Work of Art ~ the Collection

by Ruth Clampett

  I thank her repeatedly as I write my number down. I desperately hope I’ve done the right thing.

  On the way out the door, I tell Francisco and Henry that I’ll meet them back at the gallery. From the side of the road, I dial Max’s cell phone. When he doesn’t pick up, I leave him a message.

  “Hey Max, it’s Ava. I have something important to talk with you about as soon as possible, so please call me back as soon as you can. Thanks.”

  I hang up, disappointed he didn’t answer.

  I have a lot to do when I return to the gallery, but when an hour passes without a call back from Max, I get nervous. I call again and leave another message.

  A few minutes later, I receive a text message, and I slide my finger across my phone’s screen.

  Hello Ava, Stephan has agreed to talk to Max.

  We have a dinner event, so Max needs to call this number exactly at ten tonight.

  Best, Stella

  My heart nearly jumps out of my chest. I text back,

  Mrs. Matthews, I will let him know. Thank you so much for your help.

  Regards, Ava

  After I hit send, I look through my phone contacts for Max’s home number I entered before we drove out to Malibu. When I get his answering machine, I break out into a cold sweat. What if he’s on a plane, or in a double feature movie with his phone turned off or somewhere else unreachable? It’s already five.

  I call Dylan and when he picks up, I pray my luck’s changed.

  “Hi, Dylan. It’s Ava, Riley’s friend.”

  “Hey, Ava. What can I do for you?”

  “Well, I really need to get a hold of Max right away, but he’s not answering his cell or home phone. Is he with you, by chance?” I cross my fingers and hold my breath.

  “Nope, he’s not with me. Is this something I can help you with?”

  Even though Dylan is Max’s manager and I should probably let him know about this situation, I’m not sure I can handle it if he gets mad at me for sticking my nose in their business. “No, but thanks. I really need to talk to him.”

  “Well, when I spoke with him this morning he said he planned to paint all day. When he works, he doesn’t like to be disturbed, so he doesn’t answer the phone. He’ll take a break eventually and I’m sure he’ll get your messages.”

  I thank him and hang up, not feeling very reassured. I decide to text Max using shouty caps.

  MAX PLEASE CALL ME ASAP-VERY IMPORTANT!

  By the time I pull out of the parking lot to head home, I’m a nervous wreck, and I almost run into a cyclist, despite the fact that he’s wearing a neon yellow jersey. He yells at me, waving his fist and I sink down into my seat.

  When I get home, I pace the living room for about fifteen minutes before I call him again. As the phone rings I chant in my head, Answer, answer, answer, damn it! Why did I do this? If I’d just kept my damn mouth shut, I could be sitting on the patio right now enjoying a glass of Pinot Noir.

  I get his machine again.

  Feeling out of options, I get back in my car and head to the freeway. It’s going to be a long drive to Malibu, and God knows how Mr. “Doesn’t Like to be Interrupted” will feel when I crash his work session.

  Six-thirty on a Thursday night is a very bad time to drive to Malibu—drive being a relative term. The 101 is a parking lot and I’m having fantasies of doing a Thelma and Louise and gunning it through the empty emergency lane. I turn on the stereo and crank it up to take my mind off things. “Move Along” by The All-American Rejects plays, and I sing at the top of my lungs, taking strength from the words.

  Despite my singing, the apprehension lingers. It’s eight when I finally pull up to Max’s house, and I’m tempted to turn around and leave. For a moment, I seriously consider the possibility. He doesn’t know yet what the issue is with Mr. Matthews. Yes, I left a bunch of messages, but I could make something else up. He’d never know.

  But what if this situation with MOMA ever got back to him? He’d never forgive me, knowing there was a chance to salvage his chance to be in that show. I slowly climb out of my car and face his house.

  I notice a structure to the far left of the garden with large windows. The door’s wide open, light streams out the windows and aggressive hard rock music blasts into the garden. I assume this to be his studio and move toward it, the dread of telling him about my interference testing my nerves.

