By Thanksgiving, Eric had spoken to Stanford about an exhibit in spring, but the dealer hadn’t shown much enthusiasm. In mid-December, a rather blustery day kept Eric inside the house for much of the morning. Every time he stepped out, an angry blast of wind forced him back in. He had started a pot of soup for that night’s meal and was sipping the last of the morning coffee when a knock startled him. Eric rushed to the front door, then laughed, as a tall, disheveled man shook a rainstorm from his overcoat. “Well good morning Stanford,” Eric smiled, letting the dealer into the kitchen. “To what do I owe this interruption?”
When not worried about when he might next turn into a hawk, Eric was generally good-natured. That he and Lynne hadn’t lately spoken about babies was also a part of his sunny mood, despite the worsening weather. And he loved seeing the usually unruffled Stanford Taylor on the back foot, not only for his unexpected appearance, but the chaos of his bearing. Stanford removed his hat, shaking off water, then tried to smooth his thinning brown hair while attempting to clean his spotted glasses. Finally the dealer gave up. “Hello Eric,” he grumbled. “Can I please have a towel?”
Twenty minutes later the men were seated in the cozy living room, a fire crackling, the scent of soup wafting, freshly brewed mugs of coffee in their hands. Small talk had explained Stanford’s trip, that he was on his way back to New York, after having met with another West Coast artist. Now perhaps Stanford might possibly take a peek at what Eric wanted to exhibit. But the rain poured, and while the canvases Eric wished to sell were just upstairs in the overcrowded storage room, what Stanford truly wanted to investigate were Eric’s recent paintings, warranting if a new exhibit was necessary. If Eric’s latest pieces didn’t catch Stanford’s eye, what use was there in gathering his previous work? The last show had gone well, Stanford would admit, but it had only been months ago, in a nearby city. Eric Snyder did have talent, but better to mete that artistic gift at a rate that would entice buyers, not make them shrug.
“Let me show you what I have upstairs.” Even if the day had been sunny, Eric wouldn’t have let Stanford into the studio. Only Lynne knew what Eric was currently painting, and it wasn’t close to what Stanford had sold in spring. Those had been mostly birds, well-painted of course, but what his small audience expected. The newest pieces were of skies, from dawn breaking to nightfall, terms he could use in conjunction with landscapes. Eric didn’t ponder that these vistas were from his time as a hawk. Everything he painted, in one way or another, was bound to that aspect of his existence.
Stanford sipped his coffee, then set the cup on the coffee table. “Eric, I’m just not sure about another show so soon. Granted, one party does contact me often to learn if I have anything new to sell, but….”
Eric smiled; his artwork had garnered a small but devoted following of bird lovers. Yet, the paintings he had done over summer, and since his last transformation, were on another level, as well as moving away from birds. He was giving the blue barn painting to the Aherns for Christmas, and it was that painting he most wanted Stanford to see. Stanford would be hard-pressed to nix an exhibit, plus he would be peeved that Eric was giving it away. Eric would ask Sam and Renee if it could be included in the show, along with the three hawks at sunset. But other pieces would be available, in a similar vein.
“Just have a look Stanford. Then I’ll be happy with whatever you decide.” Eric finished his coffee, then stood. If Stanford was going to drop in without warning, Eric would get his way.
The dealer huffed, then followed Eric up the stairs, passing by Lynne’s craft room, and the extra room, which housed the overspill of Eric’s latest paintings. Instead, Eric opened the storage room, turned on the light, then stepped inside. Canvases were safely stored, filling every crevice of space. As Stanford wiped his glasses, Eric waited for the gasp. When it came, Eric closed his eyes, relief and pleasure flooding him. He knew it was good work, but Eric wouldn’t deny the thrill of an expert eye offering confirmation.
