The Colorman Read Free Page A

woman piped in. “And the very fact that it isn’t mainstream, that it is quirky and odd and provocative, for some people that’s worth something right there.”
    Rain smiled at the woman, understanding her meaning, but not quite joining in. “And really, some of the pieces were incredibly time consuming to make, if that’s what interests you.”
    â€œYou’re probably one of the artists!” the man said with a laugh.
    Rain smiled.
    The woman put her hand over her mouth and the man blushed. “Which ones?” he asked.
    Rain pointed across the room and as the man started to speak again, saying those, those he liked, those weren’t the ones he had meant, Rain just moved along nodding and waving, heading toward the back room.
    In such a fresh, clean space, Rain’s paintings looked almost unfamiliar to her. She was proud of them, but they were like her movie star clients, and she their plastic surgeon. She knew them in their becoming, in their guts and raw vulnerability.
    Nothing in the man’s criticisms particularly bothered her. If he’d been dragged to almost any art school in America, any biennial, any contemporary art institute, he’d realize Rain was actually laughably antiquated in her use of actual paint. Actual pigment in oil applied to actual canvas on stretcher bars. For most critics, her own husband among them, Rain’s work was almost quaint in its attachment to these materials. But for Rain, ultimately, making art was never a matter that required defending. It was what made her feel most human, most alive. Marking canvas with silken paint globules took her out of herself and her mind and into the materials and smells and the textures of the weave of canvas, the skim of gesso, the landscape of oil and pigment. It was pleasure and meaning and hope and acceptance.
    In the back office of the gallery a bottle of decent scotch perched on the desk between Gwendolyn Brooker herself and a gentleman dressed in an Armani suit and cowboy boots. He was laughing and easy; she was leaning toward him, trying unsuccessfully to cover her tension. Gwen pointedly set down her glass.
    â€œJoss, Joss, Joss,” she said, speaking fast but low. “How many years have we known each other?”
    Joss Harp took this as an invitation and grabbed her knee in his big, fleshy hand.
    Gwen went on as though he’d answered her, “And in all those years have I ever steered you wrong?”
    Harp winked, and then patted and released her tiny knee. “Not so as I can tell, you haven’t.”
    â€œThen trust me on this one: it’s an important piece, a smart inv—”
    Harp interrupted her. “Not prepared to buy just today. Having to be a bit more conservative in these times .” Harp downed his scotch and then plunked his empty glass down on the desk next to Gwen’s.
    â€œBut Joss…” Gwen began energetically, refilling his glass as she spoke.
    â€œJust gonna slow down there a little, is all. Just a little risk aversion thing, you understand. But you must be doing okay, Gwenny, huh? What with all them foreigners you been selling to past couple of years?”
    Gwen screwed the top back on the bottle and cradled it in her lap. “I can’t help feeling sorry that our best works are flying overseas. There used to be important collectors in this country. Passionate people, visionaries.”
    Joss picked up his refilled glass, drank it down in one go and stood. He adjusted his belt over his full belly, shoving his shirt deep into his pants. “Honey, begging doesn’t suit you,” he said with a sudden turn in tone. With that, he screwed his hat onto his head and exited on big confident strides. As he passed through the viewing room, the big man noted Rain standing there. He touched the brim of his hat and took her in unabashedly. “Be seein’ you,” he said and strolled through the crowds and out of the