“You will suffer while you are ’ere,” Monsieur Alexandre says, lifting his chin and looking down his nose in a very Gallic manner. “We demand it! In return, we will give you unprecedented access to some of zhee world’s finest artists, living and dead. Zhis is not a summer camp for spoiled infants. Zhis is where you will metamorphose from a moderately talented caterpillar into a magnificent butterfly.”
I glance at the artiste to my left, a towering, solidly built blond with slicked-back hair and a square jaw. His face is expressionless, his gaze fixed forward. He’s wearing a black turtleneck and black skinny pants, and looks like he should be dancing with Mike Meyers in the old-school Saturday Night Live Sprockets skit. Now we dance. Just the thought makes me want to laugh out loud, so I bite my lip and return my attention to Monsieur Alexandre.
“Modigliani. Cézanne. Manet. Picasso.” Monsieur Alexandre waves his hand, gesturing at the walls around us. His accent is as thick as oil paint. “Many of the greats have hung on these walls . . .”
No words. There are no words to describe the emotions swirling around inside of me right now. I’ll bet if you were to look at my aura it would resemble a Monet painting. Maybe San Giorgio Maggiore at Dusk, with its bold infusion of motivated orange and cheerful yellow.
Why haven’t I ever thought of comparing auras to famous paintings? It’s kind of a genius idea. From now on, when I read someone’s aura, I am going to mentally assign them a painting.
“Zhis gallery has an impressive history. It was established by my three times great grandfather in 1802 and is a labor of love for zhee entire Galliard de Cadré family—”
The door opens, and a tall, handsome man enters the gallery. The stranger nods at Monsieur Alexandre, who returns the nod without interrupting his histoire de gallery.
I want to pay attention to what Monsieur Alexandre is saying, but I can’t hear him. I can’t hear anything but the loud thump-thump-thump of my heart. The stranger smiles at me, and the thumping increases in speed and volume. My chest hurts, and I suddenly realize I have been holding my breath from the moment he walked into the gallery. I exhale, and my fringy bangs lift off my forehead.
The stranger chuckles.
Heat flushes my cheeks and spreads down my body. It reminds me of the time I had a crush on Mr. Thomas, my eleventh-grade art history teacher. How I would flush all over whenever he called on me to answer a question.
Whoa. What is happening here? I am not crushing on a suitsexual, am I?
I lower my chin and study the stranger from behind the safety of my bangs. He’s definitely wearing a suit, and I am definitely feeling that flushy-crushy Mr. Thomas feeling. He wears his expensive suit as casually as if it were a pair of jeans and a ripped sweater. He runs a hand through his longish hair, and it falls to one side. The dark stubble shadowing his chin and upper lip, the floppy hair, the roguish grin contrast with his squared-away suit style.
I try to read his aura, but the colors are moving so fast around him they don’t make sense. He’s like Van Gogh’s Starry Night, swirly happy colors with dark spots full of mystery and excitement.
“Now,” Monsieur Alexandre says, walking toward the back of the gallery, “please follow me, and I will show you to zhe atelier and your rooms.”
I grab my easel and follow the other artistes, rolling my suitcase behind me. The wheels make a thunk-thunk noise as they roll over the parquet floor.
Monsieur Alexandre stops walking and pivots on his heel, staring at me with an aghast expression.
“Mademoiselle Brooks, these floors have been here since Madame de Sévigné was writing letters about life in the court of Louis Quatorze. They are older than your country. Kindly carry your case.”
I look down at my plastic suitcase, patterned with bright daisies, and heat flushes my cheeks again. It isn’t the flushy-crushy kind of heat, either.
Chapter 10
Laney’s Life Playlist
“Why Can’t We Be Friends?” by Smash Mouth
“Mean” by Taylor Swift
My psychology professor at the University of Colorado Boulder said there are only sixteen personality types. It’s a theory that still blows my mind because it means that seven billion people can be neatly sorted into sixteen well-defined categories. I answered the one hundred and thirteen questions on the quiz and was neatly sorted into the ENFP category. The Inspirer. According to the printout my professor handed me, ENFPs are enthusiastic, idealistic, and creative people who live life according to their inner values. They become excited by new ideas, but quickly become bored with details.