These paintings were of nature, but not merely of birds. And they were done in vibrant colors, but the detail of Eric’s brushwork was the same, if not more pronounced. The kingfisher barn took center stage, set upon an easel that Eric used when working in the studio was just too difficult. He had painted the fire scene right in the living room, although Lynne had insisted upon several old sheets first laid over the carpet. Then Eric had brought in the necessary supplies, painting in part from memory of the night he and Lynne had spoken while sitting in front of a similar blaze, also from that moment, as flames rose and sparks crackled. That painting was in the other room, and Eric nearly went to retrieve it. Lynne said it was so lifelike that she expected it to radiate heat.
But that piece would wait, for first came these transitory paintings, which were still full of fowl and other animals, but the meaning was deeper; no longer was Eric attempting to paint hawks and predatory birds. He was searching for the correlation between himself and nature, but not between an artist and his father. Or not yet, Eric sighed inwardly. Yet, that was coming, if not through his work, then in another few months, when the ache began in his guts, moving to his limbs, until he could no longer restrain it. He didn’t dwell on that, however, as Stanford began to emit more than gasps. Then the men stared at each other. Stanford’s gray eyes were wide, his face illuminated with a bliss that Eric rarely saw on other men. Eric had witnessed this sort of exhilaration on his wife, but that was of carnal pleasure. Yet, ecstasy could be achieved in other manners; Eric often felt it as colors and images coalesced upon canvas. Stanford was experiencing it while standing among Eric’s paintings.
But Stanford Taylor wasn’t a brash sort, nor was he inclined to gushing adoration. He had hinted that Eric’s next show should be another local exhibit for one of Stanford’s youngest, but most exciting, artists. Stanford was practical, with a sharp eye for talent, as well behooved a third generation art dealer. There was no Mrs. Taylor, and perhaps the family’s genius for discovering and nurturing painters would die with him. Eric had no idea about his dealer’s private life, other than Stanford wasn’t married. Or maybe he was wed to his occupation. He was certainly infatuated with the paintings in that room. Eric wanted to laugh, wondering how his most recent canvases, just a few feet down the hall, would affect the New Yorker. If Stanford saw those, Eric might have to call for an ambulance.
Eric didn’t speak, would let Stanford begin the discussion. But from how closely Stanford stood near the kingfisher barn, gazing at the mice, his right hand almost tracing the brushstrokes, Eric knew it was just a matter of calmly walking back downstairs, then sitting on the sofa, quietly conferring to when the most convenient date would be for Eric to travel east. This next exhibition would take place in New York, Eric felt, and the sooner it occurred the better. Eric could see that in Stanford’s fixated gaze, then Eric stifled a chuckle. Stanford Taylor would hit the roof when Eric told him that painting had already been claimed.
But over two dozen canvases waited, paintings that Eric had been unable to contain since returning, plus those done in summer, as he was switching from birds to landscapes. He still wanted to paint his wife, and was getting closer to that goal, only in that Lynne hadn’t complained about the easel in the house, on her covered living room carpet. He wanted to paint her seated on their sofa, or in her chair knitting. He ached to immortalize her merciful smile and soft hands in the gentlest of hues. He dreamed of painting her nude, wishing she was that uninhibited, or maybe just willing to let him fully explore the depth of his passions for her, his need of her. But first he wanted her to condone a simple portrait; maybe he would plant a bug that Renee wanted a picture of the artist’s wife….
But that wouldn’t be until after Christmas, when Renee and Samuel were the owners of another Eric Snyder piece. Eric laughed, as Stanford still hadn’t moved away from the blue barn. “That one’s already taken, but as you can see, there’re more from where that came from.”
Stanford whirled to face Eric. “Who?” He tr
embled, then inhaled deeply, regaining his composure. “Is it for Lynne?”
Eric chuckled, putting his hands in his pockets. “Good friends of ours. For Christmas,” he added definitively. “But the rest are all yours. I’m stepping away from strictly birds, as you might have guessed, and….”
Stanford pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket, then wiped his brow. Then he quickly glanced at the rest of the paintings Eric had carefully assembled. Some were slightly obscured by others, but all that Eric had in mind for the next exhibit were represented. And the showing that would follow was waiting in the other room, and several more canvases were in the studio…. Eric had never been so prolific, but his vision had altered since that last flight, and his heart had too.
