“Your turn,” she says with a gentle smile on her face.
“My turn for what?”
“To tell me about you. Anything you want to share.” I love the way she encourages without pushing.
“What would you like to know?”
“What’s your favorite color?”
I laugh. She doesn’t give a shit about my favorite color. “Blue.”
“Dogs or cats?”
“Dogs.”
“Boxers or briefs?” She giggles.
“What is this, twenty questions? Boxer briefs.”
“No, not twenty questions. I’d love for you to willingly share, open up a bit, but I know you won’t.”
“I will.”
“Bastian, seriously. I know this is really the first time we’ve hung out in person, but we’ve talked endlessly online, and that last question was the most personal you’ve gotten. I’m not gonna bite. I just want to get to know you.” Her words are genuine. I wish she understood this is a huge step for me. I haven’t spent this much time talking to anyone in years—other than Nate, and he sure as hell doesn’t count.
I debate whether to open up to this woman. I want to know her and her me, but I’m not sure at what cost. Sylvie’s been evading my dreams. I miss seeing her, and I wonder if she’ll leave completely if I allow another woman to be present in my life.
The reality is I need some human interaction, so I choose to take the plunge and be honest.
“I’m not good at this, Sera. I’ve been closed off to the world for half a decade. I’ve made huge strides in the last three weeks, but it’s a process I need help with.” She waits patiently for me to proceed. I know the questions she has; they’re the same questions everyone has. “I’ll try to answer any question you have, but you will have to ask them, and I’m not guaranteeing an eloquent response.”
“I don’t want to pry, Bastian.” She lowers her gaze to the table.
Sighing, I reach across the table to lift her chin, forcing her green eyes to make contact with mine. “You’re not prying. I just need help. Why don’t we just rip the Band-Aid off and go straight for the gusto. Ask the most prying question in your arsenal.” I reassure her by taking her hand on top of the table with a gentle squeeze.
“Wow. Okay.” She searches for the words to phrase the question that will open up my past. “Why did you quit painting?”
“My wife passed away about five years ago from Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. It was very aggressive and consumed her faster than the doctors could treat her. It was brutal to watch. I can’t imagine the torture she endured.” I have to look away and gather myself before continuing the jaunt down memory lane. Sharing them seems like a betrayal of some sort.
“We grew up together. She was my best friend—well, her and Nate. I’ve always painted from inspiration; usually, I found it in her, at least as an adult. When she left, I lost that part of me. I didn’t even attempt to pick up a brush.
“After the funeral, I came home and rid the house of anything Sylvie. Not because I didn’t want it, but because I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t have her stuff around without her there, too. When I got rid of it, all my canvases, brushes, pallets, oils, acrylics…they all went, too. Without her, there was no me. Without Sylvie, I had no muse, no reason to live, no reason to paint, no reason to do much of anything.” I shrug as if what I just told her was part of the normal grieving process. I don’t want to go any deeper than that, but I doubt she’ll let me off that easy.
“Were you suicidal?” Her eyes round in disbelief over the words escaping her mouth, and then her delicate fingers cover her lips as she waits for my answer.
“I’ve thought about death a lot, but I’m a coward.”
“What do you mean?”
“The pain here in this realm is a known entity. It’s excruciating, but it’s become familiar. I’m always too afraid to pull the trigger for fear it doesn’t end here. If there is an extension of life on the other side of this, wouldn’t I just have to continue to endure what I’m already suffering with? Only in that realm, it would be unfamiliar and even more alone. If I had a definitive answer that there’s nothing more beyond this life than darkness, I might have had a different outcome. I guess the pain never got bad enough to take the chance.” She’s staring at me in utter shock. “I’ve never told anyone that, not even Nate. I’m sorry to have placed such a burden on you.”
“I’m honored you felt like you could tell me. Will you tell me about her?”
“Who? Sylvie?” Perplexed, I wonder why this beautiful woman would have any interest in my dead wife.
“Yes. What was she like?” There’s genuine interest in her question. I don’t see any ulterior motive other than her possibly wanting to give me an outlet to speak freely of someone I love dearly. To honor her memory by sharing it with someone else.
“You really want to hear about her?”
“Absolutely.” The excitement on her face puts a smile on mine.
I tell her the good and the bad, although there was little bad. She had annoying habits like leaving her makeup all over the counter in the bathroom, or when I was in a bad mood, she’d poke the shit out of me until I got so mad I started laughing. I miss her throaty voice, her jazzy old soul. I miss the way she could brighten every day, but more than anything, I just miss the way she loved me. She accepted flaws and all, and in a way, that made me feel she cherished even the negative. She never complained, even in her death, and everyone adored her. I think most of our friends were around because they wanted to be close to her. I just got the benefits of her being my wife. Even when she knew she was dying and in constant pain, she never uttered an adverse word.
Sera doesn’t ask for details about how Sylvie died, which is a relief. I’m not sure I’m ready to relive those memories just yet, but I’m sure at some point, I’ll have to tell her. Those months changed me. They made me angry and resentful, then they just left me desolate and without fight. The truth is, I can’t blame it all on her illness or her death. I’ve made the choice day in and day out to allow it to consume me, to wallow in self-pity, immerse myself in death.
When she died, she took the best of me with her.
10
Talking 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 b
ent, 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.
After 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.
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