  I get to the open doorway and peer around the corner. The building has high ceilings with wooden beams crossing the room. The atmosphere is the complete opposite of Jess’s clutter-filled fantasia studio. There’s a calmness to the interior that belies the hard-edged music pounding against the white-washed walls.

  I see movement out of the corner of my eye and spy Max working on a large canvas leaning on the wall opposite the door. He has his back to me and holds a brush in his right hand and a silver can with paint running down the sides in the other. But these are just extraneous details.

  What I’m really fixated on is the man himself. He’s a vision with messy hair and bare feet, while wearing faded jeans and a white T-shirt splattered with paint . . . and oozing the most intoxicating energy I’ve ever felt.

  I freeze in place. His gestures as he works are wide and sweeping, the brush dipped in the can and then stroked across the canvas. He does it again and again, so sure of each movement, each stroke a decision that takes the art in a specific direction.

  I’m not sure what I would’ve imagined, but it’s captivating to watch this man at work in his creative element.

  He’s working with a brilliant orange, but he’s already painted areas of verdant green, warm white and deep sienna. At one point, he drops the brush and uses his hands to move the paint around and make gestures on the canvas. When he’s done stroking and blending, he wipes his hands on a rag.

  I’m aroused watching him. I want to be the canvas his hands are moving over, stroking and blending—his work of art.

  Finally I gather my nerve and call his name. But with the loud music, my voice is but a whisper and he shows no sign of having heard me. I try again, louder this time. Nothing. Finally, on my third try, I yell his name loud enough, and he turns around.

  As soon as our eyes meet, I step forward, but his eyes instantly fill with rage and it terrifies me.

  “Stop!” he yells.

  I freeze with fear.

  “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” he roars. He slams his hand on a remote and the music suddenly shuts off. The silence is deafening.

  I step forward once more, “I’m sorry to interrupt you, Max, I just have some—”

  “FUCKING STOP! NO ONE COMES IN MY STUDIO! NO ONE!”

  I’m shocked; his anger is a wall of fire. I step back from the burn until I’m just outside the doorframe. “I came over t-to . . . i-if I could just expla—”

  “Why did you need to come here? Couldn’t you have just left me a message without interrupting my work? Fuck, Ava, what makes you think you can just drop by?” He shakes his head furiously.

  “I’ve tried all afternoon to reach you, and you weren’t answering your messages.” I feel a combination of rage and tears building in me. I’m not sure which will explode out of me first. My chest heaves and my cheeks burn, and I arch back like a cat about to fight.

  He shoves his hands in his hair and pulls hard as he groans loudly.

  My fury wins over the tears.

  “Do you think I fucking wanted to drive all the way to Malibu in rush hour traffic, Max? Do you think I would even consider interrupting you in your home unless I had an extremely good reason?”

  I have hold of my anger now, and the release feels good. Hating him feels good too.

  “But no . . . I fucking stepped foot in your studio. How dare I do that! Like I have any fucking ideas about your rules.” I fold my arms across my chest angrily and wait until I know he’s completely focused on my words.

  “Here’s the situation and listen carefully, because I’m only going to say it
once.” I take a deep breath and give him the evil eye.

  “Today, I oversaw an installation at the Matthews home in Bel Air. You may’ve heard of them, they’re major collectors. So Mrs. Matthews and I start talking about Jess, and your name happens to come up. She tells me they purchased a painting of yours a couple of years ago, but her husband made her take it down recently.”

  His breathing slows down and his eyes look less stormy as he folds his arms over his chest.

  “So I ask her why. Apparently, her husband overheard you at a party totally trashing MOMA. And guess what, genius? Stephan Matthews is not only on the board of directors at MOMA, but he’d just convinced them to include some of your work in an upcoming exhibition.” I watch the fury on Max’s face turn to shock.

  “So, you see where this is going, Max? While you were probably drunk and entertaining your art groupies with your big opinions, you were also brilliantly flame torching your chance to be in a career-defining exhibition and perhaps ever having your work in MOMA.”

