reason for me to miss my old digs, but I do a little, as fucking stupid as that sounds. Not the smell of the stairway, or the stolen mail, not the sound of drunken street people fighting outside the building. What I did like was being one floor away from Prue. And the familiar, I liked that. On some level I even miss seeing Mr. Magoo. Does he wonder where I went? Louise feels that way about him. I catch her looking out the big window in the living room, waiting for her friend. But there’s no apartment house across the way, and no neighbor watching our not so private moments. A leather chair pushed close so she can sit high and watch people passing on the street is the best I can do. She seems bored. A stranger in a strange land.
So whenever I ask, ‘Ready to go to Brooklyn?’ Louise becomes apoplectic. And when we get within a block of the old homestead she’s pulling me with her leash, every ounce of her determined to bring me home.
It’s a good thing I kept the place. We visit once a week when I check on Prue and my family. Slowly, I’m improving on the space. Better plumbing, good lighting, nicer fan. The low rent makes it worth having somewhere to crash when I need to be close by. Besides, what if this all goes to hell and I’m out on the streets in six months? I’m not counting on anything. It could all be a dream.
It’s not just the price of my paintings that’s improved. I gave my parents fifteen hundred as a start. I plan on them having the entire five thousand every month if I start selling. All of us felt grateful for the turn of events. My dad got all chocked up, which I hadn’t witnessed in years. For the first time in forever we’re not worried about how to pay for the month’s medications or doctor’s appointments. Even though I’ve warned them it could be fleeting, they’re acting as if I’m about to become as famous as Picasso.
I don’t have to pose anymore. I was glad to have the work, but standing in front of a roomful of strangers having your dick sketched isn’t something you think back on with nostalgia. And the sharing of studio space and not being able to paint whenever I wanted was counterproductive at best and frustrating at worst. The new space is three times as big. and the northern light coming through the two-story window is an artist’s dream.
So, out of all that has been laid at my feet, it’s the studio I’m loving most. Left to my work with no interruptions whenever I tell Piper I’m painting. My solitude is respected. It’s the only time she steps back. In the last month I’ve received at least fifty emails, twice as many texts, and a couple of calls every day. But when I’m painting, she goes silent. It’s been a surprise that we work so well together, because I thought she and her Hercules were going to be assholes. Turns out I was wrong. If I had to guess, I’d say the feeling’s mutual.
Louise is into her new best bud and has weekly playdates at the Mann townhouse. Twice a week the driver escorts them to the Park for a walk or a sit, as the case may be. Hercules has a sweet nature once you get to know him. Yesterday I saw him trot a few feet to get a ball. This made Piper happier than anything I’ve seen to think her baby was having fun.
We’re both living up to our agreement. Except for her request that I hand over the Nude In Bathtub painting that went to Prue. It was the first one she wanted. I told her it was sold, but left out the details. That was a bargain between friends, and Piper can choose another. Other than that, nothing distracts either one of us. Well, almost.
Stori’s been in my thoughts and imagination since that first night in the restaurant. Floating around in my subconscious just under the surface. Then she shows up unannounced. I can be talking to a gallery owner, or discussing technique with an art critic. Then without effort or cause she’s there. But it’s when I paint that she’s closest. Except for my music, it’s quiet in the studio. I can let my mind wander. Whenever I’m alone, shadowing the underside of a breast, or highlighting the muscle of a woman’s thigh, it’s her body that comes to mind. It’s her skin I’m touching. That just about drives me crazy. The fantasy of Stori is better than the reality of any woman I’ve been with. And that says more about me than them. I always chose quick lust over substance. In my fantasies, I’ve done everything to her I dreamed of years ago, and all I’ve learned since. But it’s not just her body I think about. Just the thought of Stori makes me happier because I’ve missed her. And now I see what’s happening. I’d always been hungry for the girl, but I didn’t know I was lonely for her too.
We’ve seen each other twice in the last month. Another dinner with our friends and a quick coffee when I texted her with the idea. Friendly enough, but I didn’t sense further interest on her part. I noticed she didn’t hold eye contact with me for more than a few seconds at a time. And me? I’m a caged lion waiting for his feeding.
I need to be careful though. If she knew my whole story, I’m sure it would turn her off. In just a few conversations I see the fierce pride in the fact that she’s built her own foundation in life. Determined to become financially independent she’s laid the groundwork. When she talks about buying Whiskey River, and how close that accomplishment is, her eyes light up.
She doesn’t need to know thirty days ago I was scraping for rent money by skipping meals. Or that my apartment and studio are paid for by Piper. It makes me sound like a big man-whore. I’m not sure many people outside the art world understand that benefactors are most often legitimate.
I won’t reveal anything that makes me look weak in her eyes. That would be a misstep. And I’ll go at her pace. If taking things slow is what she wants, I can be that guy. That’s if I can harness my dick. That fucker butts in whenever I’m close to her.
I made a call a few days back to invite her to the gallery showing. I keep replaying our conversation in my mind, trying to figure out what I think of it. We talked for a few minutes before I broached the subject.
Me: I’ve got something I’d like to invite you to. I hope you can come.
Stori: What is it?
Me: I’m having a showing at the Gunn Gallery Saturday night. It’s a big deal for me. I’d love if you were there.
There’s a hesitation before she responds.
Stori: Um, yes. I’d love to see your work.
This made me happy for about three seconds.
Stori: Can I bring a guest? A friend is staying with me this week, and I know he’d love to attend. He’s an art collector. He’s crazy rich and maybe he’ll buy one of your paintings!
You’ve got to be shitting me.
Me: Yeah, bring him. No problem.
Asshole.
Stori: Great! Text me the time and address. We’ll definitely be there.
Jerkwad. I can feel it without even having met him. The guy’s a prick.