Work of Art ~ the Collection

by Ruth Clampett

  Home from my meeting with Jonathan, I’ve walked right into an argument between Riley and Dylan.

  Dylan’s mouth is open as if he’s about to argue when he sees me and quickly clamps his mouth shut.

  “Hey guys. How are things going?” I ask.

  Riley rolls her eyes, while Dylan gently kicks the end of the couch.

  I sigh and put my things down. “Look, it sounds like your argument includes me, so why don’t we all talk about it?”

  Dylan looks hesitant, but Riley dives right in.

  “Well, art boy has been on a rampage today. He blew off an interview, snapped at a gallery owner, and when the company showed up to crate and transport his final group of paintings for the Barcelona show, he turned them away and said they weren’t done.”

  “Why did you arrange for the transport company to come?” I ask, turning to Dylan.

  “Because, yesterday, he told me they were done.” Dylan throws his hands up in the air.

  Riley and I look at each other. Obviously, this is the aftereffect of my blowout with Max yesterday.

  “Look, Ava, I’ve encouraged Max’s friendship with you because he obviously cares about you and you’ve had a positive effect on him.”

  The irony of this sentiment doesn’t escape me, since Max hasn’t been supportive of Dylan and Riley’s relationship.

  “He’s happier when you’re around . . . calmer. And a calmer, happier Max is easier to deal with.”

  “Glad I can facilitate a happy Max,” I say curtly. His tone implies that he cares more for how cooperative Max is than how he’s doing as a person and it really irritates me.

  Dylan ignores my snarky comment. “But on days like today, I’m really concerned. Did you notice anything strange yesterday? He was excited about the press run, but completely unhinged about something today. We’re talking really extreme mood swings here, and I’m seriously worried. It’s as if all the pressure with work has really gotten to him.”

  Even though I assume Max’s drama today is because of his anger toward me, I think of how worried Jess had become about Max lately. Jess and Dylan know him best.

  “Can I ask you something, Dylan? When we were in New York at Max’s show, I pulled him away from a bad scene. He was completely drunk and insulting Jonathan Alistair. Just before I got him in the cab, he snapped and . . . I don’t know—it was like he’d sunk into a dark hole. He was so depressed and unresponsive, as though he’d shut the world out. Have you ever seen him behave like that?” I exclude his similar reaction last night for now. I watch Dylan anxiously and then look at Riley.

  “Oh man, he used to do that when we were younger and it would freak me out. Then I went through a stage where it pissed me off because I thought he was doing it for attention. And now, well, I can’t remember the last time it happened . . . around me at least.” He shakes his head. “It’s really disturbing, isn’t it?”

  I nod, agreeing.

  “I had a chance to talk to his mom, Elizabeth, about it once when we were in college. I guess he’s had episodes of extreme downswings since he was a little boy. The way she explained it to me is that it’s not unusual with extreme creative talent or genius to be manic which means, high highs and really low, lows.”

  “Manic as in depressive?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” Dylan says, “I’ve heard a lot of possibilities tossed around, everything from in the Asperger’s spectrum to manic depressive to Savant syndrome, but I never found out exactly. I think I didn’t really want to know. Some of the ways it shows is in his complete obsessive focus with his art and his educationally-based information about every aspect of art. His level of talent, focus, and knowledge has that savant quality.”

  Savant? Asperger’s? Manic depressive? No wonder he’s been so difficult to figure out.

  “He also has always lived inside his head and struggled dealing with people. When I first met him he was completely non-social, and could barely interact with other kids. All through high school, he didn’t have regular friendships or even go on a single date. He would just draw and paint for hours and shut the world out.”

  I’m feeling worse for Max with each negative attribute that gets assigned to him.

  “It also didn’t help that he lacked the ability to censor his thoughts when he spoke. He’s always had a short fuse, and when he snaps, it can get really ugly. Elizabeth had him in therapy, and doing all kinds of things to improve, and it has improved a lot over the years, but it hasn’t been an easy road for him.”

