Kari’s father’s phone buzzed. Max Langham, senior partner of IAA, International Allied Artists, checked the screen and said, “It’s that idiot director again.” To Kari, he said, “Sorry, dear. It looks like I’ll have to be going.”
As usual when her father threatened to bruise her fragile ego, Justin played the diplomat. “One of our clients is about to demolish a sixty-million-dollar tentpole feature with tantrums that defy belief.”
Kari knew it was now or never. She took a very hard breath, gestured to the surrounding walls and the artwork, and spoke the words she had avoided saying for years. “This is mine.”
Max had already answered the phone. Turned slightly away. Speaking in an angry murmur. But still managing to pay a smidgen of attention as Justin said, “You’ve boughtallof them?”
“Ipaintedthem. These are my pieces. Well, they were. They’re sold now.”
Those were the words that drew her father’s full attention. He pulled the phone slightly farther from his ear but allowed his son to forge ahead. That was their habit. Max let Justin enter the unknown fray first, so Langham senior could hold back, observe, find the weakness. Then together they smashed the opposition to bits. Theirs was an almost perfect partnership.
Justin demanded, “Sis, we don’t have time for jokes.”
“This is my work,” she repeated. Partly for herself. Tasting the words, coming to terms with how it felt. “I paint under the name Kariel.”
Her father said to his phone, “I’ll get back to you.” The phone squawked angrily as he cut the connection, pocketed the device, and frowned as he watched his son step forward. Not so much to study the art as to scrutinize theotherthings displayed on the walls.
As in, no prices.
Instead, all the unframed items had little red flags attached to the walls beside them. All but one in the front room said simplySOLD.
Justin said, “This is for real?”
Her father’s gaze swept around the gallery. Landed on the two men hovering by the second chamber’s entryway. Watching nervously. Their gazes fastened on Kari.
There for her.
Justin said, “Pop, check this out.”
Kari had expected this would happen. Even so, it hurt. She stood in the room’s center and watched the two men step forward. Not toward her paintings. Instead, they were drawn by the items hanging between each artwork.
Rafi and Graham had selected the most explosive articles, then had had them varnished onto stone slabs that matched the gallery’s floors. One such news item hung now between each of the front room’s paintings.
Max and Justin stood shoulder to shoulder, her father squinting while he fumbled for his reading glasses. The article came from theCharlotte Observer. It was Rafi’s favorite, which was why it had been blown up to three times its original size and now dominated the wall closest to the entrance.
The headline read,INVISIBLE ARTIST DEFIES CRITICS. Underneath was the subheading:THE AUDIENCE HAS SPOKEN. KARIEL IS AMERICA’S PREMIER NEOREALIST.
Justin turned around. Scanned the other articles. Newspapers and magazines from Sacramento, Minneapolis, Vancouver, Houston, Miami. Medium-size cities, second-tier papers. Most acknowledged how the critics despised Kariel’s work. They all went on to say basically the same thing.
Despite the critics and their disdain, Kariel’s work was a global phenomenon.
Justin pointed to a work on the opposite wall. A young man pushed a laughing child on a swing. The little girl had the faintest hint of wings. The two were joined by a curving rainbow sweep of lavender. “My secretary just hung this poster on her wall.”
Rafi couldn’t hold back any longer. He stepped forward and said, “We’re doing limited signed lithographs of all the works you see here. Most are already sold, but if you’re interested, I’m sure—”
Graham said, “Rafi.”
“Well, it’s true. They need to know.”
Kari said, “This is Rafi and his partner, Graham. They own this gallery. And they serve as my managers.”
The words emerged just as her mother entered the gallery. Even so, Kari’s announcement held both men’s full attention. Justin was the one to say, “Your managers?”
“They’re responsible for everything that’s started to happen,” Kari explained.
“What utter rubbish.” Rafi waved at the walls, clearly pleased. “All we’ve done is help find this wonderful artist the audience she so richly deserves.”
Kari’s mother was followed by her new husband. Pierre Solvang was a highly successful producer, and his Lamplighter Studios was home to Max’s highest-profile current project. Which meant Kari’s father was forced to behave. Such rare times when LA’s social events brought them together normally cost Max dearly. Tonight, however, his attention remained elsewhere.
