“And you know this how?”
I point out the differences in how he paints versus how this one he’s holding. I go into elaborate detail, and when I finish, he’s staring at me.
“This is why I want you to work for me. I don’t know anyone else who can possibly describe my work with as much passion as I do. Thank you for bringing this here.”
“I left my information for the owner to call me. Perhaps there is security footage of who brought it in and we can go from there.”
“Oh, like our own little private detective agency, I presume. Sounds like a lot of fun.” He places the canvas on the ground next to him against a wall. “Honestly it’s not worth my time or effort. True fans know my work. Come with me. Let me show you around.”
I follow him to an area near the back. “This is where I sit and do all my paintings. I know it’s very closed up, and there is barely room to move, but that’s how I like it. It’s like I’m being stifled in the space and the energy just explodes out of me.”
I observe the piece he’s working on. It’s different from what I’m used to seeing from him. It’s more abstract, and the colors are more vibrant. He typically paints in more muted tones. Even artists can find themselves trapped in process and have to try something new to break free.
“Have you ever painted, Reese?”
“Yes, actually. Back in high school and college. I don’t anymore, though.”
“Why’s that?”
I shrug. “Life. Work. I’ve thrown myself into work so much over the past years that I haven’t had time to paint.” Or the inspiration. My paint supplies are packed away in a box in my basement. When I bought my house, I never bothered to open it or make a dedicated space. I just kind of forgot about it, I guess.
“That’s an excuse.”
“What? No, it’s not. I keep myself pretty busy. I don’t have time for hobbies.”
“I have a feeling painting was never just a hobby for you.”
I’m startled by how he reads me. No, it wasn’tjusta hobby but as the years went on and I became a full-time member of the workforce, my priorities changed. That’s what happens in life. You grow and adjust and sometimes you sacrifice things you love for the greater good.
“Either way, it’s not a priority in my life right now.”
“I think you make time for things that are important to you. Maybe painting isn’t as meaningful in your life as you thought it was.”
“That’s not true.”
“Prove it.” Alvin moves out of the way and points to the stool.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Sit down. I want you to paint something.” He replaces the canvas he was working on with a blank one.
I stare at the white canvas. He can’t be serious. I’mnotpainting something for him. What would I even paint anyway?
“Come on, now,” Alvin urges me.
I hesitate but when I look at him I can see he’s clearly serious and I don’t think he’ll be backing down anytime soon. I brush past him, my chest nearly bonking into his, and sit on the stool.
It’s…odd. This ishisspace, not mine. I shouldnotbe sitting here. I feel like I’m invading some sort of sacred space and I don’t belong here.
“Well, go ahead.”
“You mean just start?”
“Yes, juststart. You don’t need to plot it out or outline it. Pick up the brush and paint what’s in your heart. Anger, love, deceit, hope. Lay it all out there on the canvas. There’s a blank slate there waiting for you.”
A blank slate. That’s what Jimmy starts with every time he moves to work on a new house and when he demolishes the inside to remodel. It must be amazing to start new every so often. It must be scary, too. Much like me staring at this white space in front of me. According to Alvin, it’s supposed to hit me like a truck and I should be painting at a rapid pace. I just don’t know where to start.
“Start with one stroke.”