  “Anyway, it’s far more complex than I can explain here, but what I do know is that when Max gets over-stimulated, in an emotional way, he can shut down.”

  Riley looks over at me, alarmed, while Dylan continues.

  “I do believe that Max’s mind works differently than the rest of ours. He told me once that there are times where the pictures and emotions flashing through his mind are so overwhelming that he can barely function. It contributes to his brilliance in his work, but the personal toll it takes—let’s just say that the price he pays is very steep.”

  Riley jumps in. “Maybe it’s just that he’s an artist. I thought all artists were a little crazy. But he always seems pretty social to me.”

  Dylan nods at Riley. “Well, some of it can be explained in that he appears to be unusually comfortable around Ava. But it’s not just that.” He walks over to the fireplace and looks up at my angel painting.

  “The one thing I know for sure is that his girlfriend in college, Chloe, had a lot to do with his improvement. He’d never been able to be that close to a girl, let alone fall in love, and she drew him out and changed him. It happened over time, and it was a startling transformation.”

  I feel my heart drop as Dylan describes Max’s adoration of Chloe. The depth of my pain surprises me.

  “I thought when she left him that he’d revert back to who he’d been. And for a while, immediately after the break-up, he was worse than ever. But once enough time had passed, he became even more social, more aggressive about becoming successful. That’s when his career really took off.”

  I look over to Riley.

  Her expression is heavy with sadness.

  “What, Riley?”

  “Oh, I just realized the one girl he loved left him, and his mom, who adored him and helped him, died. His father isn’t in his life, and he doesn’t have any brothers or sisters. Dylan, I know you’re his friend, but let’s face it, you’re in business together. Then there’s Jess, but you’ve told me she’s really tough on him. Who does Max have to really talk to when he’s at the end of his rope? He’s under so much pressure all the time.”

  She shakes her head with a sad pout. “I feel sorry for him after hearing all of this.”

  If she feels bad, she has no idea how confused I feel. His efforts to turn me into his savior makes sense now.

  “Maybe you should try to talk to him, Ava,” she says softly.

  A wave of emotion washes through me. “No, I don’t think so.”

  Did she forget what happened? After what he did at the studio, he’s the last person I should help. Even if he has legitimate problems, it doesn’t mean I should be the one to deal with them and try to fix him. This stuff’s way over my head.

  “Please, Ava,” Dylan begs.

  “I’m sorry, Dylan, but I don’t think I’m the best person to talk to him right now.”

  Riley looks at me, but she doesn’t seem surprised. She knows how angry I am about how he treated me.

  Dylan drops his head and lets out a long sigh, but I stand my ground. After all, no matter what Max’s problems are—he isn’t so dysfunctional that he couldn’t have contacted me by now. If he really cared about me, he could have at least apologized for the way he acted last night.

  Later, I lay awake for a long time. Pictures of Max, flattened by depression and his body completely quiet while his mind is a brilliant blur—haunt me.

  Even if I wanted to ease some of his burden, what kind of a price wou
ld I pay to provide relief to such a tormented man? The price is too high. The other resolution I come to is that I need some closure, if not with our relationship, at least with the book project. I just have to figure out how.

  With closure in mind, the next morning I get up right after my alarm rings so I can print the final draft of the book for Max. I haven’t decided how I’m going to get it to him, but I can always send it FedEx.

  I can be professional enough to acknowledge that, even though Max agreed to stay out of the writing process, he deserves to see the book before it goes to press. I wonder if his erratic behavior is why his approval of the final draft wasn’t stipulated in his contract. My inkjet printer chugs along while I shower and eat breakfast.

  When I collect the pages from the printer, I’m satisfied with the pristine stack of pages without editing notes scrawled on them. I carefully set the pages in a folder and cradle it to my chest while I head to my car.

  Work’s quiet today. Sean’s at the dentist, so I help Brian. It feels good to be around someone who’s calm and happy. We work through the logistics of the orders, and as noon creeps up, he suggests lunch. We walk to the little Italian café on the next block.