  I drop my purse on the ground, bend down and rifle through the contents before pulling out a small pad, pen and my cell phone. I slide open my phone and scroll through my text messages. I can hear Max’s heavy laboured breathing, but otherwise we’re cloaked in silence.

  “Because I’m an idiot and thought we were friends, and I would do anything to help a friend, I lied for you, Max. I told Mrs. Matthews you had a crisis that day, you weren’t in your right mind, and had made a series of comments that had nothing to do with MOMA. I also asked her if there was any way you could explain it to Mr. Matthews because it would mean the world to you.”

  His eyes have a faraway look. Maybe he’s searching the recesses of his mind to remember what he may have slurred at that party.

  “I told her how great you are, how much you love MOMA and about the Taylor and Tiden book we’re working on. She finally agreed to talk to her husband on your behalf. She contacted me a few hours ago. You are one lucky bastard because he agreed to talk to you.”

  I copy the information from Stella’s text onto the pad and tear out the paper.

  “I don’t know how you fix this, Max, what kind of dance you’ll have to do, but the one thing I believed then—and I guess I still believe it now—is that you have to try. Here’s the phone number. He’s agreed to speak with you tonight at ten, exactly at ten. They’re making the final decision tomorrow morning.”

  I look around for an exit strategy as I hold the paper in my hand. I finally take one more step back and set the note on the ground in front of me. “Since I’m not allowed to step foot in your studio, I’ll leave this note here. I sure as hell hope you make this call, so I don’t feel like a bigger fool than I already do.”

  With that, I pivot around, march across his yard and out the gate.

  My hands are shaking as I buckle myself in my car. I keep glancing up to see if he’s going to come after me. Taking a deep breath to calm down, I wait a few long moments before I start my car, slowly turn it around and head back up the driveway. I glance in my rear view mirror at his gate and note, for the last time, that it’s still empty.

  On the drive back home, I second-guess myself. I can’t recall ever exploding like that. Was I justified in being that angry? But then I remember how he yelled at me and I get furious all over again.

  Riley’s waiting for me when I get home, and I tell her the story from start to finish. But exhaustion is now having its way with me, so I leave out some of my dramatic flourishes at the end.

  By the time I’m done, she shakes her head. “If you wrote this drama in a story people would laugh and say it’s too unbelievable!”

  “Do you think I was wrong, Riley?” I ask, the corners of my mouth turned down. “Do you think I should’ve kept my mouth shut in the first place?”

  Her gaze softens as she shakes her head. “No, you did the right thing. Dylan talks a lot about Max, and says Max lives and breathes art. Max is the real deal and has the potential to leave a lasting mark in the art world.” She pauses, twisting her earring.

  “I bet once Max gets over the shock of being surprised in his studio, he’ll know how profound your help was, and he’ll be very grateful.”

  I roll my eyes. “I highly doubt that, Riley. You should’ve seen him.”

  I put on my PJs and am too worn out to fix a real dinner, so I cut up an apple, put cheddar cheese slices on a plate and pour myself a big glass of wine. I put on Blue, my favorite Joni Mitchell album, and curl up on the couch and wallow.

  Am I going to have to quit the book project? I have to consider it now that our friendship stepped on a land mine. Ugh . . . just when it was all starting to come together.

  As the wine relaxes me, I start to drift off and wake up when my head snaps forward. I drag myself to my bedroom and glance at the clock. It’s exactly ten o’clock. I feel a surge of panic, mixed with breathtaking curiosity. Will Max fix what’s broken?

  Despite all the hell I went through for him and what I may’ve given up with the effort, there’s a part of me that sincerely hopes he can.

  Chapter Nine / On Gossamer Wings

  I dream of painting and then I paint my dream.

  ~Vincent Van Gogh

  The line at Starbucks is precariously long, but I’m going to need a venti cappuccino to get through this morning. I glare at the chatty barista who’s moving too slowly and glance at my watch to determine if I’m going to make it to work on time or not. There’s nothing worse than rolling in late holding a cup of Starbucks, absolute evidence that you could have been on time if you hadn’t fed your hard-earned dollar to the corporate coffee machine.

