Chapter 15
BOONE
I’m standing outside Hopper’s warehouse in East Austin, and Angela Lansbury meows, unhappy with her crate situation.
“Sorry, Ang. I think Daddy made a mistake.”
I put off this invitation as long as I could. Something keeps telling me it’s a bad idea.
Mostly because I’m the wimpy kid who can’t take the leap off the high dive.
I eyeball my car, then nearly have a heart attack when Hopper pops up by my shoulder, looking like some sort of post-apocalyptic blacksmith in a leather apron.
“What’re you doing? Why’re you standing on the sidewalk like a weirdo?”
He sounds like something out of an old Pacino film with a sunshine grin made for children’s programming. That’s…huh.
Weird.
A thought slips through my fingers before I can catch it.
I clasp my chest, completely dramatic, and he laughs, patting my shoulder a little too hard. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
I point to the building with my cheap canvas portfolio case. “You said this was an artist space.”
“I said it was a warehouse.”
“Yeah, but this is like”—I gesture to the width and breadth of it—“an entire foundry.”
“The process of creating bronze sculptures takes a lot of space and a lot of equipment.” He lifts a shoulder. “Besides, warehouse space in Austin costs nothing compared to warehouse space in the boroughs, so it was a no-brainer.”
Yeah. I forgot my birth father is rich in his own right and married to a billionaire. I definitely can’t relate.
“Your version of nothing and my version of nothing are two completely different nothings,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck, hyperaware of the fact that my entire outfit is secondhand, and that my shoes came out of a last-chance bin.
Maverick would have such a field day with this.
Stop thinking about him.
“This one had the best lighting,” he says, gesturing for me to follow him. “Foundry’s to the left, creative space to the right.”
I walk in and am immediately immersed in the sounds and smells of the casting process.
Wax. Heat. Metal. The floor is polished matte concrete, the ceiling is a series of massive skylights, and the entire space is split two-to-one by a brick pony wall that soars high while stopping well short of the ceiling.
Greenery adorns the top of the wall and shows up in odd corners.
Ferns, pothos, and palms give the place a lush look, far from its industrial purpose.
Half a dozen folks in heavy aprons mill about on the foundry side, which takes up the larger portion of the floor and is subdivided into five or six areas.
I’m not super familiar with the process of bronze sculpture, but I can recognize a furnace when I see one.
There’s also what looks to be a walk-in kiln.
Most of the folks, though, are in another area waiting around a massive cauldron with red molten metal.
“That’s bronze, right?”
He bounces on his toes. “Yes! Petal’s pouring her first sculpt today.”
He then rattles off the process from clay to wax to casting to pouring to finishing, negative and positive molds, and…wow.
“We covered bronze casting in one of my classes, but I’d forgotten how involved it is.”
Hopper shakes his head. “This process is hundreds of years old, and in all that time, they’ve never been able to improve on it. Can you imagine that?”
I shake my head. “It’s mind-boggling.”
Angela Lansbury lets out a plaintive meow, and Hopper sends her a worried glance.
“I forgot to ask… She won’t get into mischief, will she?” Hopper asks, rubbing the back of his head. “I always assume animals won’t leap into the furnace, but maybe I shouldn’t?”
I laugh as I follow him into the smaller, brighter creative space. “Her interests are eating and napping, in that order. She’ll stay right next to me.”
The sounds of metal work fade to a comforting background symphony.
I step to the edge of the high dive again and look over the edge. I won’t be jumping today, or anytime soon, but I’m starting to imagine taking the leap.
One of these days, I’ll tell Hopper who I really am.
Hopper points to the clay head on the table, shoved cattywampus to catch the best light. “I’m working on her eyebrows today.”
I shuffle in, laden with my cat and art things, and Hopper gestures to a series of easels in a variety of sizes. “Set up wherever you want to, use whatever supplies you see. What’s mine is yours.”
Something about that sentiment unexpectedly pricks my eyes, so I nod and refocus on the unfinished multimedia piece off to the side. It’s comprised of thousands of pieces of paper, collaged to look like a lone figure at the shoreline, looking at the sunset, not quite finished.
“That your work too?”
Hopper shakes his head. “That’s my buddy Jake’s. He heard I was letting you join me and got jealous, so I invited him over.”
“Oh.” I turn to him, grimacing. “I don’t wanna cause problems with you and your friends…”
He waves me off. “Nah. Jake is a sweetheart, but not what you’d call a people person. He was going to be grumpy, regardless, but now he gets to be grumpy in a place with good lighting.”
