Part I – https://fremocentrist.com/fiction/care-to-sharepart1of3/
Part II – https://fremocentrist.com/fiction/care-to-share-part-ii-of-iii/
a short story in three parts
by K.S. Lindsay
(continued)
Andrea stepped forward, reaching out towards James but not touching him. She spoke to Dana. “Your paintings are wonderful, Mr. Dyes. I saw an article on them. They only had a couple of examples, but I thought the ones they showed were amazing.” She hesitated, looking at James, “Alex has done some collage work, too, you know, you should see them. They are truly mar-“
Interrupting, James asked, “You are painting now, sir? I had no idea-“
Dana interrupted both, his fury finally full-blown, and directed at the woman, “You saw them? You saw my paintings? Where?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, apologetic but unfazed by the anger, “I don’t want to upset you. I just thought…”
“Where?” Dana demanded.
James had turned to her, physically taking up the cause, which only made Dana feel foolish.
It did fluster Andrea, “It was on-line. An article I saw. I was doing research, but I don’t think I brought…” She reached into her large satchel, shifting through papers there.
“On-line!” Dana took up another rant, “It is an insidious monster, we feed it and it only devours more. I do not like being on-line. It intrudes.”
“I still don’t understand,” James said, as though they were united, “You are painting now, but you said you are a nobody-“
“You understand nothing!” Dana scoffed, “I understand nothing! We are all fumbling in the darkness. The only ones who understand are the idiots. The Kings of Garbage. The people that make art a commodity. The people that turn artists into political pawns.”
That’s when the woman extracted papers from her satchel with a triumphant, “Here it is! It’s a piece by…” She read the slightly crumpled papers, “It’s by Herboldt Eckhart, for ArtInvestigator.com He was writing about how to avoid fraud and he used-
James, who had given Andrea a moment, returned to his own subject, and Dana. “You are talking about Sven, aren’t you?”
Dana only scowled, watching the woman.
She continued explaining her papers, but more quietly, as though unsure she should take attention from James. “-you as an example of an artist entering another medium, but still being recognizable and authentic…”
James reached over and yanked the papers from Andrea’s hands. He addressed Dana. “You are talking about us, about artists? I thought you said I was an idiot…
Waving a hand a few inches above his cane, looking around the room and spotting the large sculpture overwhelmed by the sterile lobby, he said, “Aren’t you? Aren’t we?”
James now moved his head with jerky movements to his right shoulder, and it took Dana a moment to realize he was hiding from Andrea – in embarrassment. “Uh, yea, of course…” he said, “but, um, you also mean Sven… Right? Do you know of Sven?” With a glance at Andrea, he moved right up to Dana, “Is there something I should know about Sven?”
“He’s using you.” Andrea announced. She hadn’t moved, and didn’t bother to show shame at her eavesdropping. She also continued to scribble on her pad.
James turned to her sharply, “What?”
Dana glared at the portfolio which threatened his left knee, at James, and then at Andrea. “They are the somebodies,” he pronounced, angrily, “and we are the nobodies – and yet who creates the art?” He glared at the writer, still scribbling, “Today I am the old man. The has-been that knows best, but yesterday I was not good enough for them. Yesterday my work didn’t rate for their attention. Today they throw accolades at me, and a pretty girl, and call me ‘Consultant’ because they think my work is over! They quote me and honor me, but my work remains as inaccessible to them as it ever was!”
James looked between the two, torn, but then addressed a now breathless Dana. “Sir? Do you mean Sven? Or do you mean all of them?” He paused, and changed directions, finally. “You aren’t a has-been. Your work doesn’t have an end. It may be presumptuous to quote you and think I understood your work, but it did speak to me. You were- You are the best!”
Dana, with more effort than it was worth, stood up again, to be able to look the brilliant new artist in the eye. “What do you know? Who are you to know? You are a child! A young, unformed, untried princeling! I was a King! And yet, I didn’t know what I had in my hand, and I tossed it away, thinking the wealth, the power, the Art would be there forever!” His voice had grown loud, and he moderated it – afraid of drawing a larger audience. “I sold my strings, and let others pull them and dictate when I created, what power I could have. I will no longer let you or anyone have the strings now.”
Dana now noticed the pages – the printed pages with images of his private paintings – in James’ hand. He grabbed them, easily, and tore them up. James stood by, silent, thinking.
Quietly, James mused, “That’s what I feel like. I feel like a puppet, creating someone else’s art. Not my own. The vision isn’t mine. The Phoenix isn’t mine…”
Dana knew he needed to sit down, but he also knew he needed to talk. “You! You create my art. You create their art. You talk to reporters about what you want to make? Is it paint-by-numbers art?”
James stepped back as Dana talked, then came out swinging, verbally, “I create art!” he shouted, “I create amazing works! Mine! Original! What the hell do you know about it?”
“Sven is using you,” Andrea said, quietly, “You think you’re using him, but he’s using you.”
“What are you writing?” James suddenly seemed to notice Andrea, and her unceasing scratchings, “This isn’t an interview.”
