Ryan wiped a lock of red hair out of his eye. “I don’t really like other people being in here.”
“It’s fine. I get it. I used to kick the guys out of my studio all the time.” I shrugged. “I guess that doesn’t matter now, since mine burned down.”
Ryan sighed. He set down his brush and swivelled his chair to face me. “Did you want to talk to me about something, Flynn?”
“Yeah.” I scratched my head. “I mean, it’s so stupid because you’re who you are and I’m just some lowly scrubber?—”
“I’ve got to finish this painting today so we can release it to the market tomorrow. I don’t have time for your self-flagellation. Just say what you want to say so I can get back to work.”
“I want to be an artist,” I blurted out. “Like you. Well, not like you because you’re amazing and I’m utter shite. But a passable artist who actually makes a living from his work. It’s the only thing in the world I could be good at except for stand-up comedy, and I’m told comedians get paid even less than artists. I want to make a living, but I don’t know where to start.”
“You can start by stopping the Banksy idolatry.” Ryan shot back.
“But he’s a genius!”
“That may be true. But he, or she, or they, can’t stand up and claim their work. Making a living the way Banksy does ishard. And Banksy’s doing it a lot better than you ever could. Don’t try and compete. Don’t be like me, either. I’m a terrible example. Just be yourself.”
“But I don’t know what to do!”
“You just had the most horrific thing happen to you – losing someone you love. I think that should be the subject of your next work. Your grief connects you to your audience, because they’re grieving, too. Everyone in the world is grieving for someone or something.”
“But I don’t want to make people sad.” That wasn’t who I was.
“You don’t have to. Grief isn’t always sad. A lot of the time it’s about celebrating the life of a person you love. You can make the best parts of them live on forever. That’s noble.”
I nodded vigorously.
“And get yourself a website. Use social media. You’re young. You don’t have to be entrenched in the galley world to make a living. You have so many opportunities if you don’t hide yourself away.”
“Like you.”
“Yeah. Don’t be like me. I don’t do this out of choice, Flynn. Don’t think what I do is noble or artistic or romantic. The only person I talk to is Simon. What’s romantic about that?” Ryan gestured out the window, toward Briarwood. “You get hundreds of visitors a week during summer up at the castle. Why don’t you include a gallery space as part of the tour?”
“Fuck, that’s genius.” I could already picture it. There was a large room opposite the ticketing office that had once been servants’ quarters on the bottom floor of the eastern wing. When it was in use it would’ve been divided into several small rooms, but now it was one big open space. Currently we used it to store the signage for the tours and gift shop, as well as a dumping ground for all our random junk (Corbin’s rowing machine, stacks of Rowan’s jams that didn’t fit in the scullery, a tapestry Arthur burned through when his favourite footy team lost the semi final). It had large windows looking out over the parterres and the topiary maze, and a high ceiling. There was all this old graffiti on the walls, including amusing caricatures of the house’s noble family. It would be perfect for a gallery.
Ryan grinned. “I’m not going to argue with you.”
“Thanks, mate. You know, you’re different from what I imagined.”
Ryan raised an eyebrow. “You spend a lot of time imagining me?”
“Don’t get excited. I didn’t mean in a homoerotic way. Just in a general sense. Your our neighbour, but you never leave the house and even though you’re famous you don’t let anyone see your face. I thought you must be horribly disfigured or you hada second nose growing out of your forehead or maybe you were a collective pretending to be one person. There are as many theories about you as there are about Banksy, you know.”
“I know. But so far, no one’s even come close.” Ryan’s face was grave.
“Hey, I don’t suppose you have a canvas I could use? I’m feeling a mite inspired. I promise I’ll sit in the corner and not say a word. Not a peep. I just…” I wrung my hands. “I need to do something.”
Ryan grunted, but he got up and dug around in the supplies at the back of the studio. “What size?”
“Big.” I flapped my arms out. “As tall as I am.”
Ryan held out a long canvas, the material expertly stretched and primed. “I was going to use this,” he grumbled.
“I’ll buy you another one, I promise.”
Ryan grunted again, and dragged over a chair from under the grand piano, the legs squealing against the marble floor. Next, he moved an easel to a window as far as possible as it was to get from him while still being in the same room. “You sit here. You can use any of the paints and brushes you can find. The only rule is that you can’t bother me again. I need to focus.”
“You’re a star, mate. I promise I’m going to sit right here and not say a peep.”
