The Seraphim often spoke to me, trying to communicate. I would strain like hell to hear what she had to say, but no matter how closely I listened, the effort was futile. The whispers were always too faint to hear, too quiet to decipher.
6
Chapter Six
Ferry and I graced the front page of the Community Arts section of the Sunday paper. Nevertheless, I hesitated to read the article itself. But with each reluctant word read, my cheeks rose as my lips tilted at the celebration of my return, not the mockery. Wilt had paid respect to my late wife through his brief explanation of my sudden yet long departure from the public eye. He honored my need to escape and showcased what he called my triumphant return.
Even I started to believe a revival was possible. The art world might again embrace their once golden boy, possibly without ridicule. Chills ran up my arms in anticipation and turned into uncontained excitement as I hopped around in circles, dancing like a child.
The doorbell quelled my exuberance. Surely Ferry had read the paper and the accolades Wilt gave us as a team. Wilt had done a fantastic job of hinting at the work without giving away any details, creating angst and anticipation. I swung open the door and held the paper for Ferry to see.
The tension in his expression melted into a grin. “This is fantastic, Bastian. Have you read it?” Ferry took a seat on the couch while his crew set up. As he unfolded the paper, I noticed angry, red scratches and the early onset of bruising all over his hands—none of which had been there yesterday.
“Yeah, I have. It’s definitely a great re-opener.”
Ferry glanced up, revealing another abrasion on his cheek.
“Damn, man, what happened to your hands? You’ve got a nasty scratch on your cheek.” I pointed toward the painful-looking marks.
He responded with a chuckle of sorts. “Yard work. I don’t get along well with lawn equipment or thorn bushes. No worries, I’m good.”
Last time I had checked, Ferry lived in a condo downtown, but maybe he had moved recently. Or maybe I needed to mind my own fucking business and not worry about it. I went with option two.
“It’s a great article.” He tossed the paper onto the coffee table and nodded to one of his assistants. “I’m sure it feels good to be back in the swing of things, huh, Bastian?”
“A bit surreal. I’m sure it’ll become second nature again. We are nearing the end of this stage, though. The wall’s almost completely black.”
Ferry followed me into the kitchen. I loved watching him—it was art to see him search for lines and light and angles.
“I think you’re right. Once I take a couple of shots, I’ll be able to tell if tonight is the end, or if we’ll get one more day out of it. I’d venture to say this is it. I’ve been going through all the images, so you don’t have hundreds to choose from. When we finish, let’s figure out when we can get you to the studio.”
Usually, Ferry was here for a couple of hours between setting up, shooting, and tearing down. Today, I heard less than ten clicks from his camera before he clapped twice, signaling his team. He tilted the camera my direction and quickly flipped through a handful of shots.
There was beauty in the decay. While it was nothing but waves of darkness, light reflected off the texture, creating depth. And then everything was black. A lump formed in my throat when I connected the accurate portrayal of my life in front of me.
I forced back the emotion, swallowing hard before I spoke. “I can’t wait to see this come together. It’s going to be brutal.”
“I agree. You wanna come by tomorrow around two?”
“Sure. Your studio still in the same place?”
“Center Avenue downtown.”
I closed the door behind the last of his troop and stared after them as they trudged down the sidewalk. Grateful for all he had done, I was still glad to see them go. Having that many people in my house every night had been a difficult adjustment. Even when Nate stopped by, I flew solo most days. I hadn’t realized how sensitive I’d become to noise and people in general over the years. I might have developed some sensory disorder, or maybe it was just an overall disdain for society as a whole.
At two o’clock on the dot, I opened the door marked by Ferry’s logo and stepped into his studio. I hadn’t ever been inside—no clue what I’d expected—but it wasn’t the cold, sterile feeling I got. But the photography that hung from every inch of free space—primarily suspended overhead—erased the desolation and replaced it with warmth. The nameless people erupted with emotion from behind still frames. Some were filled with heartache, others laughter. As with everything Ferry touched, he illuminated and captured the spirit of the occasion—somber or celebratory. He immortalized the beauty in life.
I turned toward the approaching footsteps, expecting Ferry, yet finding one of his many assistants.
“Mr. Thames. Mr. Koops is this way.”
I followed several steps behind the man leading the way. He ushered me into Ferry’s office, waved to a chair, and closed the door behind him when he left. Rather stunned by the state of the room, I took inventory, although in a reverse fashion. There was nothing on the walls, no personal effects on the desk, no color—nothing. The space was stark white with a black desk, black chairs, and a black computer.
“Are you re-doing your office?” I asked Ferry when he entered.
Ferry extended his hand with a smile. “No, not at all. I try to keep this room free from clutter, so it doesn’t distract from the photographs. Color on walls tends to change people’s perspective of the actual image, and if light reflects off it, the eye can be deceived. When I have clients in, I want them focused on what they paid for, not whatever shit I deemed appropriate for my comfort. My actual office is fully adorned with all of life’s knickknacks, I assure you.” He dimmed the lights—further ensuring I only focused on the screen—and then took the seat next to me.
