Family Of His Own. Catherine Lanigan
“Oh.” She let out a breath. “I understand now.”
When had she become so uptight? She couldn’t even take a simple joke for what it was. Maybe if she hadn’t dreamed of this kind of interview since she was a kid, she might be more at ease. Without a mentor, without a supporter who knew the ropes of the art world, had connections with the critics and acquisitions houses, she didn’t think she would ever be able to succeed. She attempted a smile at Malcolm and Wes. She needed this.
“I should explain, Isabelle. Wes fancies himself a contemporary artist and I have recently landed him a large commissioned painting.”
“Enormous is more the word for it,” Wes interjected. “One of the old residential buildings on Lake Shore Drive is being renovated, and I’m painting three murals for their lobby.”
“Wow, congratulations,” Isabelle said. She couldn’t imagine being sought after enough to have her work hung in one of the Gold Coast historical buildings. The thought gave her goose bumps. When she smiled at Wes, she realized he was beaming at her. The moment seemed suspended, reminded her of what it felt like whenever she was painting. She wasn’t exactly on the earth, yet she hadn’t left it, either. She could feel the paintbrush in her hand, but the energy that flowed through her arm to the brush and onto the canvas came from somewhere else. She didn’t know where. But she knew instantly that Wes understood. He went to those places, too.
And he recognized the artist in her.
Isabelle thought she’d melt on the spot, which would cause a great deal of trauma to perfectionist Malcolm.
Wes finally tore his eyes from her and glanced down at the paintings. “You did these?”
She blinked. Her paintings. Yes. That’s what she was here for. To sell her paintings. To impress Malcolm. Not flirt with Wes. Not conjure romantic daydreams about an artist, no matter how perfect he seemed to be.
“Yes.” she gulped back a huge block of fear. “I did.”
Wes’s gaze snapped to Malcolm. “This is what you were talking about last night? For the art nouveau showing in the spring?”
“Precisely.” Malcolm finished off his cappuccino and put the paper cup in the wastebasket, being careful not to splash any errant drops on the floor. “Isabelle’s work intrigues me.”
“Because it’s rudimentary,” Wes quipped. “I don’t mean to insult,” he said to Isabelle. “I just know how fastidious my uncle is when he’s selecting pieces for the gallery. Trust me, if Gustav Klimt were to sail in here with the Woman in Gold, Malcolm wouldn’t be impressed.”
“Oh, stop. Of course I would.” Malcolm folded his arms over his chest. “I want something startling.”
Isabelle looked at her acrylic of the blue faeries. “And are they startling?”
Malcolm went to stand by Isabelle as they studied the painting. “It’s their expressions, their demeanor. Their apparel is luscious. I’m fascinated by your use of figurative, abstract and decorative combinations. There’s an overlay of silver, here, is there not?”
“An underlay,” Isabelle said, not taking her eyes from the faerie’s face. “Then an overlay. You’re right.”
“Gives it depth. I like that. I’m interested to see what you can do with oils,” Malcolm said, twisting his face to her.
“Oils?”
“You have worked with them?”
“Yes. Of course, but...” She wrung her hands. “They’re intimidating.”
“Ah,” Wes interjected. “That’s because they demand the utmost from your talent and vision.”
“They do.” She smiled at him. When his eyes, filled with admiration, met hers, she felt validated in a way she’d never experienced before. These men were professionals with exacting tastes. They saw potential in her. Isabelle could not have been more honored.
“Would you be willing to explore your vision in oils rather than only watercolor and acrylic, Isabelle?” Malcolm asked.
“I would.”
“Good answer.” Wes stepped toward her. “I’m off. I wish you luck, Isabelle. Clearly, my uncle is charmed.” He extended his hand.
As she slipped her hand into his chapped palm, he whispered, “But not as charmed as I am.” Without another word, he walked out of the office. Isabelle listened for his boot heels on the wood floor.
After a few moments the sound faded. Then silence. She turned to Malcolm. She wondered if he could see the hot flush in her cheeks and rising up her neck. “Wes is...”
“Talented,” Malcolm said curtly, still watching the door. “Impressively talented and he knows it. I apologize if you found him rude.”
“It’s all right, I’m hardly the caliber of artist—”
“Stop. Don’t denigrate yourself, Isabelle.” He lifted his chin and fixed her with an imperious gaze. “You should know that I pride myself on finding raw talent. I enjoy being the maestro sometimes. I’ve been wrong on occasion, but usually when the student wasn’t as committed as me. Do you understand?”
“I’m beginning to.”
“I like these three paintings, but when I went over the others in the file you sent, I was not as enamored. I feel you can do better. I want you to think about it, Isabelle. Think about what you truly want for yourself and your future.”
He went over to the pile of bubble wrap and began rewrapping her paintings.
“You don’t want me to leave them?”
“Not yet. I like them a great deal, but I’d planned for my spring show to be contemporary art. I want to strategize. Look over my client list and evaluate their needs.”
“I see,” she replied, swallowing her disappointment.
“I’ll call you,” he said, handing her the paintings and gesturing toward the door.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Malcolm. And I want you to know I’ve already given consideration to your advice. I will start working with oils. Perhaps I’ll have something for you soon.”
Malcolm’s eyebrow cocked and a smile spread across his face. “Entice me, Isabelle.”
“I intend to.”
Isabelle left the gallery, memorizing each wall and corner, imagining her pieces, new creations that came from the saplings of desire she felt growing inside her.
From the second she’d opened the door at Whitestone Gallery, she’d felt the promise of change and challenge whirling around her, pulling her toward her future. Malcolm and Wes spoke of master artists, icons she’d revered since she was in middle school and stumbled upon her first art history book in the Indian Lake library. She’d been drawn to art nouveau—Toulouse Lautrec and Aubrey Beardsley as well as Klimt and Mucha. She’d adored Erte and his movement into art deco, but it was the short span between 1890 and 1905 that fascinated her, as if she’d been a part of it somehow. Perhaps she’d underestimated the universal appeal of her faeries and nymphs along with her talent. The only place her paintings had hung was in the gift shop at the Lodges.
Malcolm had said he was fascinated with the faeries’ expressions. Odd. She’d never put much thought into their expressions. She knew from art school that other painters labored over faces, the nuances of the eyes, of the lips, hoping to capture the next Mona Lisa smile. She did not. Often, Isabelle simply closed her eyes and waited for her heart to guide her hand. Her faeries were the faces she saw in her dreams. She knew them well.
Malcolm hadn’t commissioned her projects or presented her with a contract. Yet her elation was undeniable. Only Scott had ever made her feel this hopeful.
All these