CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 2
The gallery was on Ca?on, several blocks off Rodeo Drive. The front glass wall was framed by Brazilian granite, ivory veined with palest blue, which also covered the floor in the two main rooms. Kari stood by the front windows, examining the first painting that adorned the left-hand wall. When she reached out to adjust the frame, one of the gallery owners rushed up, flapping his arms like a wounded stork. “Kari, dear, please, I beg you. It was perfect.”
She took a step away. Wrapped her arms around her trembling middle. “What time is it?”
“Precisely ninety seconds since the last time you asked.” Tall and impossibly slender and incredibly well groomed, Raphael was born to rule the California art trade. Graham, his partner in life and art, served as a quietly conservative balance to Rafi’s flighty ways. Somehow Graham kept Rafi from simply floating off on whatever stylish breeze happened to blow down Beverly Hills’ wealthy lanes. Rafi stepped over to where he filled her field of vision. “My dear, if confronting your family with the truth frightens you so, why not let us handle this?”
The answer was, Kari wanted nothing more. But her former therapist and closest friend had insisted, in her own gentle and iron-willed manner, that Kari do this herself. And Kari knew the woman was right. Even now, when it meant stripping away the masks that had shielded her all these years.
Graham spoke for the first time since Kari’s arrival. “Here they come.”
Rafi started in, saying, “Kari, dear, sweetheart—”
“Leave her alone,” Graham said.
“Well, really, anyone with eyes can see the poor girl—”
“Rafi, come back here and be quiet.”
Graham might as well have shouted a command, given the way Rafi huffed and turned and scuttled back to the gallery’s second room. Kari unwrapped her arms and took the three hardest steps in years. And stood by the entrance to greet her first guests.
The instant her father rose from the limo, Kari knew he was in one of his rages. The jerky movements of his body, the clenched jaw, the crouched position there by the limo’s rear door, how the driver backed away. Justin rose from the limo’s other side and spoke across the roof. Her father chopped the air between them and poured fury into his phone. All the flavors of her early years were on display in the street outside her gallery event. Her father’s wrath, her brother’s need to play diplomat. She watched Justin round the vehicle and gently but firmly pull the phone from her father’s grasp. While Justin poured verbal oil on troubled waters, her father stomped down the sidewalk, stabbing the air with one fist. Kari remained standing there behind the glass wall. Invisible.
Justin, her older brother, was the spitting image of their father, minus the extra eighty pounds from age and living the rich life. They were both dressed in slacks from three-thousand-dollar suits, striped shirts with white collars and cuffs, flash ties. Her father’s bark was audible through the closed glass doors, but his words were indecipherable. Both men lived for this. Father and son were now partners in one of LA’s most successful agencies. They thrived in the hypercompetitive LA film world, masters of the only universe that mattered.
Kari’s attention became held by how her reflection was planted ghostlike between the two men. She studied herself anew, starting with her outfit of midnight-blue silk slacks, matching Ferragamo open-toe sandals, slate-gray jacket over ivory blouse, pearls Kari had inherited from a grandmother she did not remember. And had never worn before this night. Her hair and make-up were courtesy of a shop Graham had selected. As she watched, the scene coalesced. The two men, the limo, Kari’s reflection, the door standing between them. A portal to a tomorrow she had strived toward and feared for almost three years.
“Graham?”
“I’m here, darling.”
“Would you take a photograph?” She watched him lift his phone. “No, stand farther to your right. Good. Can you shoot me and them without a flash?”
“Hang on and let’s see.” He clicked his phone’s camera several times, then walked over. Showed her the screen. “How’s this?”
“Perfect.” That would become her next painting. A good one, she thought.
Planning her next creative effort granted Kari a remarkable sense of calm. Which in itself was an astonishment, given what she was about to do. Strip away years of ghostlike life. Reveal the woman she was determined to become.
Kari had spent her childhood skirting around the edges of her fractured family. She had had no idea what caused most of the sudden eruptions. Had known only that silence was her safest refuge from becoming a target. Their explosive rages had come with increasing frequency, heightening her desire to maintain a safe distance. When she was eleven, she traded her upstairs bedroom for the pool house. Kari had often suspected it took months before her parents even noticed the change. It was there in her little private space that Kari’s dream and direction and life finally took shape.
She was almost ready when Justin handed back the phone and gestured for their father to join him. As they approached the entrance, Kari told the two men hovering behind her, “Thank you both. So much. For everything.”
Graham took that as their time to retreat. “We’re just a scream away, dear.”
Kari took a long breath and opened the glass door. “Hello, Daddy. Justin. Welcome.”
Her father entered first, gave her cheek a perfunctory peck, and said, “You look very nice, dear.”
“Thank you, Daddy.” Kari had mostly dressed for her mother. Wanting to avoid Beatrice’s lofty disdain, the sniff, the disappointment, the dismissive shake of her head. All the actions that had scarred Kari’s early years. “Would you like a glass of champagne?”
Maxwell Langham shook his head. “Can’t. Not tonight.” He glanced around, a quick dismissive scouting. No work of any artist on his radar. “I’m trying to understand why you felt it necessary to bring us both here.”
Justin stepped up. “Wow. What did you do with my sister, and can I get your number?”
Kari hugged her brother. She had always appreciated Justin in moments like these. His ability to defuse situations with a quick wit and a swifter smile. Words had never come easy to her. “Thank you for making time.”
“No problem. But Dad’s right.” He glanced around the place. “If you wanted us to buy you one of these, all you had to do was ask.”
Kari’s father’s phone buzzed. Max Langham, senior partner of IAA, International Allied Artists, checked the screen and said, “It’s that idiot director again.” To Kari, he said, “Sorry, dear. It looks like I’ll have to be going.”
