Shane nodded. It would indeed save him a lot of time. “What about reference material for the scenes? Do they know what they want to show? Or is that up to me?”
Greenfeld swept an arm over the scattered images. “Keep it market specific, but other than that, anything you see here you can use in the final. If you get any bright ideas, feel free to block them in. We can start with basic mock-ups, small scale, and get them approved. After that, no client contact until final proof. So what do you say?”
“I can do it,” Shane said carefully. “But what’s the budget?”
“This is a government contract,” Greenfeld replied. “It’s coming to us through an agency in Tampa called Bullseye. I’ve worked with them before, but never on anything like this. They bid the job for fifty thousand. After all the pie gets cut up, that means five thousand a shot for you. I know that’s not New York walking around money, but it’s a start. You nail this one, there’ll be more to come.”
Shane was actually very pleased with the amount. His living expenses had dropped to almost nil, now that he’d off-loaded the Saab and moved into the cottage. If he was careful, he could even live off the income from the Florida gig for a couple of months. He’d almost forgotten what it was like in the feast-and-famine world of contract work, but he thought he could pick it up again, if he was disciplined about it. He told Greenfeld he could do it.
“That’s what I like to hear,” Greenfeld announced. “You know, I wasn’t kidding about you being a bit of a curious commodity around here. People are watching to see how this pans out. You’ll never get the kind of big-money contracts you used to get at Tristan and Crane, but the economy is different here, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. If we dance the dance, you can do all right.”
“I’ll let you dance,” Shane said, standing. “I can’t even do the funky chicken. Last time I tried, I almost knocked myself out. Come on, you want a beer?”
“Twist my arm, why don’t you. Don’t forget you were going to show me your studio, too.”
Shane produced two bottles of St. Pauli Girl and tossed the caps in the kitchen trash. A minute later, he led Greenfeld up to the studio. The window over the stairs had been pushed open, letting in the cool autumn air, freshening and brightening the small space.
Along the canted right wall, Shane’s collection of works leaned in the sunlight. Most of his artworks were sold in their original form, usually leaving him with nothing more than printed copies, but he did retain almost all of his mockups, sketches and several final works that had been done on spec. One of them, the first one in the line, was a large painting of a girl running through a golden wheat field, her blonde hair streaming, one hand flung out behind her in the rapture of the moment, white in the sunlight. It had been painted for a book cover, but the publisher had eventually gone with something edgier, with a slightly older, sexier woman in a white dress. Greenfeld hunkered in front of it, nodding.
“Nice,” he said. “It’s a different thing to see the original, that’s for sure. Still, even up close, I can barely see the brush strokes. Good, tight work here.”
“Thanks, sensei,” Shane said, looking around the room. He was somewhat anxious to get back to work. Not on the Florida mockups, though. That could wait a day or two. He had another idea in mind. It had occurred to him the night before, when he’d gotten back from his bike ride. He glanced aside, to the blank canvas on the big easel.
“This the original sketch for the matte painting?” Greenfeld asked, gesturing at a large drawing taped to a piece of white cardboard.
“Yeah. You want it?”
“You bet,” Greenfeld nodded. “This kind of stuff is great for hanging in the office. I’ve got too many calligraphy verses and greeting card scenes as it is. You don’t mind?”
“Not in the least. Take it.”
Shane wandered over to the stool in front of the easel and sat down, suddenly feeling impatient. He wanted to paint. Coming up to the studio had apparently awakened the muse, and she didn’t care that Greenfeld was there. She just wanted to create.
“Good stuff,” Greenfeld said, straightening up. “But where’s your work?”
Shane furrowed his brow. “What do you mean? This is all my work.”
“No, no, I mean your work. Chris told me that you do your own painting, too; said you showed it to her when she came to pick up the matte painting. Real artsy stuff. She said I should be sure to get a look at it.”
“Oh,” Shane said, frowning. “That. Yeah.”
“What? Don’t tell me you’re suddenly all secretive and shy about your own work. I mean, I understand completely if it’s the kind of thing you pull out to impress the pretty girls, but come on. It’s me.”