All he wanted was to put that ache to rest. And he wanted to paint his wife, then Eric sighed. Before he could paint Lynne, even in casual poses, another journey would ensue. But that might not be a brief trip. Recently Eric had dreamed of his father, but not the man he recalled from childhood. This man was old and infirm, and didn’t scare Eric in the least.
But he had shaken Eric, in that the next trip would last longer than days. It might take Eric a few weeks to locate his dad, then he scoffed, like that was even possible. Then Eric’s guts churned. He closed his eyes, wishing Lynne was there, not that he was going to transform in front of his dealer. Only that when it did happen, a husband and wife would be separated for longer than ever before. Eric shivered, then cleared his throat, as Stanford coughed. Then they looked at each other again. Now Stanford nodded, then smiled. “Are you sure you’re giving that one away?”
Eric nodded, inhaling deeply, his stomach calming. “Yes, but I imagine they’d let it be shown. They have another one, which can go in the exhibit, as long as they’re agreeable.”
Stanford nodded coolly, then shook his head. “Is it like these, I mean….” He sighed, then smiled. “You’re a bastard, you know that?”
“I am?”
Stanford again mopped his forehead. “These are some of the most….” The dealer considered his words, then laughed. “Christ Eric, these are fantastic. God, that doesn’t even begin to convey it. These are….” He glanced around the room again, then returned to the blue barn. He studied it for several seconds, then looked at the painter. “How in the hell did you do all these?”
Eric chuckled. “Stanford, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
The dealer tapped his foot. “I mean, Jesus Christ, these are just….” Stanford stared at the artist. “Is something wrong with you?”
Eric shook his head. “No, why?”
Stanford approached Eric, eyeing him up and down, lingering on Eric’s bad foot. “Just that I’ve only seen this sort of advancement a few times, and usually after it happens, you goddamn artists up and die on us. My father’s warned me about this.” Stanford permitted a small smile. “You find your stride, paint a few more years, then kick the bucket. Are you sure you’re all right?”
Eric nodded, then grinned. “I’m married to a nurse. You think Lynne would let me die on her?”
“Hmmm, well, I suppose not.” Slowly Stanford made his way between the paintings, grazing a few with his fingertips. Each time Eric felt his soul was being touched, but not like how Lynne affected him, only that Stanford now understood. And that Eric and Lynne’s lives were set to change, but not in how his departures altered them. This was about money, fame, and expectations. Once these paintings were shown, Eric Snyder would catapult from a slightly admired painter of fowl to an acclaimed nature artist. And this was only the beginning.
Once the artist could paint his wife…. Eric smiled. “So, perhaps an exhibit in spring?” His tone was casual. “Or do you think that would be too soon?”
Stanford shook his head. “Tomorrow wouldn’t be soon enough.” He huffed, then grinned. “How about in January? Well, February. I can get something arranged by February.”
Eric nodded, then he shivered. “February should be fine, although….” By then, Eric might be feeling that ache. Yet, he didn’t need to be at the showing; Eric might not be in any shape to travel to New York.
“Although what? Are you all right, or is….” Stanford smiled. “How’s Lynne?”
“She’s fine. It’s just that….”
“Eric, I don’t mean to pry. It’s just that February would be the soonest I could arrange an exhibit, and believe me, after seeing all this, I want these paintings shown as quickly as possible. I don’t think I need to tell you how this will….” Stanford cleared his throat. “This changes the game.” He motioned to all he could see. “You had a niche market before, but these go beyond bird lovers. This one, God, are you sure you won’t sell it?”
Stanford pointed to the blue barn as Eric nodded. “It’s already taken. And yes, I understand the ramifications of these paintings.”
Eric’s tone was somber, which caught Stanford’s attention. “Is there a problem?”
“I may not be able to attend the exhibit.”
“Why not?”
Eric stepped toward his dealer. He glanced at the blue barn, then at the mice. Then he looked at Stanford. “I just might not be able to get to New York. But I want these to be seen. I’ve been busy, and yes, things are changing. If the weather wasn’t so awful….” Eric smiled. “But what’s coming is more in this style. You can see those in spring, summer perhaps.” By summer, Eric wanted to be painting Lynne; perhaps she would be amenable to posing in the studio by then. And maybe by then, he would have information, which might lead to peace. Again his guts churned, but he didn’t even blink. “What I’m doing now is….”