Before we got started, Ferry explained how he’d narrowed down the images, leaving only a few per day to go through.
“I had thought there would be days without much change, but when I went back through them, each period is significant.”
The screen came to life. One by one, I sifted through what Ferry had given me, discarding those I didn’t care for. Ferry didn’t question my decisions. Day by day, I narrowed the selection to one. And the only discussion that took place was whether to ascend or descend through light to dark. Deciding to begin with light took convincing on Ferry’s part. I hesitated to allow people to see dark as my absolute. I wanted them to find light in my kaleidoscope. But Ferry convinced me that this was only a snapshot of where I had been, not the finality of who I was.
Hours passed like minutes, and before I realized it, the day was over, and we’d made an appointment for tomorrow. I sat in my car, dazed and exhausted. Before starting the ignition, I grabbed my cell to text Sera. We had planned to get coffee the day after the exhibit, but thus far, the timing hadn’t worked.
Me: Just finished at Ferry’s. Wanna grab a bite to eat?
Sera: That would be great. How about Rulatta’s on Coffee Street in ten minutes?
Me: See you then.
As quickly as the day had passed with Ferry, so did dinner with Sera. She’d enraptured me with her expression as she told me about the places she’d traveled and tales of her youth. Her eyes glittered when the subject of art took center stage. And I couldn’t help but notice, she never uttered a negative word. She spun every unideal situation into an unexpected gift. Sylvie had naturally been that way, but I wondered if it were genuine with Sera. For that, I couldn’t get a read on her. I wanted to believe it was who she was, although something behind the sparkle in her eyes said something different. And I didn’t know her well enough to decipher if it was pain, sadness, or something else entirely. Instead of dwelling on what she wasn’t telling me, I focused on what she was.
“Your turn.” Sera spurred me on with an easy-going smile.
“For what?”
“To tell me
about you. Anything you want to share.” She encouraged without pushing.
There was nothing to know. Living life as a hermit didn’t lend itself to entertaining tales. “What would you like to know?”
Sera stared off into the distance and tapped her finger on her lips. “What’s your favorite color?” She reverted her gaze to me with excitement.
A laugh bubbled past my lips, knowing Sera didn’t give a fuck about my favorite color. “Blue.”
“Dogs or cats?”
“Dogs.”
“Boxers or briefs?” She giggled.
I about spat out my drink. “What is this, twenty questions? Boxer briefs.”
“No, not twenty questions.” She played with the straw in her cup, fidgeting like she was nervous. “I’d love for you to share willingly, open up a bit, but I know you won’t.”
“I will.”
“Bastian, seriously. I realize this is really the first time we’ve hung out, 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.” Sera’s expression softened with her tone.
I recognized she had no ulterior motives, but she didn’t understand what a huge step this was for me. I hadn’t spent this much time talking to anyone—other than Nate, who sure as hell didn’t count—in years. I wanted Sera to know me, but I still debated opening up. Sylvie had evaded my dreams since Sera had arrived. I missed seeing my wife, and I wondered if she’d leave completely if I allowed another woman to be present in my life.
Regardless, the reality was that I needed human interaction. And against my better judgment, I took the plunge and chose to be honest. “I’m not good at this, Sera. I’ve been isolated from the world for half a decade. And while I’ve made huge strides in the last few weeks, it’s still a process I need help with.”
She waited patiently for me to proceed. I knew the questions she had; they were the same questions everyone had.
“I’ll try to answer any question, but you will have to ask them, and I can’t guarantee an eloquent response.”
Clearly, Sera was now uncomfortable, and she lowered her eyes to the table. “I don’t want to pry, Bastian.” It was hard to hear her across the table when her voice had gone soft.
Sighing, I reached over to lift her chin, forcing her green eyes to mine. “You’re not prying. I just need help.” I released her chin and let out a heavy breath. “Why don’t we just rip off the Band-Aid and go straight for the gusto. Ask the most prying question in your arsenal.”
“Wow. Okay.” Sera looked a million miles away while she searched for the words to phrase the question that would open up my past. “Why did you quit painting?”
Not what I had expected, even though it would lead to the same conclusion. “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 had to look away and gather my composure.
“We had grown up together. She was my best friend—well, her and Nate. Anyway, I’ve always painted from inspiration. Usually, I found it in her, at least as an adult. When she passed away, 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.” I hated telling people this. I sounded so callous, tossing her away like trash. “When I got rid of her things, all my canvases, brushes, pallets, oils, acrylics…they all went, too. Without her, there was no me. I had no muse, no reason to paint, no reason to live, no reason to do much of anything.” I shrugged as if what I had just told her was part of the normal grieving process.
That was as deep as I planned to go, although I doubted she’d let me off that easily.