Even though there might be some truth to that description of my personality, I don’t believe the entire human population can be sorted into one of sixteen categories. That would be like living in a Mondrian painting.
The minimalist approach to analyzing personalities isn’t for me. People aren’t Mondrian paintings. They’re made up of more than a few colors, and their shapes are always changing. We are complex, colorful, textured, shaded canvases.
When I meet new people, I don’t feel a need to quickly sort. I prefer to remain open. Otherwise, it’s like getting a present and being told what it is before you open it, isn’t it? A total bummer.
I hope Monsieur Alexandre and the other artistes aren’t sorting me into any one particular category. I’ve been sorted before. Hipster. Nerd Girl. Space Cadet. ENFP.
Monsieur Alexandre leads us through the gallery, an elegant space with white walls and glossy wood floors, until we come to a grand staircase with gilded wrought-iron railings. We climb the stairs to the second floor.
“Zhis is our upper gallery, where we display sculptures and paintings by lesser-known, up-and-coming artists. And through here”—he pushes on one of the mirrored panels covering one wall to reveal a hidden door—“is zhe private gallery. Entrance to zhis gallery is by invitation, extended to our most esteemed collectors.”
I am digging that Monsieur Alexandre calls his clients collectors. It implies they are cultured connoisseurs instead of crass consumers. Art should be collected, not consumed.
He steps through the secret door and invites us to follow him. Stepping into the private gallery is like stepping back in time, into the opulent salon of an eighteenth-century aristocrat. Fabric-covered walls. Subtle lighting. I can almost hear the tinkle of a harpsicord and see the candlelight reflected off the gilded frames showcasing a rococo masterpiece, like by Fragonard or Boucher.
Monsieur Alexandre leads us through another hidden door, and we find ourselves in a narrow stairwell.
“Zhis is the original stairway used by zhe servants. It is also the way you will come and go. Down zhere”—he gestures down the stairs—“you will find a door leading to our private courtyard and zhe street beyond. We will give you the code to zhe cypher lock. It is also zhe way to our vaults. Naturally, zhe vaults are off limits.”
Monsieur Alexandre begins climbing the stairs, and we, like pilgrims eager to behold the Promised Land, shift our heavy suitcases and art kits to scramble after him.
To, like, say I had a spiritual moment when I stepped into the atelier would not be an exaggeration. The dove-gray walls and floor faded to the color of driftwood. The old cabinets that have probably contained artistic treasures since before Michelangelo took his first breath. And the wicked old pyramid-shaped ladder that nearly touches the ceiling—something you would expect to see in Cézanne’s studio—is seriously giving me life right now.
Monsieur Alexandre strides over to the far side of the room, opens bifold shutters covering floor-to-ceiling windows, and we are suddenly bathed in glorious, golden light from heaven. I feel a peace that passes all understanding. It’s nearly as powerful as when a great gray owl swooped out of nowhere, landed on a fence post nearby, and fixed its yellow gaze on me. Since owls are spirit animals sent to remind us that we must move out of the shadow of our fears to fully step into the light of happiness, and I was trying to decide if I should leave the comfort of my parent’s home t
o volunteer in Sitka, I pretty much consider my encounter with the winged one a defining spiritual moment.
I listen as Monsieur Alexandre explains that welcome packets, including city maps, Metro passes, and an itinerary of our work and lecture schedules, have been left for us in our rooms above the atelier. I listen, but just enough to absorb the most important details, because my mind is already flying over the city, mentally surveying the many sites I want to visit, absorb, re-create with oils, crayons, and watercolors.
I look out the window at the neat grassy park enclosed by tall wrought-iron gates and linden trees—place des Vosges, the oldest planned square in Paris, where Henri II once practiced jousting and indignant noblemen met at dawn to duel with pistols or swords.
If I took a short walk down rue des Francs Bourgeois, I could have another spiritual moment at Museé Carnavalet, staring up at the seventeenth-century, Venetian-inspired ceiling painted by Charles Lebrun. Farther down rue des Francs-Bourgeois is Hôtel Herouet, where Brigitte Bardot lived when a Life magazine photog arranged for her to meet Pablo Picasso.
