“Oh, that’s Patch,” Hopper explains. “He’s the great-grandson of the first Great Dane I ever owned.”
“He’s gorgeous,” I say, carefully petting his massive head.
It’s a weird shared moment. Hopper clicks his tongue, and Angela Lansbury jumps down, then cautiously approaches Patch. She meows. He woofs, then turns toward the dark corner he came from. She follows him as if they’re old friends.
“He’s just showing her around the place,” Hopper says, then returns to his workstation.
Angela Lansbury hasn’t spent much time around dogs, but she seems happy to hang out with Patch, so…I guess I’ll let it happen?
I brought my large sketchbook, figuring I’d map something out in charcoal before attempting to paint anything in front of one of the great modern artists of this century. The industrial patina of the place, the smells of wax and mineral, the sharp clank of metal on metal, and the low rumbling of large machinery, however, relieve me of the notion that I have to perform art for this man.
I glance over at the hand-stretched canvases haphazardly leaning against the brick wall. The varying sizes and angles bring their own sense of art to the space. The tightly woven, heavy cream fabric begs to be painted.
And suddenly, I don’t want to start with charcoal at all.
Hopper follows my line of sight and smiles. “My buddy who makes those is a genius. The canvas, the wood, the tacks, the tension…he’s obsessed with the details. You’ll love the way his canvas takes the paint.”
“Are you sure?”
The canvases alone are more expensive than any project I’ve ever worked on, the kind of quality I could never afford.
“I insist.” Pointing to a series of gorgeous teak storage carts, he says, “Those paints work best with that type of cotton. Again, please use whatever you want, and if I’m running low on anything, let me know, and I’ll order more.”
I set aside my portfolio and walk over to the canvases. The sizes are scratched in pencil along the edge, and I select a two-by-three canvas that feels substantial but not overwhelmingly big.
Too large to finish in a single setting, but not so big that I’m making a long-term commitment.
I take the canvas over to the easel, adjusting the height and angle until I get exactly what I’m looking for from the lighting. After filling my tray with a mix of paints that feel good, I unfurl the leather roll that holds all my brushes and select my favorite painting knife. With a deep breath and the disturbing John the Baptist scene still fresh on my mind after all these weeks, I begin.
16
HOPPER
“So…what’s he like?”Jake asks, strolling over to check out Boone’s half-finished piece.
His eyes snap to Hopper’s, who raises his palms.
“This has echoes of Walter Sickert,” Jake says, concern in his voice.
“Wait, you know who Walter Sickert is?” Hopper asks, teasing his old friend.
“I had a Jack the Ripper phase in high school,” Jake answers with a self-conscious shrug. “Lots of people think Sickert was the Ripper. He often painted scenes that positioned the bodies similarly to the bodies the Ripper and other murderers left behind. Necklaces and scarves that represented slashed throats…”
Hopper nods, bouncing on his heels. “Hitch was a little shy about sharing his work with me, but he’s actually quite good.”
Anders, uncharacteristically quiet, tilts his head to the side. “You did hear Jake say that it looks like the art of Jack the Ripper, right?”
Hopper bites a nail, brows coming together. “Wait, is that…bad?”
“I don’t think it’s good.”
Well, shit.If Anders thinks it’s a little off, it might be a little off.
Hopper’s not the best person to consult with on those things.
“Hitch says it helps get the more disturbing images out of his head. At least, that’s what he told me.”
Parker gestures at the piece. “You do understand that you’re responsible for putting this image in his head, right?”