“Were you suicidal?” Her eyes rounded in disbelief as quickly as her fingers clamped over her mouth. She seemed as surprised by her question as I was. Most people weren’t that forward.
“I’ve thought about death a lot, but I’m a coward.”
“What do you mean?”
I glanced around the room, wondering if anyone was listening to me or if I was just paranoid. “The pain here—in this realm—is a known entity. It’s excruciating but familiar. I’m 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 isolating. If I had a definitive answer that there’s nothing more beyond this life than darkness, I might have had a different outcome.” I swallow hard before confessing my ultimate truth. “I guess the pain never got bad enough to take the chance.”
Sera sat across from me, jaw slack, mouth agape in utter shock. And silence.
“I’ve never told anyone that, not even Nate.” I shouldn’t have placed that burden on her. It was bad enough that Nate knew it without my confirmation.
“I’m honored you felt like you could tell me. Will you tell me about her?”
“Who? Sylvie?” Perplexed, I wondered why this beautiful woman would have any interest in my dead wife.
Her eyes danced with curiosity and hope.
I couldn’t fathom why she cared, but it was possible she simply wanted to give me an outlet to share, to speak freely of someone I loved dearly, to honor her memory and keep her alive by reliving it with someone else.
“Yes. What was she like?”
“You really want to hear about Sylvie?” I scooted forward in my seat and rested my forearms on the table.
The excitement in her expression put a smile on my face. “Absolutely.”
Sera listened attentively while I told her the good and the bad, although there was little bad. Sylvie had annoying habits like leaving her makeup all over the bathroom counter, or when I was in a bad mood, she’d poke the shit out of me until I got so irritated that I started laughing. But it was the details that I missed—the nuances that made her Sylvie. I missed her throaty voice, her jazzy, old soul. The way she brightened every day. But more than anything, I just miss the way she loved me. My wife had accepted me, flaws and all, and in a way, that made me believe she cherished the bad as much as the good. She never complained, even in her death, and everyone adored her. Looking back, our friends were around because they needed to be close to her. And I just got the benefits of her being my wife.
Sera didn’t ask for details about how Sylvie died, which was a relief. I wasn’t ready to relive those memories just yet, but I was certain that at some point, I’d have to tell her. Those months had changed me at the core. They’d made me angry and resentful, then they just left me desolate and without any fight. I couldn’t blame it all on Sylvie’s illness or her death. I’d made the choice—day in and day out—to allow it to consume me, to wallow in self-pity, and immerse myself in death.
When Sylvie had died, she took the best of me with her.
Talking about Sylvie made my hand ache in a way only an artist could understand. The need to create became so prominent that the last half hour of dinner was a blur, as was the ride home.
I sprinted from the car into the house and tore through the closets looking for the supplies Nate and I had bought, finally finding the essentials, yet no fucking easel. However, I had a hammer and nails. Four nails through the framed canvas now secured it to the wall. Every shade of blue I could come up with landed on my pallet. Without thought, I gave myself the freedom to move, stroking my brush, creating lines with my knife.
As the darkness of night faded into the light of morning, my eyes blurred with exhaustion. The painting wasn’t complete, but I literally couldn’t see to continue.
No sooner had I fallen asleep than the alarm jolted me awake. Panic straightened my spine, and I searched for fire when I sat up until I realized it wasn’t the
smoke detector. It was the clock next to my bed, reminding me I had to get my ass up to meet Ferry. After being off the grid for five years, suddenly having obligations was a tough routine to establish. My eyes stung from lack of sleep, but the same fire still coursed through my body—the burn of art needing to escape.
With my jeans and a T-shirt in hand, I made my way to the bathroom to brush my hair and teeth. I stopped by the painting I’d started last night. She reminded me of Picasso’s Blue Nude—the tone, not the visual. Neither woman’s face was visible, but with arms outstretched, head back, and knees slightly bent, The despair of my lady mirrored that of Picasso’s. It was in her thin frame—almost frail—tattered by life’s cruelty. Studying her, I pinpointed the changes in my work. I had worried that with the passing of time that my technique would have suffered, but it just seemed to have changed, not faltered. The pride that filled me staring at her almost caused me to stay home. But I fought the urge to create and left for Ferry’s studio.
Over the next few days, we hashed out the details of the project—chose filters, paper, frames, and finally, a title. Kaleidoscope Dark. The rest was in Ferry’s hands to finalize. The entire concept had been strange. I painted. There was only one. An original. Prints weren’t available, and there were no duplicates. The one in my hand was the only one available, but that changed with photography. There was no original. It had decomposed on my wall—I still caught whiffs of the aftermath—and was a bitch to clean up.
My phone startled me and roused me from my daydream.
“Hey, Bastian. Do you have a few minutes to talk?” Tara Winford’s voice was like Elvis’s. Not in tone but uniqueness. She had this Northern lilt with a Southern inflection no one could duplicate.
Reality's Illusion Page 6