Dana sat, hard, while James reached out to grab the pad Andrea wrote on. Dana watched while Andrea swiftly spun away, displaying a grace and energy James couldn’t match. And she continued to make notes the whole time. “It’s not an interview,” she said, “It’s observation. This is a public place.”
Dana glared at the woman. “You are using him.” She stopped her dancing, suddenly, but so did James. “He is using you. The publicity is good for him, but you do not have a piece to sell without him.”
That made the pen stop.
“I don’t think… I mean…” James looked abashed. “I know you aren’t using me,” he said to Andrea, “but what do you mean about Sven?”
“You work on this project,” Dana said, when Andrea turned mute, “this Condor, for what reason? For your career?” At James’ nod, Dana continued, “You do what this idiot, this person with the stupid name and ridiculous ideas, says because why? He has money?”
“No.”
“Worse!” Dana snorts again. “You do it because he has influence? Because he knows people?”
“Yes!” James defended, “Yes, he does. I could never get a commission this huge alone. This will get my name out there, in front of the right people.”
As if on-cue, the ‘right people’, or at least the people who surround men like Sven, came in through the turnstile door. Dressed in bright colors, squawking and jostling, they entered the lobby and finally filled the empty space. Dana saw them first, and knew on sight who and what they were. He could hear the very tall, very emaciated man drawling from the center of the group words like “transience,” “urban setting,” and “timelessness.”
“What people?” Dana nearly shouted at James. “What name? The name of the damn fool who wasted his talent on nonsense to make a pretentious idiot look good? The damn fool who will work for nothing, to make trash for the public square.”
“My stuff isn’t trash!” James interrupted, then seemed to interrupt himself, “Yes. Yes! Okay!” He looked at the crowd, now crossing the lobby, oblivious to the threesome in the alcove, then back at Andrea and Dana. “I could be great! But no one will know as long as I just…” He laughed despondently. “My mother will know, but who will care?”
Dana answered softly, “And someday, you will be an old man, and you will care that you wasted it. You will spit at the waste.”
James glared for a moment at Dana, then shook himself. He hefted the portfolio and shifted himself to see the crowd crossing and where they were going. “Shit,” he muttered, then grew silent again.
In the pause, the sound of the pen of the writer could be heard scratching across the notebook page.
Both men turned to Andrea.
“Stop!” Dana ordered. “What the hell are you writing now?” James asked scornfully.
“This is great,” she said, not looking up, but smiling. “This is incredible.”
“This is not an interview!” James shouted at her, then looked in pain at the disappearing crowd. “I’ve got to go.” He gave her one more parting shot, “This is not an interview.”
“I know,” Andrea said, looking reluctantly at him, “I’m just-“
James turned away from her to Dana. “Sir, I have to go. What do I do?”
“What do I know?” Dana responded, gripping his cane between his legs while seated on the most uncomfortable chair in the universe. “I am an old man. Go!” He weakly waved his hand toward the direction of Sven and his coterie.
“Are you saying I should take the commission?” James asked, earnest once again. “Are you saying I shouldn’t?”
Dana glared at him. “You are an artist! You must listen to no old men, no Kings of Garbage. You listen to the art, always!”
James gaped at him. “What the hell does that mean?” He paused, but Dana only glared more. “What are you talking about? Why all the riddles?”
James tried to glare, but his unformed face failed to give it power, yet. “Pain in the ass!” he finally muttered, then rushed off, the aerodynamic portfolio taking flight alongside his chunky figure as he rushed across the lobby, in pursuit of opportunity.
Dana watched him go, less relieved than he expected. When he heard the scratchings start up again, he regarded Andrea. A sudden, unwelcomed, kind urge overcame him. “You can still get him,” he said.
Andrea stopped her scratchings, glanced at the direction Alex James had gone, then turned a startlingly bright smile on Dana. “I know. I will. We ‘somebodies’ always get what we want, right?”
Dana regretted his urge more. Andrea smirked and said, “So, Mr. Dyes, about our interview…”
Dana snorted, a new trait he found he enjoyed, and struggled to his feet. When he gained them, he discovered she’d moved closer, ready to help him. He glared at her, forgetting momentarily that it was wasted on this audience.
“Tell me,” she continued on, “what do you think of being called in as a consultant on the Three Tree Point municipal project?”
Dana started to move, as quickly as he could, but Andrea matched him step for step, while her pen scratched along. “Do you have an opinion on using consultants on the Commission on Public Art?” she asked, and he could hear her smile. “I’ve heard that you hold some strong opinions on art done by committee. Would you care to share?”
Dana stopped. Andrea kept moving a few paces, then gracefully swung around to face him. “I’m not going to talk to you,” he announced.
When she turned that smile, and the disturbing dimple, on him, Dana felt for Alex James, who really didn’t stand a chance. “Don’t worry,” she said, “I’ve heard I’m a pretty girl.” Her smile grew wider still. “You will.”
*-*
Part I – https://fremocentrist.com/fiction/care-to-sharepart1of3/
Part II – https://fremocentrist.com/fiction/care-to-share-part-ii-of-iii/
©2013 Kirby Lindsay. This column is protected by intellectual property laws, including U.S. copyright laws. Reproduction, adaptation or distribution without permission is prohibited.