“Oh God, don’t tell me, it’ll drive me nuts. This one’s already making me crazy.” Stanford eyed the barn. “Do they realize you’ve just set them up for life in this one painting?”
Eric laughed. “Are you telling me Lynne won’t have work for much longer?”
“Only if she gets bored. I mean it Eric. These are….” Again Stanford paused. “I loathe hazarding a guess, because that reduces it to dollars and cents. But Eric….” Stanford smiled, then shook his head. “My grandfather represented some outstanding painters, my father too. But none of them, not a single one, had your acuity of vision. I look at these, and it’s like I can see better.” He took off his glasses, then pressed his face close to the canvas. “I’m blind without my specs, even at this distance. But it’s not my eyes I’m seeing with, it’s my….” He stepped back, donned his glasses, then again peered at the canvas. “It’s much deeper than that. And damn you, it’s like you can see perfectly.” He stared at Eric. “What, you have better than 20/20 vision?”
“Something like that,” Eric smiled.
“Well, you must.” Stanford chuckled, then cleared his throat again. “I’ll see how soon I can make the arrangements. Perhaps late January, but more likely February, and I’d like you to be there.”
“If I can, I most certainly will.”
“Well then, that’s the best I can hope for.”
Eric nodded, leading him from the room. Then Eric pointed to the far end of the hall. “Are you spending the night?”
Stanford shook his head. “I’m catching this evening’s train. But I’d appreciate a ride to the station.”
“Of course. Will you stay for an early dinner?”
Stanford nodded. “Smells too good to say no. Will Lynne be home soon?”
Eric smiled. “She will. And I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you.”
“Or happy to see me leave.”
Eric laughed. “Not after she hears what you have to say.”
Stanford did spend the night, as Lynne wouldn’t hear of him trying to make his way back east through the storm. In the morning, Eric drove them both to town, dropping off his dealer at the train station, then taking Lynne to the hospital. Eric pulled into the visitor’s lot, then turned off the engine. The morning was clear, but cold, and Lynne stared at him. “Am I walking the rest of the way?”
He smiled, then care
ssed her face. They had stayed up late, chatting with Stanford, who hadn’t hesitated in telling Lynne what he thought of Eric’s work. But the couple hadn’t had time to speak alone, and Eric had plenty to tell her. “He knows I may not attend the exhibit.”
Lynne’s smile slipped away. “And what’d he say?”
Eric grasped her gloved hand. “Well, he was surprised, but accepted it. What else was there for him to do?”
She nodded slowly, then sighed. “Maybe it’ll be a brief trip, perhaps you’ll be back by then.”
He decided to tell her the truth, which might now be more readily digested, what with Stanford noting how Lynne might not need to work once Eric’s new paintings had been displayed. “I may be gone longer than usual. I didn’t wanna give him false hope.”
Her eyes filled with tears, which she wiped away with her hand. “I see. How did he take it?”
“He wasn’t happy, but….” Eric gripped her hands, then used his against her face, which was damp, and so soft, that he longed to take her back home, slip into their bed, and never leave. “Honey, I just don’t know and….”
She nodded, then sniffled, reaching into her purse for a handkerchief. She blew her nose, then stared out of her window. “There’s a break in the rain, I better head in.”
“Lynne….”
She opened the car door, but as she tried to step out, he grabbed her arm. She turned to face him, barely containing the flood waiting to be shed.
He started to speak, but she set a finger to his lips, shaking her head. Then she stroked his cheek. “I’ll see you tonight,” she stammered. “Have a good day.”
Eric released her, and she exited the car, closing the door, but not with force. She walked quickly, the wind and her steps rustling her long coat. She approached the building, entering through a side door. Eric didn’t leave the parking lot for several minutes, gazing at where she had slipped from his view.
Chapter 7
The Hawk: Part One Page 6