Shane smiled at Greenfeld’s wounded expression. He shook his head and stood up. “It’s no problem. I just wasn’t finished with it, then. I wasn’t showing it to her, exactly. It just happened to be out. It’s right over here now.”
The house portrait was sitting on the smaller easel, where Shane had initially begun to paint it. Now that it was completely dry, he had covered it with a piece of muslin. He carefully lifted the fabric away and tossed it onto the nearby stool. Greenfeld joined him in front of the painting, and then leaned in, squinting a little, his hands on his knees. There was a very long moment of pregnant silence, and Shane felt himself growing uncomfortable. Finally, Greenfeld straightened again. He backed up, not taking his eyes from the painting. Shane backed away as well, moving toward the stairs. When he got there, he turned back, and saw Greenfeld looking at him over his shoulder. He gestured at the painting with one manicured hand.
“The hell is this?” he said, almost as if he was offended.
“What do you mean?”
Greenfeld dropped his hand and looked back at the painting, shaking his head. “You have any more paintings like this?”
“No. Frankly, I’ve never painted anything like it before.”
“You’re serious.” It wasn’t a question, so Shane didn’t respond. Greenfeld went on, “I know this is the sort of thing you creative types really hate, but I have to ask, Shane: where’d this come from?”
Shane didn’t really hate the question. He’d heard variations of it before, and it had usually been pretty easy to answer. Then again, his artworks were usually inspired by nothing more than a creative director’s sketch, or a block from a storyboard, or a collage of images printed from the Internet. He realized it was a harder question to answer when the picture had been dictated by the muse. He shrugged and frowned. “It just came into my head. I was on a bike ride.”
Greenfeld glanced aside at Shane again, one eyebrow cocked. “You know what this is?”
Shane half nodded, half shrugged again. Greenfeld answered for him, returning his gaze to the painting once more. “This is art, Shane. The real deal. I’m not prepared to call it great art, you understand. True art isn’t really my bread and butter. I’m just a working stiff, helping push the product out the door. That’s one of the things I like about you. You understand that philosophy. But this is different… this is the real thing. I may not deal in it, but I know it when I see it.”
“Don’t tell me you want to hang that in your office,” Shane said, smiling as if it were a joke. To his surprise, Greenfeld looked up at him again, his face serious.
“Would you let me?” He stopped himself and shook his head. “No, no. Never mind. That’s not the venue for it. You’re right. It’d scare the shawls off the ladies from Homespun Greetings. Hell, it’d probably put a shiver down the spine of the guy from Swank Pictures. Not the biggest clients, but long term folks, from back when I was getting started. No, no, not the office…” Greenfeld covered his mouth with his hand, thinking hard. He shifted his eyes to Shane again and spoke through his fingers. “Did you know Chris and I are putting on a gallery show at the art museum downtown?”
Shane shook his head, not liking where Greenfeld was going. Greenfeld didn’t notice. “It’s really Chris’ show. She’s trying to b
reak into the world of art herself. She wants to run a gallery, help undiscovered talent get their big break, that kind of thing. Real art. Problem is, she doesn’t have the capital or the reputation to get started yet. I’m helping her get the second half of that equation. I pulled some strings to help get her into the main floor of the art museum. Even called in a favor with some people from the Post Dispatch. They’re sending over one of their Lifestyle writers to review the show. Even if it sucks, it’s good press. Whaddaya say?”
“What do I say about what?”
“Whaddaya say about displaying this piece of yours in the show?”
Shane furrowed his brow. “Seriously? I mean, I’ve never had anything shown in a gallery before. I’m just… you know, not that kind of artist.”