  Brian’s stories of his dating life with Thomas are entertaining. The contrast of movie premiers and celebrity events with the quiet calm when they just hang out keeps things interesting for both of them.

  I notice Brian watching me carefully and the corners of his mouth slowly turn down and his eyebrows knit together with a concerned look. It makes me sad because I know how much he wants me to be happy, and I can’t hide that I’m not.

  “What’s up, Ava? You seem really down.”

  I nod and rest my chin in my hand.

  “Let me guess . . . the Jonathan and Max juggle? It must not be working out too well.”

  I pause, trying to remember the last time we talked. “Oh, I’m so confused Brian.” I sigh, my face sinking forward into my hands. “The thing with Jonathan has escalated. It’s not just talk anymore.” I give him a wide-eyed look.

  “Hot! Do tell,” he gushes.

  “Let’s just say the man knows how to make a woman feel sexy. We haven’t slept together yet because of circumstances.”

  “Such as?”

  “He wants to do it the right way and at the right time rather than in his office after one of our business meetings. He’s classy like that.”

  Brian nods. “I like a gentleman. So when are you going to ride the pony?

  “He wants to take me to Santa Barbara or something.”

  “Romantic . . . he must really be into you, Ava.” Brian apparently isn’t as surprised by my news as I expected him to be.

  I sigh. “I wish I felt the same. Don’t get me wrong . . . I really like him. He’s good looking, sexy, and knows how to treat a woman, but I’m not obsessed.”

  “Maybe you need more time.”

  “Maybe. I think part of it is that I’m so flattered by his attention, and I look up to him, so he’s been rather hard to resist. But if I’m honest with myself, I’ll admit there’s something I can’t put my finger on. He’s so smooth and a little mysterious. I have a feeling he has a side I haven’t seen yet.”

  “Is that not in a good way?” Brian asks.

  “I’m just not sure yet.”

  “So, what’s the latest with Max?”

  “We had a big blow out. It was really awful. I doubt we’ll ever be friends again.”

  “Well, there’s your passion.” The honesty of his words cuts right to the bone.

  “Yes, there’s the passion, but at what price? As it is, the more I learn about Max, the more messed up he seems. So the smart thing would be to exercise my escape clause. The book’s done, we aren’t speaking, so we can just part ways.”

  “But?”

  “The man’s in my head all the time. I’m pulled to him. It just doesn’t make sense. What a damn mess, Brian. How am I going to resolve this?”

  “How did you leave things?”

  “He stormed out, and we haven’t spoken since.”

  “What if you talked to Max? You could tell him how you feel and why you think the argument happened.”

  How horrifying. I look up at the ceiling, trying to imagine having that conversation. Just the thought of it makes my insides flip-flop.

  “What was your fight about anyway?”

  “He wanted to fuck me in the studio and not in a romantic way.” I grimace.

  “That really sounds hot too. Sorry. . . . Where were you?” he asks, his eyes aglow.

  “I was printing when it started. Watching me print his art turned him on, and Sean was in the back burning screens. Next thing you know, we’re up against the wall in the hallway, and he’s all over me.”

  Brian’s eyes narrow. “Mmm. . . . Steamy. I know how attracted you are to him. Did you let him take you? Man, I would’ve.”

  “No, I pushed him off because I was worried about Sean walking in on us, and I didn’t want to do it in the storage room or somewhere skanky like the bathroom. He got really mad, and now he thinks I gave him mixed messages. The whole thing happened so fast. I was shocked and confused, and I didn’t know what it meant.”

  “Things certainly have moved along since our last discussion, you little hottie, you.”

  “I don’t think I qualify as a hottie, Brian. All I can think about right now is that Max and I are no longer friends. On the one hand, I’m furious, and on the other . . . I miss him.”

  Brian gives me a long look as he pushes his plate away. “You know, Ava, some people expect love to be handed to them like a gift, love in a box . . . all tied up with big red bow. But it rarely happens like that. Sometimes it’s rough and gritty, and you have to fight your way to it.”

