“I’ve reserved six installation spaces for this show. This beingthe sixth.” He set his tool down and stepped away, leaving Olivia alone with it. “It’s not ready.”
Olivia walked around it, considering its form. “It’s lovely, Ben. You’ve captured the spirit of it.”
Ben stood to the side, and lit up his pipe. “Bullshit.”
Olivia turned to face him.
“Unless I finish it today, it won’t cure by the show.”
She turned back to the sculpture. The broad trunk at the base gave way to long limbs, then to branches, all suggesting subtle movement. The branches were so inviting, she fought the urge to run her fingers along them. But there was something about one of the larger limbs. The angle of it was perhaps too sharp.
“What do you see?” he asked, as if reading her mind.
Olivia let her breath out. Working for an artist was a tricky dance. Her job was to gather his audience and get his work out in the world, not critique it. But she wanted the chance to test herself. “The larger branch on the left?”
“What about it?” Ben sounded dejected, as if it had been something else that was bothering him. This was now another.
“I don’t know, for sure.” Olivia moved around the base, studying each angle. “It grows sharply away from the tree. Maybe it interrupts the continuity?”
Ben blew a ring of smoke out and walked back over. She felt a rise of hope.
“Maybe. I was thinking about the form, overall. She’s too sinewy. I want grace, but also strength. She needs to look like she could bend in a wind.”
Olivia was used to this; Ben assigned gender to his pieces, and she understood why. There were traits in every subject that an artist had to convey. The more you knew your subject, the more likely you were to grasp its essence.
“I need to give it time.” Ben dipped a sponge in a stained bucket of water, and gently ran it over the tree. Then he covered the piece with canvas, where it would stay dark and moist until he returned to work on it tomorrow. She watched as he tidied his table, wiping down the work board with a towel, then picking up and cleaning each individual tool with another wet sponge. “I can do that,” she offered.
Ben shook his head. “You,” he said, “need to work.”
Olivia turned for the stairs. “The mailings have gone out, and all the announcements we printed are posted around town. I’ve got another email blast to put together.”
Ben turned. “Not that.” He nodded toward the table in the corner of the barn. Her table, where her own work was shrouded in canvas. “That,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind, but I had a look.”
Olivia paused on the stairs. “You looked at my piece?” She wasn’t offended; she’d offered it to him countless times, hoping for some criticism or guidance. But she’d had so little time lately, she hadn’t worked on it at all. There was no way she could sit down and work now.
“Unlike this,” Ben said, nodding at his tarped work, “I think your piece is ready.”
“But it’s not done.” Olivia was shocked. Ben had taken the time to inspect her work. But it was incomplete; there was no way it was near done.
“What’s left to do?” he asked, watching her with genuine curiosity.
“Well, the right hand. The fingertips aren’t even done. They’re just clay stubs.” She paused, closing her eyes, and she could see her mother’s hands. The long, elegant fingers. How would she ever capture them?
“Then get it done.”
Oliva glanced at her worktable in the corner, then up the stairstoward the office loft. There was desk work to finish up—work that could not wait—they were so close to the show. She needed to review details with the gallery owner, and go over the schedule for the installation, which would take at least two days before the show. Besides, even if all that were done, she wasn’t in the mindset. Outside the studio, her cottage practically hummed in the distance. Jake and Luci would soon be done with lunch and looking to do something. They needed her. No one could work creatively like that. Ben, more than anyone else, should understand that.
“I know I need to spend more time sculpting,” she admitted, trying not to see the disapproval in his expression. “But things are kind of crazy right now. I haven’t got the time. Or the headspace.”
Ben shrugged, and continued to clean up his work area. He took a bucket of dirtied water and went to the door, where he tossed it outside. “There is never a good time. That’s life.”
Olivia swallowed. “I know. But Jake and Luci need me right now.”
“Yes. And so does your work.”
Olivia tried not to let her frustration show in her face. This was where Ben was wrong. He was an artist, but he had Marge. He had her. What he did not have was a child, or a fiancé who was recovering from an accident and surgery. That was exactly what she had been hired to do: to protect his time, so that he didn’t have to do anything other than focus on his work.
“I’m sorry,” Ben said, “if it seems I am pushing you. I know you have much to concern yourself with. And I respect all of it. Deeply.” He looked at her softly. “Do you want to sculpt?”