“And that’s supposed to be a deterrent?” Greenfeld asked, finally abandoning the painting and joining Shane at the stairs. “Who wants to look at any more self-righteous emo crap produced by all those guys convinced that they’re the next Jackson Pollack? Guys who paint with pigeon guano and rivet doorknobs to overcoats and hang them from actual human skeletons and give their works names like ‘Pathos Princess Number Sixteen”? Believe it or not, the art world is getting a little sick of those guys. At least the art world around St. Louis. I can’t speak for New York. The fact that you don’t think your crazy haunted house picture belongs in a gallery showing is exactly why people will be curious about it. It’s not intentional. It isn’t so deliberate that it’s a caricature of itself. Like I said, Shane, it’s the real deal.”
Shane blinked as he led Greenfeld down the stairs. It was the term “haunted house” that had struck him. He’d never thought of it that way. Was that how it looked to others? He decided not to press Greenfeld about it. Instead, he shook his head and said, “‘Pathos Princess Number Sixteen’? How long did it take you to come up with that one?”
“I only wish I had. I didn’t make any of that up. The doorknob overcoat on the skeleton was in Chris’ first gallery show, late last year, before she knew how to separate avant-garde from basic silliness. She’s learned a lot since then, but she’ll probably never live that one down.”
“You think she’d want my painting in her show?” Shane asked, taking Greenfeld’s empty beer bottle and following him to the door.
“Sure. She’d probably have asked you herself if she’d known you’d be done with it by now. She needs something a little crooked and dark like that. She’s being a little too careful this time, afraid of producing another freak show. Still, nobody will take her seriously if there isn’t something a little bit… I don’t know. Unsettling? No offense.”
“None taken, I guess,” Shane said, shaking his head, bemused. “You really are serious about this, aren’t you?”
Greenfeld nodded. “Nobody is going to be turning that little number of yours into a Thank You card, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t have its own odd attraction. My first thought, looking at it, was that I wanted to burn it. That’s how strong it was, I’m dead serious. Art that strikes someone like that, though, that’s nothing to sneeze at. Loads of artists aim for that sort of visceral reaction, and all they achieve is a sort of bland offensiveness. That’s easy. Anyone can be offensive. Hell, give me a paint set and a canvas and I can offend someone. That piece upstairs, though… it’s a little like a Salvador Dali painting mixed with a Pablo Neruda book. That probably doesn’t make any sense, but that’s what I think.”
Greenfeld stood in the light of the front screen door and shook his head wonderingly, meeting Shane’s eyes, and Shane realized something that shocked him: Greenfeld was truly excited. He was nearly panting, as if he’d just discovered a Rembrandt at a garage sale. Shane felt increasingly worried by Greenfeld’s response.
“All right,” he said slowly, “if it’s OK with Christiana, I’ll agree to show the painting. On one condition.”
Greenfeld narrowed his eyes a little. “Name it.”
“It’s not for sale,” Shane said flatly. “Not as an original, at least. The original is mine.”
“That kind of defeats the purpose, Shane,” Greenfeld said pedantically. “Seriously?”
Shane nodded. “Yeah, sorry. I’m… not done with it yet.”
“I thought you said you finished it?”
Shane shrugged and didn’t say anymore. Greenfeld sighed and spread his hands. “I’d never have expected it from you, Shane Bellamy, but you get artsier every time I talk to you. That’s not a bad thing, as long as you don’t go all native on me. I’m not done squeezing you dry yet.”
“I’ll call your office if I decide to go crazy and cut off my own ear.”
“I appreciate it,” Greenfeld said, nodding gravely. He opened the screen door and stepped out into the sunny afternoon. “The showing is this Saturday. It’s late notice, I know, but I suspect you can squeeze it into your busy schedule if you really try. You know where the museum is? Downtown, Forest Park?”
“Er, yeah,” Shane blinked. “Why?”
Greenfeld turned back to Shane as he reached his car. “So you can bring the piece. You do know you’ll need to be there yourself, don’t you?” He grinned and shook his head. “You really are a newbie at this. That’s excellent. The Post Dispatch people are going to love you. You’re the artist, Shane. People will want to talk to you about that wacky painting of yours, especially if you aren’t selling it. The show starts at six, but if you can get there by five, latest, that will give us time to get set up. Can you make it?”