As usual when her father threatened to bruise her fragile ego, Justin played the diplomat. “One of our clients is about to demolish a sixty-million-dollar tentpole feature with tantrums that defy belief.”
Kari knew it was now or never. She took a very hard breath, gestured to the surrounding walls and the artwork, and spoke the words she had avoided saying for years. “This is mine.”
Max had already answered the phone. Turned slightly away. Speaking in an angry murmur. But still managing to pay a smidgen of attention as Justin said, “You’ve bought all of them?”
“I painted them. These are my pieces. Well, they were. They’re sold now.”
Those were the words that drew her father’s full attention. He pulled the phone slightly farther from his ear but allowed his son to forge ahead. That was their habit. Max let Justin enter the unknown fray first, so Langham senior could hold back, observe, find the weakness. Then together they smashed the opposition to bits. Theirs was an almost perfect partnership.
Justin demanded, “Sis, we don’t have time for jokes.”
“This is my work,” she repeated. Partly for herself. Tasting the words, coming to terms with how it felt. “I paint under the name Kariel.”
Her father said to his phone, “I’ll get back to you.” The phone squawked angrily as he cut the connection, pocketed the device, and frowned as he watched his son step forward. Not so much to study the art as to scrutinize the other things displayed on the walls.
As in, no prices.
Instead, all the unframed items had little red flags attached to the walls beside them. All but one in the front room said simply SOLD.
Justin said, “This is for real?”
Her father’s gaze swept around the gallery. Landed on the two men hovering by the second chamber’s entryway. Watching nervously. Their gazes fastened on Kari.
There for her.
Justin said, “Pop, check this out.”
Kari had expected this would happen. Even so, it hurt. She stood in the room’s center and watched the two men step forward. Not toward her paintings. Instead, they were drawn by the items hanging between each artwork.
Rafi and Graham had selected the most explosive articles, then had had them varnished onto stone slabs that matched the gallery’s floors. One such news item hung now between each of the front room’s paintings.
Max and Justin stood shoulder to shoulder, her father squinting while he fumbled for his reading glasses. The article came from the Charlotte Observer. It was Rafi’s favorite, which was why it had been blown up to three times its original size and now dominated the wall closest to the entrance.
The headline read, INVISIBLE ARTIST DEFIES CRITICS. Underneath was the subheading: THE AUDIENCE HAS SPOKEN. KARIEL IS AMERICA’S PREMIER NEOREALIST.
Justin turned around. Scanned the other articles. Newspapers and magazines from Sacramento, Minneapolis, Vancouver, Houston, Miami. Medium-size cities, second-tier papers. Most acknowledged how the critics despised Kariel’s work. They all went on to say basically the same thing.
Despite the critics and their disdain, Kariel’s work was a global phenomenon.
Justin pointed to a work on the opposite wall. A young man pushed a laughing child on a swing. The little girl had the faintest hint of wings. The two were joined by a curving rainbow sweep of lavender. “My secretary just hung this poster on her wall.”
Rafi couldn’t hold back any longer. He stepped forward and said, “We’re doing limited signed lithographs of all the works you see here. Most are already sold, but if you’re interested, I’m sure—”
Graham said, “Rafi.”
“Well, it’s true. They need to know.”
Kari said, “This is Rafi and his partner, Graham. They own this gallery. And they serve as my managers.”
The words emerged just as her mother entered the gallery. Even so, Kari’s announcement held both men’s full attention. Justin was the one to say, “Your managers?”
“They’re responsible for everything that’s started to happen,” Kari explained.
“What utter rubbish.” Rafi waved at the walls, clearly pleased. “All we’ve done is help find this wonderful artist the audience she so richly deserves.”
Kari’s mother was followed by her new husband. Pierre Solvang was a highly successful producer, and his Lamplighter Studios was home to Max’s highest-profile current project. Which meant Kari’s father was forced to behave. Such rare times when LA’s social events brought them together normally cost Max dearly. Tonight, however, his attention remained elsewhere.
“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’t buy a work. The price can’t possibly be fixed until the work is completed. They reserve the 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 a staggering sum for it. But your sister simply will not listen 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.
The three paintings were images taken from Kari’s favorite childhood memories. One was on the beach at Malibu; another sailing on Lake Tahoe.
Justin pointed to the third and exclaimed, “That’s us.”
“It is, yes. All of them are.”
“I remember that day! I wanted to talk with . . .”
“Ariel.”
“But I was afraid. You said I should give her flowers.” He smiled at the recollection, two children surrounded by a springtime garden, the young Kari tying her hair ribbon around a bouquet held by her brother. “Ariel was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. I was what? Eight?”
“You were ten. I was five.”
“These are great, Kari. Really.”
She watched her brother study the painting and remembered. Justin had been her family’s lone voice of diplomacy and reason, at least some of the time. He shared their parents’ ability to explode in nearly blind wrath. But in his case, Kari could usually identify the reason and knew in advance when to flee. So long as Justin got his way, or no one stood between him and his immediate goal, his attitude toward Kari remained placidly cheerful.
She told her family, “I want you to have them. One each. You decide.”
“Really, daughter,” her mother protested, “I fail to understand why we’re learning about this only now.”
Rafi chose the perfect moment to call, “Kari, the press are here. And photographers.”
It was a most excellent reason for Kari to rush her words. “I’m leaving LA. I’ve found what I think will be my new home. I’ll contact you once I’m settled.”
All three started to protest. But Graham was already ushering her away.
Kari said over her shoulder, “I leave tomorrow.”