A Discerning Eye (continued)

I show this work because I am an artist and make my living so. That these paintings are fraught is unfortunate, but hiding them would be the worst sort of cowardice.

The media will descend, pleasing Robert to no end. I will remain silent, allowing the work to speak for itself. I've nothing relevant to add. Besides, the media will not report accurately anyway. They swarmed over my father's death like vermin, vermin with large lying mouths.

I want to see the works in the flattering light of the gallery, to honor them properly before they move on to their futures.

Birkenau Barracks is completed and dries in the middle of the studio. Papa's ghost has evaporated, leaving my eyes, my hands. Yet the studio still feels charged, the air thrumming with unharnessed energies. Winter is nearly here. A few leaves turn yellow before drying out, but most don't bother with the effort. Only the evergreens remain an implacable hunter green.

I wait for a painting to edge into my vision. I take care not to think too hard, leafing through a book of Camille Claudel's work. But looking at her sculptures and the endless comparisons to Rodin makes me think about Daniel. We could be in a book like this, a book filled with lush color photographs, magnificent works created by two artists in love, two artists who torture one another. Yes, we could be like this, bitter, broken, sick. Never mind. Reaching for a sheet of glass, I start mixing some blues for a watercolor of the ocean. The ocean before the rain.

continued

Fiction, New Fiction, Writing