Shane nodded slowly. “Sure. I guess. I just didn’t realize. Yeah, that’s fine.”
Greenfeld clapped Shane briskly on the shoulder and turned to get in his car. “I wouldn’t have guessed it,” he said, dropping into the low seat and draping his hand over the steering wheel. “You’ve really never painted anything like that before?”
Shane stepped back from the car as Greenfeld started the engine. “Not even close. It surprised me as much as anyone.”
“It was the woman on the front step that did it,” Greenfeld said, peering up at Shane, his smile gone. “My first thought was that I wanted to burn it, like I said, but then I saw her.”
“Yeah?” Shane said. “And then what did you think?”
Greenfeld’s eyes grew unfocussed and he squinted. “I thought: ‘It’s all just a stage. The first act is about to begin, and she’s going to be the main character. I wonder what happens next.’” His eyes sharpened again and he studied Shane’s face. “That’s the point, right? Why’s she sitting there, watching, waiting? Who’s coming up the path, and what happens when they get there? That’s what I was thinking, at least. At first, I hated it. Then I saw her, and I still hated it, but I was too curious to look away.” He shook his head again, quickly. “I don’t know how you did it, Shane, but it’s quite a trick. Keeping that balance must be like walking a tightrope.” He smiled crookedly at Shane and tapped his temple twice with his left index finger.
Shane smiled and nodded, not quite knowing what the gesture meant. Greenfeld shifted into reverse and backed gingerly out of the turn-off. A minute later, Shane was alone again. He walked back to the cottage a little dazedly. For some reason, he didn’t really want to put his new painting into the gallery showing, and yet he hadn’t been able to say no to Greenfeld. Probably because he had no good reason to refuse. It was just a strange, gut feeling. Somehow, the painting wasn’t meant for the rest of the world. It was for him, alone. But that wasn’t entirely accurate, either, and he had to be honest with himself about it. The painting was for him, and it was for the ghost.
And suddenly Shane thought he understood what Greenfeld’s head-tapping gesture had meant. He’d said that painting something like the house portrait—the “haunted house”, he had called it—was like a balance, like walking a tightrope. The head tap showed that Greenfeld understood where that tightrope existed. It was a tightrope of the mind. The balance was between realism and abstraction, between ugliness and beauty. Shane had felt that balance, that strange tens
ion, from the very beginning, from the first night he had begun to paint the house, responding to the insistent prodding of the muse. But now another question occurred to him: what happened if he fell off the tightrope?
In the warm afternoon sunlight, Shane shivered.
The second painting started differently than the one of the main house. With that one, Shane had known what it was going to be from the start, and had begun with the basic shape. He’d blocked in the house in one quick sitting, and then spent the following days filling in the details. Now, with the second painting, it seemed to be happening in reverse.
Shane had sat in the mid-afternoon light of the studio for half an hour, merely staring at the blank canvas, trying to see where the first brush strokes were supposed to go, but nothing had come. The muse still had her fingernails dug into him, but she wasn’t offering any specific help for the moment. Now, she merely provided the hunger to make, but not the details. Shane had stared at the canvas, his brow furrowed, his lips pressed together, until he’d gotten frustrated.
In a gesture of annoyance, he’d reached forward with his brush and slashed at the canvas, making a quick, tapered black stroke. And then he’d stared at it.
Maybe it had just been the cathartic gesture he’d needed to break free from some unexpected artist’s block, but the stroke seemed like more than a random slash of paint. It looked like a shape, like the suggestion of something much more complex, buried in the white. Shane had studied it, trying to divine its meaning. Then he abandoned that logic; that was the sort of thinking that had left him stymied for the past half an hour. Instead, he leaned forward once again, raised his right arm, and added a second line, an arcing sweep that curved under the first line. Suddenly it wasn’t just two lines. It was the beginning of a face.
Realizing that, the picture suddenly clicked into place. The next half a dozen strokes had come a little more easily, with less thought. After that, he was hardly even aware of the brush in his hand. After that, he fell into the canvas.
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