The Colorman Read Free

deeper than their pockets. There was the occasional collector or critic intensely sought by gallery owners, but whose appearances at openings were rare. They were easily identifiable; they never touched the wine or cheese.
    Rain Morton Madlin wandered around the various species and genuses in attendance, trying to see the works through their eyes and eavesdropping on conversations. Looking about a decade younger than her years, Rain had a raw-edges openness about her and was pretty in an unself-conscious way. Her hair hung long and clean but carelessly unflattened; untrimmed bangs dipped into her large, liquid eyes. Her wide mouth betrayed a sadness floating around her that she buoyed with a resolute positivity.
    Rain neared a couple, the man clearly here under protest, the woman attempting to hold her ground against him.
    â€œâ€¦total crap. I mean I know it’s a cliché, but my kid—no, my DOG could do this,” he blurted.
    â€œBut the question is would your dog do this?” the woman asked.
    â€œExactly my point!”
    â€œI think that was MY point.”
    Rain allowed a smile to creep up on her face, letting on she had heard them.
    â€œI mean, right?” the man said to Rain, just before she passed by.
    â€œWhat’s that?” Rain asked politely.
    â€œI’m saying, who really likes this? Bodily fluid art, porn, preserved animals. Art that the artist never lays a hand on. It’s like a big joke.”
    â€œI like them,” Rain remarked, surveying the space.
    The man and his companion laughed as though she were joking.
    â€œI do, I like them and I don’t think the amount of effort that went into a particular piece has anything to say about its value.” Rain kept her tone light. “I know it’s unfair, but I think it’s true.”
    â€œRight, right,” the man agreed. “You can’t convince me it’s any good and I can’t convince you it’s crap. Eye of the beholder. But you would spend your hard-earned—I mean you’re okay with the obscene amounts of money spent on these when, you know, starving children and all that?”
    â€œYes,” Rain said.
    The man shook his head wearily.
    Rain pressed on, “I think the prices are reasonable. It’s expensive to sel art. The gal ery owners spend tons on space to show the work, and on events and overseas art shows and catalogs and ads. Then, of course, there are the artists, spending their lives—”
    â€œStill seems high,” the man interrupted.
    â€œIf you’re asking do I think it’s worth spending large sums of money on art, I’d have to say yes.”
    â€œThe diamond skull?”
    â€œOh, I can name better ones than that. I like the two-million dollar, mile-long pole speared into the earth,” she said, “with only a small inscribed disk visible.” Rain laughed. “At least you can see the diamonds, huh?”
    Rain knew it was one of those conversations not much worth having. Most art-world people would just have moved right past. It’s nothing they haven’t all heard before, loudly, angrily, sometimes drunkenly, but usually self-assuredly as if these objections were original. She wasn’t sure why she had engaged the guy, but despite being so steeped in the art world, Rain could see how it looked to people on the outside. She was deep enough in not to have to make bristly excuses for it, but she’d also thought a lot about the merits of spending her life doing something that few, if any, would ever be able to appreciate. “I assume you go to movies?” she asked.
    â€œMmmm,” the man answered.
    â€œThink about the money spent on those. Each has its audience. The millions spent on some of those—and some of them everybody agrees are total turkeys—that money eclipses any one of the craziest sounding art prices. Ultimately, I think engaging people’s minds is worthwhile.”
    The