Hailey
I placed a call to Anna immediately after I hung up with Bryan, but I couldn’t get the sound of his voice out of my head. He knew something was up. I was sure of it. Even while Anna screamed in my ear and kept telling me she was more than free Saturday night, my mind was elsewhere. Bryan’s voice had been so full of life and happiness when he had first picked up the phone, and the moment his love for me was declared, it felt as if his entire emotional state had fallen. The very idea of destroying his happiness with my illness rocked my world, and I had to sit down on the chair behind my register while Anna continued to rattle on in my ear. She kept asking me what she should wear and making suggestions for food. She kept throwing out times that would be good for her, but I was only half-present for the conversation. We set a time for seven in the evening for this Saturday, and then I shot a text message to Bryan about the confirmed time. I knew I told him I’d call him back, but I wasn’t willing to listen to his emotional shifts every time something about me was brought up. Just as I hung up the phone with my sister, a familiar face walked into the gallery. I had a headache that was steadily growing, but I tried my best not to focus on it. Ramon, with his steely gray eyes and his tanned skin that seemed even darker than when we’d met at the gallery, came strutting up to me with his hand in his suit pocket. His hair was impeccably swooped back, shining with a light placement of gel while his goatee still boasted of a salt and pepper color. He’d shaved his beard off, revealing the sharp jawline underneath, and I greeted him with a smile as he approached my register. “And here the beautiful cyan angel sits,” he said. “Mr. Escalante. The pleasure’s all mine. What brings you around here?” “Please, call me Ramon.” The way he rolled his ‘R’ garnered my attention in a very weary sort of way. “You look a little downtrodden. What can a man do to pull that luxurious smile you have across your cheeks?” he asked. “I’m just a bit tired is all. The showcase you attended has drawn more attention than I was prepared for,” I said. “Attention is only for those who deserve it, and you, my dear, most certainly do.” He was a flirter, that was for sure. But I was getting used to men in the artistic community coming in here and trying to charm their way into my world. Max had attempted to do it as well as a couple of reporters, so I was getting very good at standing my immovable ground. “That gallery exhibition was astounding,” he said. “Where in the world did you find such a talented artist?” “On the street selling his artwork for ten bucks,” I said. “Such breathtaking and heart-wrenching talent. Are any of the artist’s pieces still around?” he asked. “That entire wall over there is lined with them,” I said. “They’re the ones from the exhibition that didn’t sell for various reasons.” I saw him nod as he strode over to look at them. In truth, they were paintings I had actually refused to sell. The fox painting was on the wall, a constant reminder of the fact that John’s presence was still with us, even now. The inverse paintings from the LAB Gallery were back in their rightful place, and there were abstract pictures with geometric patterns that were very reminiscent of
the things Bryan sketched. I had a feeling John was thinking about his brother when he was painting and planning those canvases, and I just didn’t have the heart to sell them.
It’s why I was loaning out all his paintings to other places in San Diego.
“Are they for sale?” Ramon asked.
“No, sir. They are not.”
“But you said they did not sell. I do not understand why. The brushstrokes and the emotion. The way these geometric patterns seem to stand out like a three-dimensional structure. This pair of inverse paintings is incredible. I’d be willing to offer you one million for the lot of them.”
“They aren’t for sale,” I said.
“You’re right. Much too paltry a price. One and a half.”
“No.”
“Two million,” he said.
“I believe you have not heard me,” I said. “Those paintings are not for sale.”
“Miss Ryan, this artwork should be shared with the world. I know so many people who would pay egregious amounts of money to own an original piece of modern work such as these. Two and a half million dollars for the lot of them.”
“And just like I said a few seconds before, they are not for sale.”
Finally, I saw the man relent. His back relaxed and he shook his head, conceding defeat while people began to trickle in off the street. My headache was now pounding my vision, no doubt from the stress this man had just blown into my world, and instantly, I wanted him out of here.
I wanted all of them out of here.
He continued to walk around the room, looking at other paintings on the wall. He stopped to admire a few of mine before his eyes bounced around to other artists I featured. His shoes clopped along the tile floor of the gallery, and I could see people eyeing him closely while they took in the artwork along the walls. In a place like San Diego, Ramon stood out. He wore his wealth on his body, making sure people understood how much money he had at his disposal. People like that only thought they understood art, and if I was going to sell John’s paintings to anyone, it would be someone who truly understood and appreciated them. But then he surprised me with the question he eventually asked. “This artist. Who is it?” he asked. “A woman who paints out of her home. She’s a hit around here too.” “Very reminiscent of Michelangelo, don’t you think?” he asked. “How so?” “Well, all the brushstrokes are so thin even in the background where large brushstrokes are usually used to paint in the canvas faster. The artist has used various small, wispy strokes throughout the entire thing. It’s almost like they wanted to conceal the fact that it was painted.” I stared at him with unwavering eyes as he tilted his head. “Is the artist working on photorealism?” he asked. “Yes,” I said, nodding. “She’s trying to dabble in it.” “She’s got a keen eye for detail. I mean, look at the expressions on these children’s faces. Michelangelo was an expert at painting facial expressions for his time, but even his got muddled. Every single expression can be read on these faces. Almost like she used a—” “Hairpin brush,” we said together. In an instant, I suddenly couldn’t take my eyes off him. “You know how I knew this wasn’t yours?” he asked. “How?” “Because it portrays real life. Your paintings don’t do that. You portray real emotions.” “You just said that the emotions of the people in this painting were
“For detail’s sake, yes. Not for emotion’s sake. The point of this photo was to portray a scenario the artist probably came across, a scenario that was imprinted on her mind. It tells more about the artist and what she deems important more than it tells about her emotional disposition and how the artist is feeling. Your artwork is a mirror into your soul, whereas this picture is a mirror into a mind.”
I was blown away by the fact that someone was able to nail
that down about my paintings.
“Have you ever thought about spending time in Europe?” he asked.
“What?” I asked breathlessly
“Europe. You know, London. Paris. Germany. Have you ever considered it?’
“No,” I said.
“It’s a shame. Artwork that peers into the soul of an artist is devoured there. You could garner quite the international following. I’ve got numerous contacts if you would like to set up a traveling exhibition.”
“A traveling exhibition. Throughout Europe.”
“Oh, yes. It would make you a very hot commodity.”
The way his eyes raked over my body prompted me to swallow my tongue.
“And it would raise the value of your art by thousands.”
“You would just help me put together a traveling exhibition,” I said.