  While I wait for my drink, I receive a text from Max. My heartbeat speeds up. I seriously wondered if I’d ever hear from him again. I slide open my phone’s screen.

  I need to talk to you.

  I pause, unsure how to reply. As curious as I am about what happened with Mr. Matthews, I’m not sure I’m ready to talk to him. My phone prompts again.

  I really need to talk to you. How long will you make me wait?

  Completely irritated with his message I reply,

  I, I, I . . . Definition: narcissist, egocentric, love of one’s self

  I hit send. My phone rings only seconds later. I don’t answer, not trusting my snarky filter until I’ve had at least some coffee. I’m not even inspired to listen to the voice mail that chimes a minute later.

  Luckily, Brian’s in a great mood because of two nights in a row with the fabulous Thomas, so he graciously gives me mindless busywork after I stumble into the gallery. As I input the names of collectors into the new database, my phone rings again. It’s Max. Now the ass knows how it feels not to be able to reach someone when you have something to say.

  The rest of the afternoon, my phone remains quiet, and I descend into a very dark mood. I still haven’t resolved if I’m going to quit working on Max’s book, and I have to decide because Jonathan’s office keeps calling to set up our meeting. I head home, not even happy it’s the weekend and turn up my emo playlist while I change into my sweats. I flop on the couch and finally listen to Max’s voice mail from this morning.

  “Damn, Ava, I didn’t mean for my text to sound like that. I just really need to talk to you. I didn’t sleep at all last night thinking about what happened, what you did for me, and how mad you are.

  I want to explain and make things better. Please, can’t we have lunch or talk or something?

  I’ll wait to hear from you. Okay, call me please.”

  I listen to the message two more times, trying to figure out how it makes me feel. I’m so confused.

  Suddenly, Riley bursts in the door, takes one look at me and stomps her foot down. “Oh no, missy . . . it’s Friday friggin’ night! I’m not allowing you to do this goddess of angst thing tonight. Now you go in there, take off those sweats and put on something sharp. We’re going out.”

  I give her a blank wide-eyed stare. “Do I look like I want to go out, Riley?”


  “That’s the point. This isn’t about want. It’s need. You can’t let art boy do this to you, then he wins.”

  She’s starting to make sense. “So, where would we go if ‘hypothetically’ we went out?”

  “You know my friend Calliope, the one I went to high school with? She’s doing stand-up at the Comedy Store tonight, and she reserved tickets for me.”

  Comedy sounds good—it could be just what I need, so I get my ass off the couch and change. I put on my best jeans, black high-heeled boots and a fitted black top before we head out. Dylan’s working an event but he’ll join us later for drinks.

  The show’s a riot, and I tell Riley that Calliope was better than the guy she opened for. It felt great to laugh and forget about all the stresses in life outside the cocoon of the club.

  We meet Dylan at the House of Blues. He’s a member of their Foundation Room, so we sit in the private area surrounded by the most wonderful outsider art and the lush colors and lighting of the eclectic Moroccan theme. The walls are a dark cobalt blue, and there’s a patchwork of worn Asian rugs on the floors. There are low leather couches with carved wooden tables. Intricately etched Moroccan lanterns hang at different heights from the ceilings.

  Riley’s so happy to see Dylan she practically sits on his lap, and he looks equally smitten.

  “So, Ava,” he says after kissing Riley’s neck. “What’d you do to Max? He’s been completely wacked out all day.”

  Riley jabs him in the arm.

  “What did I do?” I raise my eyebrows in wonder. “It’s more like what did he do. I was just trying to help him with something, and he went postal.”

  “Well, whatever you said or did really got to him. I’ve never seen him like this. When he heard I was joining you guys tonight, he insisted on coming, but I refused to tell him where we were going.”

  “Well, thanks. I’m not ready to talk to him yet.”

  He nods. “I just hope you work it out soon. He’s got a lot to get done, and I hate seeing him like this.”