I let out a nervous chuckle, and he repeats the offer to utilize whatever supplies I see fit. Not wanting to offend him, I agree.
To start, I chose one of the empty easels, dragging it closer to the middle of the floor. Angela Lansbury meows loudly.
“I wasn’t quite sure what we should do for the litter situation, so I brought a disposable box,” I say, holding it up. “I figured I’d shove it in a corner somewhere.”
“Oh, you won’t need that,” he says, pointing to an alcove in the back wall. “I went ahead and got one of those self-cleaning litter box things and set it up over by the bathroom.”
I walk over and peek into the alcove, where a very fancy litter box is plugged into a low outlet.
“This is better than the one I have at home.”
“If you like it, I’ll send you the link.”
As he’s talking, an enormous lump in the far corner shifts. My eyes widen as the lump begins to take the form of a dog, or maybe a small horse, stretching and yawning. Seconds later, a Harlequin Great Dane pads in from the shadows.
“That is the tallest dog I have ever seen in real life.”
Hopper smiles. “I love large animals.”
Huh. I wonder if that’s where I get it from.
I gesture at Angela Lansbury. “It’s why I like Maine Coons. They’re enormous.”
“Can I meet her?” he asks, setting aside his tools and kneeling in front of her crate.
“Sure. She’ll probably just ignore you.”
I open the cage, and Angela Lansbury bypasses Hopper, slinking into the middle of the space, looking rumpled and entirely annoyed.
She lifts her nose in the air, taking several delicate sniffs before tilting her head at Hopper.
After regarding him for a moment, she walks up to him, her fluffy coat shining in all the pretty lighting.
“Meow.”
Before I can warn him, Hopper stands and pats his chest. Angela Lansbury bats at the bottom of his leather apron and then anchors into the thick material, making her way up him like he’s the rope climb on an obstacle course.
“Hello, Dame Lansbury,” he says, cradling her as she pushes her face into his neck. “It’s an honor to meet you. I’m Hopper.”
Seeing them together makes the entire building feel like it’s out of sync with the world around it.
“She usually doesn’t like anyone except me.”
“Animals and me, we get along,” he says, stroking her long fur before turning his smile to me. “She’s probably the most beautiful cat I’ve ever met in my entire life. I love the markings on her face. And the fluffy bits on her ears.”
The Great Dane approaches and nudges my hip.
“Oh, that’s Patch,” Hopper explains. “He’s the great-grandson of the first Great Dane I ever owned.”
“He’s gorgeous,” I say, carefully petting his massive head.
It’s a weird shared moment. Hopper clicks his tongue, and Angela Lansbury jumps down, then cautiously approaches Patch. She meows. He woofs, then turns toward the dark corner he came from. She follows him as if they’re old friends.
“He’s just showing her around the place,” Hopper says, then returns to his workstation.
Angela Lansbury hasn’t spent much time around dogs, but she seems happy to hang out with Patch, so…I guess I’ll let it happen?
I brought my large sketchbook, figuring I’d map something out in charcoal before attempting to paint anything in front of one of the great modern artists of this century.
The industrial patina of the place, the smells of wax and mineral, the sharp clank of metal on metal, and the low rumbling of large machinery, however, relieve me of the notion that I have to perform art for this man.
I glance over at the hand-stretched canvases haphazardly leaning against the brick wall. The varying sizes and angles bring their own sense of art to the space. The tightly woven, heavy cream fabric begs to be painted.
And suddenly, I don’t want to start with charcoal at all.
Hopper follows my line of sight and smiles. “My buddy who makes those is a genius. The canvas, the wood, the tacks, the tension…he’s obsessed with the details. You’ll love the way his canvas takes the paint.”
“Are you sure?”
The canvases alone are more expensive than any project I’ve ever worked on, the kind of quality I could never afford.
“I insist.” Pointing to a series of gorgeous teak storage carts, he says, “Those paints work best with that type of cotton. Again, please use whatever you want, and if I’m running low on anything, let me know, and I’ll order more.”
I set aside my portfolio and walk over to the canvases. The sizes are scratched in pencil along the edge, and I select a two-by-three canvas that feels substantial but not overwhelmingly big.
Too large to finish in a single setting, but not so big that I’m making a long-term commitment.
I take the canvas over to the easel, adjusting the height and angle until I get exactly what I’m looking for from the lighting.
After filling my tray with a mix of paints that feel good, I unfurl the leather roll that holds all my brushes and select my favorite painting knife.
With a deep breath and the disturbing John the Baptist scene still fresh on my mind after all these weeks, I begin.