  I link arms with Brian on the way back to the gallery. It feels good to lean into his strong, solid body. The Santa Ana winds have started to pick up, making my hair whip around my face, and I have to hold my skirt down so I don’t put on a show for the passing traffic. Meanwhile, Brian’s laughing and teasing me as only he can do.

  Back at the gallery, Sean’s returned from the dentist and is just heading to the studio, so I join him.

  “Hey, while you were at lunch, the freak came looking for you.”

  “Max was here?” I ask, surprised.

  “Yeah, and he looked like hell. I’m surprised he had the balls to show up here after his bizarre behavior the other night.”

  My heart pounds. “What did he say?”

  “Not much, just that he had to talk to you. He wouldn’t take no for an answer when I said not to wait. He looked frantic. I told him I didn’t know where you were, and I hadn’t seen you since your date with Jonathan last night.”

  Date? That’s really helpful, I think angrily. “Anything else you’d care to share?”

  “Oh, yeah, I also asked him why it mattered, since you’d told me you never wanted to see him again.” Sean looks quite pleased with himself.

  “Why in the fuck would you tell him that, Sean? I didn’t say I never wanted to see him again . . . I said I didn’t think we would see each other again.”

  “What’s the difference? The fucker’s long gone now.” He smiles darkly.

  “There’s a big difference, Einstein.”

  “Well, I still think I did you a favor. You deserve better. I don’t care how important his art is or what the fuck everyone sees in him. He stormed out of here like someone had stolen his car, his girl, and his best friend all in one day. What a dramatic ass . . . good riddance.”

  Now I’m overcome with curiosity about what Max wanted to say. That he finally had the guts to come here to talk with me weighs heavily on my mind.

  As we finish the work in the gallery, Brian asks what I’m doing this evening, and I confide that, if I summon the courage, I may head to Malibu to take Max the transcript for his book. While I’m out there, if he feels like talking, we will. If not, at least I’ll know that I returned the effort. I still don’t want to be wi
th him, but I may find the closure I’m craving.

  He gives me a hug and wishes me luck.

  Just before six, I get in my car. The Santa Ana winds are really howling and palm fronds from the towering palm trees dotting the streets litter the ground. Swirls of dust and city grit dance around my car, shimmering from the backlit effect of the late-afternoon sun. I sit for a moment, wondering what to do.

  Do I go home and watch TV, or do I get on the freeway? I rest the palm of my hand on Max’s folder—his story sitting on my passenger seat—and I close my eyes. One choice is easy, the other risky, but ultimately, isn’t it worse never to know what could’ve happened? The invisible rope winds around my waist and begins the pull toward Malibu.

  The drive’s a slow blur because I’m compelled to relive the scene at the studio in my mind over and over. The what-ifs start. What if I hadn’t stopped him? The pictures are so raw and vivid in my mind that my entire body is aroused and on fire. A part of me desperately wishes we’d had sex that night. To feel him inside me would’ve been intoxicating, perhaps satiating the desire that’s simmered in me since the day I met him.

  The sun blazes low as it slowly inches toward the horizon, and I lower my car’s visor and squint to see the road more clearly. I picture the look on his face while things were still good that night in the studio . . . in his eyes a look of lust and wanting, desperate wanting. He wasn’t holding back. He was ready to physically give me everything.

  Damn. Why didn’t I let go and give into my passion? We’d become so close lately. Finally being physical would’ve added another shade to our relationship.

  But if we had fucked, would I have joined his collection of art sluts to be tossed aside? That would’ve been much worse and the idea is darkly crushing. My anger boils up again, deflating my useless what-if fantasies.

  I’m so deep in thought, I almost miss Max’s driveway off Pacific Coast Highway. My hands are shaking as I punch in the security code to the gate, and the memories of my last visit haunt me. Yet the MOMA crisis that brought me here the last time ended happily, so maybe it’s a good omen for tonight.