I sound like a crazy art fangirl right now, don’t I? Some kids memorize baseball statistics or Guinness world records; I memorized the places where artists lived, worked, partied, and died. Back home, I have spiral notebooks full of notes from a lifetime of gathering obscure art trivia.
Let’s put it this way: if the art world held conventions like Comic-Con, I would be the one attending dressed like Mary Cassatt (who died blind and miserable at Château de Beaufresne, just outside Paris).
Someone taps my shoulder, and I nearly jump out of my ballet flats. I don’t know how long I have been staring out the window, but it must have been a while because Monsieur Alexandre isn’t talking anymore. In fact, he isn’t even in the atelier.
“Welcome back,” says one of the other artistes, a petite blonde with a fierce pixie cut and thick, fluttery lashes. “You were traveling in another dimension, not only of sight and sound, but of mind.”
Wait! Am I hallucinating, or did she just quote the opening lines to Twilight Zone, season three?
“A journey to a wondrous land of imagination,” I say, smiling. I look at the other artistes, but their confused expressions tell me they’re not Zone fans. “Sorry. What did I miss?”
“Did you hear the part about the welcome packets?”
I nod, and my glasses slip down my nose.
“What about the part about meeting the Galliard-Cadré family for dinner tonight?”
I shake my head.
“Seven p.m. at Bâtard de Valadon on rue Saint-Paul.” She smiles and blinks, her lashes fluttering like butterfly wings against her cheeks. “In the meantime, we are supposed to select our rooms and unpack.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I’m Rigby Larson, by the way.”
“Rigby. Rigby. Bo-bigby. Banana-fana, fo-figby. Fee fi, mo-migby. Rigby,” I sing. “Rigby, rhymes with Twiggy, and you look like Twiggy. Rigby!”
Rigby laughs. “What was that?”
“My short-term memory is totally Dory, so I sing a little name-game song to help me remember people’s names when I first meet them.”
The other artistes stare.
“Have you tried drinking green tea with ginseng and rosemary? It helps with focusing and memory loss. My mom sells a blend at her store. She has an herbal supplements shop in Tacoma. That’s where I am from.” Rigby speaks so fast her sentences run together to form one super-long sentence. “What’s your name?”
“Delaney Lavender Brooks, but my friends call me Laney.”
“Laney. Laney. Bo-baney. Banana-fana, fo-faney. Fee fi, mo-maney. Laney!” Rigby grins before finishing her song. “Laney rhymes with zany, and my favorite people are zany. Laney!”
Rigby has one of the purest auras I have ever read, so I know she’s not teasing me.
“You know the opening to The Twilight Zone, didn’t need me to explain the Dory reference, and sang the name-game song without missing a beat. You are on your way to becoming my PBFF, Rigby Larson!”
“Paris best friend forever?”
“Yes!”
The other female artiste groans and rubs her temples with the tips of her fingers. She’s tall with blue-black hair scraped back into a high ponytail. She is one purge away from emaciated.
“Please, stop talking.” She speaks with the nasal accent of a New Yorker and talking comes out as tawking. “You’re killing me.”
“Sorry,” Rigby says. “Wanna pop a squat and get to know each other a bit before we claim rooms?”
“I don’t squat.”
The fifth artiste, a slight Italian with eyes the color of melted chocolate and a cheerful aura, frowns.
“Pop squat?” He says. “What is this pop squat?”
I drop my suitcase and sit on the floor cross-legged.
“Ah,” the Italian says, dropping his suitcase and sitting across from me. “I like to pop squat.”
Rigby and Sprockets join us.
The New Yorker stands her ground, towering above us in her six-inch heels, arms crossed, brow furrowed. Her aura is intense, with a lot of competitive, aggressive, ambitious red. It reminds me of Caravaggio’s dark and dramatic Taking of Christ. I think she will be the one to infuse our group with a motivating energy.
“Why don’t you start,” Rigby says, smiling up at the New Yorker. “What’s your name? Where are you from? What medium do you prefer?”
