The Girl in the Painting

I run my free hand across the leather of my favorite chair and stare lazily at the floor-to-ceiling windows of my living room. The bright morning sun magnifies the specks of dust floating in the air, and I think briefly about hiring a housekeeper.

It’s barely ten, this is already my fourth phone interview of the day, and my mind has started to wander.

I make a mental note to threaten Nigel’s life if he ever does this to me again. There’s already a sticky note filed in the back of my brain with that exact message on it, crinkled from overuse. I add an asterisk and date it for today, bringing it back to current.

No doubt, this is his version of payback for my refusing to attend the exhibition opening the other night.

I used to have a publicist who handled this kind of shit, but he quit. There was “nothing a publicist can do for an angry blind man who doesn’t want to speak with anyone,” and he wasn’t thrilled with the “working conditions.”

Apparently, my good friend Nigel thinks he can stick his big fucking nose into the empty publicity role, and I either won’t notice or won’t say anything.

The bastard.

His gallery may be running my show, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to roll over and let him feed me to the media wolves.

“Last night was the first official opening of your exhibition at Aquavella,” the reporter informs me—as though she’s telling me something I don’t know.

Thank you, Mrs. Obvious.

“It was.”

“Early reviews from the opening are absolutely phenomenal, with the one complaint seemingly about the space. Why is that you’ve chosen to hold the exhibition in such a small space and for such a short amount of time? You could have sold out MoMA, yet you chose Aquavella.”

“Because the paintings in this exhibition aren’t meant to be showcased in a large empty room with fluorescent lights glaring down on them. They’re too vulnerable, and their scale is too small. They needed a space that was intimate.”

“An intimate space. It’s interesting that you use that word.”

I roll my eyes and lean back in my leather chair. “And why is that, Debra?”

There’s one question I’ve been asked in every single interview, and Debra’s version of it is circling, readying itself to make a landing.

“One painting seemed to fit that bill in particular.”

I hum.

“The girl in the painting, Ansel. Who is she?”

“She’s simply a girl in a painting.”

She laughs, as if she can’t believe I’m being this obtuse. As if I’m fucking feeding her lines.

“Her phenomenal presence in your show has raised a lot of questions and curiosities. That painting seems to be the one that is drawing the most attention out of all of your works.”

“Interesting observation,” I muse.

Her incredulous laugh fills my ears. She’s done with our dance around the bush. “Is she real?”

“She’s as real as any of my other works. I take little parts of my life and put them into everything I paint.”

What I don’t say is how big of a part this particular mirage has had. After being locked inside the black abyss, she is what guided me back to the light. Back to painting again.

“Somehow, you’ve given me an answer that only raises more questions,” she responds, and it’s my turn to laugh. I haven’t made a point to be cryptic, but apparently, I’ve played right into the curious mass’s hands.

“My brother would have a field day with this right now.”

“Is that so?”

I swipe off a piece of lint from my jeans. “It’s a certainty.”

“Speaking of your brother, what does he think of your exhibition?”

“I don’t know,” I say with a cheeky smile. “You’d have to ask him yourself.”

“I’d love to do just that, but I’ll have to pull a few strings before I can get an interview with Bram Bray on the books.”

Instantly, I get an idea.

“How about I pull those strings for you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Sit tight for a minute, Debra,” I instruct, and already, I’m pulling the phone away from my face to prepare to dial the number I know by heart with a smile on my face. “I’ll be right back.”

I don’t give her time to respond, and a minute or two later, I have my brother on one line, while Debra is on hold on the other.

“What’s up?” Bram asks by way of greeting.

I make the conscious decision not to explain. It’ll really be better if this is a surprise. Well…better for me, anyway.

“Hold on, Bram,” I say and tap the screen to merge the calls together.

“Debra? You still there?”

“Uh…yes,” she responds immediately.

“Bram?”

“What’s going on, Ans?” he asks, but I ignore him.

“Debra, this is my brother. Bram, this is Debra, an interviewer from the LA Times. She has a few questions for you.”

“Wait…what—?”

“Looks like we’re all set here.” I cut my brother off, my grin so big now it’s a second away from being a full-blown smile. “It was great talking to you, Deb. Have a lovely day.”