“Um, Damon? Are you listening to me?” Nan’s voice pulls me back into the present moment.
“Yeah, sorry. Listen, I couldn’t agree more. It’s just a matter of how we get from A to B. And I’m having a real hard time finding a new direction for my work.”
“I knew something was wrong. Tell me.”
“I saw Amanda on the beach this morning. It didn’t go well. I’m just so damned angry, Nan. Painting it didn’t take it away.”
“Oh boy. Damon, you didn’t hit her, did you?”
The fact that Nancy even thinks I’d be capable of such a thing makes me sick inside.
“No. I would never hit Amanda, or any other woman, I can assure you of that.”
“I know, I just…I had to ask.”
“And that’s why you’re a good agent and a good friend. So the answer is no, but I was pretty unkind—and pretty rough with her.”
There. I said it, and I feel a huge weight lift from my proverbial shoulders. But it’s only the beginning of the work ahead of me, in my art, and in my life.
“I’m so sorry that I was so focused on being your agent that I didn’t see how much you were still suffering, Damon. All I saw was how you skyrocketed as an artist. Tell me exactly what happened. Then we’ll figure out how to move forward together.”
I came close to tears as I detailed what happened on the beach with Amanda for Nan, and then shared my realization about my work of the last five years really just being a rehearsal of my pain rather than a real transformation. A little over an hour later, I was drained, and Nan had meetings to take and phone calls to make. Sometimes I forgot that I wasn’t her only client.
We ended the call with a plan for me to do what I could to reconnect with the canvas over the next week. Meanwhile, she would stall the galleries by telling them that the recent cancellation made it difficult to trust any gallery right now, but that I would start taking phone meetings next Monday to determine which, if any of them were a good match for my new work.
It’s not that I’m avoiding everyone altogether. Truthfully, I hope I can have another chance to talk calmly to Amanda again—I need another chance. But after I hang up with Nan, I go back to bed, and crash hard into a deep, dreamless sleep. When I wake up, it’s dusk. I’m starving, but I’m compelled to go out on the balcony to look at the sky again. And that’s when it hits me.
Earlier, I’d been thinking that the gardens would be my subject, that I’d fall back on the same saturated colors I’d infused my previous abstract work with, only this time, the shapes would be undecidedly floral in nature.Georgia O’Keefe you are not, I remind myself. Instead, what I need to be doing is capturing the sky—the progress of dawn, the uncertainty of a misty day, the stunning comfort and rest of an approaching evening.
I rush back inside and pull out some color tubes that I haven’t used in years, if ever, some of them look that new. And then I cook myself the biggest steak on the island for dinner.
12
Damon
For the nextthree days or so, I’m deeper into my work and more creatively in tune than I have been in months, maybe ever. And it feels damn amazing.
I bathe maybe once during that time, and I am well on my way to having a beard, and the studio is littered with plates that held my slapdash meals, but the work that’s coming out of me is truly amazing.
The sunset is fresh enough in my mind that I don’t dive into that one right away. Instead I concentrate hard on recapturing the morning fog from a few days ago, along with the feelings it evoked in me. I lay down swaths of grays, silvers, and creams, blending each one as I go. No hard lines on this one, but hairlines in dark pewter and black which I painstakingly stipple to create a faintness. It takes hours but the results are glorious. It’s not done by any stretch, but the foundation is there, and I’m itching to move forward with more.
I move through the beginnings of two other paintings, one of an abstract sunset, the other an interpretation of a midnight sky above the sea. By the afternoon of the third day, I’m full of a creative satisfaction I haven’t felt in a long time. I’m also full of sadness, and so much regret. I’ve got to find a way to make up to Amanda for my bad behavior, and I decide that it starts with normalizing this situation as much as it can ever be. I spend an hour or so cleaning up the studio, including my dishes and the kitchen, as well as my paintbrushes and workspace. As I work, I can’t help replaying the horrible scene on the beach. Then my mind drifts backward over the night of the breakup. A sharp pang tears through my heart again. But when I think about it, I saw pain in her face too, then and now. She’s grown and changed, as we all do.
But the same Amanda I fell in love with as a young artist is still deep inside her, at least in part. The kind, compassionate woman who could melt my heart and ignite the passion in me like no other. That woman would never have done what she did to me. As impossible as it seemed at the time, maybe there was something else going on, some hidden reason she broke up with me. If that’s the case, maybe I can finally give her the chance to tell me. The chance I took away from both of us the other day on the beach when I let my anger take over.Jesus, how the hell did we really get to this point?
Once the dishes are washed and the three canvases I’ve begun work on are safely covered, it’s time to scrub myself. I strip down and toss my clothes into a pile next to my bed. I’m surprised my shorts don’t walk over there on their own, they’re so ripe. I secure a towel around my waist and step up to the bathroom sink with the intent to shave. I had a beard once when Amanda and I were together, and she loved it. Those were much happier times in many ways. I felt freer in my work and in my life. It seemed like Amanda and I were on a course to conquer the world together.
I grin and put the razor back in its case. I’m not trying to win Amanda back—I don’t think we could ever be what we were to each other—but if I’m going to at least get on an even keel with her, the sight of a new beard coming in can’t hurt. I entertain the brief thought of trying to trim my own hair with the clippers I have. But they’re downstairs in the master bathroom.You know what? Fuck it, I decide to myself. I’m ready to let the rest of my hair grow again too.
I scrub the sweat of three days off my body in the shower, and put on some fresh clothes. But the growing pile of dirty ones on the floor by the bed reminds me that the one thing I didn’t build in the studio is a laundry room. Which is the perfect excuse for me to venture downstairs today. I could also raid my closet in the master bedroom, but either way I risk running into the family. I can only hope this means another meeting with Amanda—one last chance to make things right between us so we can move forward in our lives.
I take the pillowcase off one of my pillows and stuff the dirty clothes into it. Then I take a deep breath and leave the studio. Here goes nothing. With every footfall on the steps, my heart pounds harder in my chest. Every disastrous thought zings through my mind. What if Amanda told Margot everything? What if they decide to demand that I leave based on the renter’s agreement, since I didn’t give forty-eight hours’ notice of my return? What if Amanda decided to leave and she’s not even here anymore?
By the time I poke my head into the kitchen, my stomach is in knots, and I’m sweating like a pig again. They’re all there—except Amanda. I see Sylvia first, curled up on the couch over in the living room area. She’s actually watching a movie, and I forgot that the one painting that isn’t mine is actually a decoy cover of a flatscreen tv. I haven’t turned it on in ages; I can’t even remember what cable package I have. But Sylvia seems to have found some 90’s teenage angst classic film. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until she sees me, and the look of shock and panic on her face almost makes me laugh out loud. She sinks down even further into the corner of the couch, and pulls the hood of her sweatshirt over her head.
The others haven’t seen me yet. Cammie and Stirling are at the dining table pouring over what sounds like digital photos from a hike the other day by the comments they’re making. And Margot is chopping something for what I’m sure will be part of dinner. Since no one is going to make this easier for me by looking up and speaking first, I have to do it myself. It’s now or never.
“Hi, everyone,” I say as casually as I can. Except for Cammie’s small gasp, I could hear a pin drop. Margot pins me with her gaze, and turns the faucet off without looking away. And I know without turning my own head that Sylvia is determinedly ignoring me. “I’m sorry to interrupt you here, I know it’s approaching dinner time. Unfortunately, the one thing my studio doesn’t have is laundry equipment. So I just need to throw in a small load of clothes, if that’s okay.”