“Julia. Manhattan. Clay.” She spins on her heel and heads for the door. “I’m going to get a cup of coffee.”
“Wait!” Rigby cries. “Don’t you want to know about us?”
“I know your names. If I wanna know anything else, I’ll google you.”
Rigby waits until the echo of Julia’s footsteps in the stairwell fade away. She is smiling brightly, but I know from having read her aura that she is taking Julia’s behavior personally. Rigby has an abstract tan aura. Abstract tans are friendly, cheerful, and sensitive. They are the people-pleasers, the peacemakers.
“I’ll bet Julia is a Strider,” I say, referencing one of my favorite Lord of the Rings characters. “Menacing at first—”
“—but friendly upon further acquaintance?” Rigby says, finishing my thought.
“She is a Saruman,” Sprockets declares. “Self-serving and an enemy to the Fellowship.”
I laugh. Rigby laughs. The cheerful Italian laughs. Sprockets does not laugh, but I think I see the corners of his lips twitch.
“I am Giorgio,” the Italian says, gesturing to himself. “I am from Bedizzano, Italy. My family, she owns a marble quarry. My father wishes for me to work in the quarry, but I wish to work with the marble. I am a scultore.”
“A sculptor?” Rigby says. “That’s awesome.”
“Grazzi.” Giorgio grins. “What about you, Rigby?”
“I am a watercolor painter and glassblower.”
“You do the watercolor and the glassblowing?” Giorgio claps his hands. “Bravisma, bella! Bravisma!”
Rigby blushes. My love-dar might be off, but I am picking up strong signals that tell me Giorgio and Rigby are going to make an international love connection before this year is over.
Sprockets is the next to speak.
“My name is Gunthar, and I am from Aachen, Germany,” he says, in flawless English. “I am a street artist and painter. I prefer oils.”
“Your family?” Giorgio asks. “Do they approve of your painting?”
“I don’t have a family.” Gunthar’s expression remains as unreadable as a physics textbook. “I am alone.”
“That’s so sad,” Rigby says. “You don’t have anyone? Not even a distant aunt or uncle?”
“I was left in front of a hospital in Aachen when I was an infant.”
“Technically, Frodo Baggins was an orphan because his parents died in a boating accident”—I pat Gunthar’s back—“but he didn’t let that stop him from embarking on a marvelous journey and joining a remarkably loyal fell
owship. We’ll be your fellowship, Gunthar,”
“Yes, we will,” Rigby says.
Giorgio nods his head.
Gunthar lifts his lips in the briefest, most self-conscious smile I have seen, like, ever. I don’t need to read his aura to know that he is a reserved man, as uncomfortable showing his emotions as I am hiding mine.
“I am a painter,” I say, steering the conversation back to neutral ground. “My parents are professors. My mom teaches philosophy and reasoning, and Pops teaches physics. I am definitely the octagon in their square world. Being accepted to the Artistes en Résidence Program is, like, the end. I might as well make my funeral playlist because I seriously can’t imagine my life getting any better than it is right now, right here.”
“I feel you,” Rigby says. “When they write my obit, it will say, ‘Rigby Larson was a girl scout, museum guide, Loot Crate subscriber, and artiste en résidence. That is all.’”
We are all laughing—all except Gunthar, who has only managed to emit a grunt and a chuckle—and sharing our hopes for the next year when Julia, her long, slender fingers wrapped around a paper Starbucks cup, strides back into the atelier.
“Can we go to our rooms yet, or did you want us to make daisy chains and say what kind of tree we think we are?”
“Great idea, Julia!” Rigby says. “What kind of tree would you be?”
Julia rolls her eyes.
“A tree.” Giorgio laughs. “I love it! I would be a lemon tree, because she is a happy tree.”
“I would be an umbrella tree because it defies logic,” I say. “What about you, Gunthar? What kind of tree would you be?”
Gunthar shrugs.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” Julia says.
“Words are highly overused and overrated. I prefer the beauty of silence.” Gunthar lifts his bag. “But I like to curse.”
“So you don’t speak, but you like to fuck,” Julia says, assessing Gunthar over the rim of her coffee cup. “You sound like all of my exes.”
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