“How much do these run?” he asked.
Kari had expected the question. Known it was coming. Whenever her father backed projects that were despised by the critics yet were financially successful, his response was always the same. Art was a line at the box office in Kansas City.
Just the same, it hurt. This was the first time Max had ever viewed his daughter’s work. And their price was really all that mattered.
Rafi answered for her. After all, he had been shielding Kari her entire career. “Prices vary enormously, of course. But it is a moot issue, I’m afraid. Kariel’s work is reserved for the next several years.”
“People buy them sight unseen?”
“Oh, no. They can’tbuya work. The price can’t possibly be fixed until the work is completed. Theyreservethe right to acquire.”
Father and brother were focused on the gallery owner. Which clearly miffed Kari’s mother. Justin said, “And that cost . . .”
“Five thousand dollars,” Rafi replied. “Nonnegotiable and nonrefundable.”
Her brother pointed to the largest painting in the front room, the only piece without a SOLD sticker. “This one, it says, ‘Reserved by the artist . . .’”
“I’ve begged and begged her to let me have it,” Rafi complained. “I’ve been offered just astaggeringsum for it. But your sister simply willnotlisten to reason.”
It finally dawned on Kari’s mother what she was hearing. “Justin, darling, what is this man saying?”
“Kari did these, Mom. She’s a painter.”
“Well, of course she is. It’s all she’s ever done with her life—”
Pierre Solvang clapped his hands. “Kariel! Of course! My daughter absolutely adores your work. She has one of your prints in her apartment living room and another in her office!” He walked forward, ignoring his irritated wife. “Kariel. My daughter will go crazy! May I shake your hand?”
“I’m sure I don’t understand,” Beatrice said. Her response to any uncertainty was a haughty disdain. “Kari, dear, what on earth . . . ?”
Rafi saw Kari’s rising level of anxiety and bounded forward, inserting himself between his client, the producer, and his new wife. “Good evening. I am Raphael, your daughter’s manager. I believe Kari has a surprise in store.”
“That’s all well and good,” Beatrice snapped. “But I want—”
“Kari, dear, the gala starts in twenty minutes.”
Graham spoke for the first time since the family’s arrival. “The waiters need to set up. And our first patrons are standing outside.” He pointed to a cluster of elegantly attired people peering through the locked glass doors. “My dear, you need to hurry.”
It was the perfect excuse to step away from her family’s rising tension. “Please come with me.”
The second room’s back wall held just three paintings. Kari had long considered Rafi’s greatest gift to be how he lit his canvases. The delicacy and precision made the trio appear luminous, as if they themselves possessed a light all their own.
Three and a half years after the first articles had started classifying Kari’s work as American neorealism, she remained uncertain how she felt about the label. The concept had originated in South America, where for decades artists had used graphically precise renditions to protest, to rage, to shout defiance at corrupt systems and drug-dominated rebel cultures.
Kari had no desire to rebel against anything. But she kept her comments mostly to herself, since Rafi and Graham both seemed genuinely delighted with her label.
One thing Kari could definitely say for certain was that she had a visceral loathing for art that rejected identifiable forms. Streaks of random colors left her cold. She also disagreed with contemporary artists who rejected any positive emotion and treated their canvases as a means of creating conflict or tension or a looming dark edge.
She despised it all.
So it should have hardly been a surprise that the critics responded in kind.
When the teenage Kari had applied to the top West Coast art schools, she’d had little idea how deeply entrenched the current trends happened to be. She had simply painted what she liked. What she wanted to see.
All the schools had rejected her, of course. Their caustic criticisms, the harsh manner with which they dismissed her work, had very nearly crushed her in the process.
There followed a year of drifting through clouds of ashes only she could see. Until Kari was rescued by her friend.
Everything that came after, all the work and growth and passion, led to this point. Standing in the center of Rafi and Graham’s second gallery. Watching as waiters pushed through the doorway leading to the office and the kitchenette, bearing tables wrapped in linen cloths. Glasses clinked as they were lined up along the temporary bar. Spicy fragrances drifted through the open door, and laughter from the chefs preparing hors d’oeuvres.
