Chapter 6
Six
The next morning, as the first rays of sunlight washed through Matthew’s studio, he stood staring at a half-finished canvas while contemplating the scene at the gallery last night.
Was there some kind of message in what happened?
Did Matthew have to make a decision between his gallery art and his love for painting murals? Maybe because of time, ability, and the practicality of juggling both—for that he could see as a reason to reevaluate—but not just because the people willing to pay big money for his paintings are for some reason snubbing his talent because of the murals.
He touched the canvas. This particular one had been in this state of incompletion for years now.
It might never be finished, and maybe it wasn’t meant to be.
The painting was of the spot in Maymont Park where he and Dad used to sit and talk on his lunch breaks. Real talks. Man-to-man, although Matthew wasn’t even out of elementary school yet the first time they sat under that tree and had lunch together. It had become a tradition for them.
Ham sandwiches and Cheetos had been their lunch that first day.
That had been before Dad’s fall, and before Mom left. She had been a loving mother, until one day she just decided it wasn’t what she wanted anymore, and told Dad she was leaving. She hadn’t even said goodbye to Matthew. Dad had never been bitter. For that reason alone, he’d never harbored any anger toward her. Sometimes, Dad would say, there aren’t explanations for why something happened or didn’t.
It was the year after Dad passed that Matthew had set up his easel in the park and started this painting. He might have been looking for answers to questions that had none—he couldn’t remember—but this painting, even in its state of incompletion, brought him comfort whenever he needed clarity.
There’d been an unusual abundance of monarch butterflies that year. The collective presence of them gave off a kaleidoscope effect as they fluttered in a dance above flat-top clusters of milkweed, mostly orange, but a few pink blooms too. He’d wondered if they tasted different to the butterflies. The orange clusters might be like pizza and the pink ones as sweet as cotton candy.
The canvas reflected the blues of the sky that afternoon, and one big, puffy, popcorn cloud that had hung to the east. He’d captured the lush greenery of the gardens. Some considered milkweed to be just weeds, but they sustained the monarch butterflies, who were surely having a party that day. He’d worked so hard to capture the vivid colors and movement across the meadow.
The elevator pinged, pulling him from his daydream and announcing that Matthew had company.
Skip stepped out, carrying two paper cups of coffee. “Good morning. Wasn’t sure if you still wanted to work on the mural after last night but figured at the very least you’d be up for a coffee with a friend.”
“Good morning.” He walked over and took one of the cups. “Thanks.”
“How’d the night end? Travis was fit to be tied, wasn’t he?”
Matthew took a sip of coffee and nodded. “Rightfully so. A few buyers walked out. Those sales might be lost for good. We’ll just have to wait and see.”
“A shame.”
“I was able to talk to the man before he got in the cab,” Matthew said. “Their family has been struggling over his son for a long time. Him being selected for my project made a difference. How can anyone be mad at that?”
“With all the crazy stuff going on in this world, you can’t blame people for walking out when someone is acting unpredictable. Especially in an art gallery. People are usually on their good behavior there.”
“True. Travis has the right to pull my show, but I hope he won’t,” Matthew said.
“But you had no control over that. Sorry, man.”
“I’ll land on my feet. Always do.” Matthew shook his head and laughed. “That’s what artists do, right? We find the good in the middle of all the crazy. Like you marrying a woman way, way, way out of your league.”
“That had to be at least one too many ‘ways.’” Skip slugged Matthew in the shoulder. “Don’t think for a second I don’t know I hit the jackpot, though. She’s great. You’re going to love her.”
“I’m sure I will. I’m truly happy for you.” He tapped his coffee cup to Skip’s. “So let me get you a shirt worthy of getting ruined and some smocks so we can get to work. We’ve got a wall to paint.”
Matthew and Skip walked down to the mural site where Matthew had left his truck loaded with supplies the night before. Morning traffic was stop and go, so walking was faster anyway this time of day. Pedestrians paraded the sidewalk dressed in light, breezy attire more appropriate for the warmer temperatures the meteorologist promised today.
“Wow! You’ve got a great start,” Skip said as the mural came into view. “Well done.”
“At least this one is stationary and doesn’t need to be hung. I don’t know how you manage moving around those big paintings you’ve been doing.”
“Box truck. That’s what I drove up from Florida to pick up the ones from your house. News flash. I’m sort of abandoning the giant canvas phase I’ve been in. It’s too hard to get showings, and the people that have houses big enough for my paintings don’t need so many of them.” Skip grabbed a tool bucket and threw a sweat towel over his shoulder.
“Your paintings bring good money when they sell, though,” Matthew said.
“Yeah, it’s been a wonderful ride, but it’s time to shift gears,” Skip said. “And you, better than anyone, understand the calling of an artist has nothing to do with money.”
“That I do.” They walked through the small courtyard.
Skip stopped near the scaffolding. “I see where the paint landed.” He looked at the ground, kicking his toe through a bluish slurry in a puddle. “That’ll sweep right away.”
Matthew leaned back, surveying the area of the wall they’d painted yesterday before the storm. “I can’t believe it didn’t wash away more than it did.” He pointed out a few areas to Skip. “I’ll get you to repaint those areas. That would be a huge help. It would be nice if when the high school team gets here they don’t feel like they’re completely starting over from where they were yesterday.”
“I got it.” Skip started popping lids and retouching the areas.
By the time the students arrived at two thirty that afternoon, they pretty much had everything back to where it was before the storm came through.
Matthew climbed down from the scaffold. “Skip, let me introduce you to my team. I handpicked them from local high schools.”
Five guys and one girl lined up with proud smiles, like soldiers ready to go.
“Excellent.” Skip gave them a quick wave as he set down his roller. “I’m Skip. Matthew and I go way back to our college days together. So you all know that slinging burgers would be a lot easier than being an artist, right?”
They laughed, and the girl spoke up. “I’m Cammy, and I will never sling or serve burgers. I’m a vegetarian, so put me in the park with a paintbrush any day. I’d do this for free.”
“Shh.” Skip looked over his shoulder to Matthew. “Don’t tell him that.”
The guys introduced themselves, the last one saying, “My friends call me Sam. This is the best job I could ever imagine.” He stepped closer to Matthew and said, “I kind of need to talk to you about something. Ya know, in private.”
“You aren’t going to tell him to kick me off the team, are you?” Skip teased. “Is Sam talking about me?” Skip pretended to be paranoid. “He’s pretty good. I saw his application. He’s replacing me, isn’t he?” His sense of humor lightened the mood.
“Naw, man.” Sam kicked the dirt as he walked toward Matthew, looking a little nervous.
Matthew turned his back on the others and let Skip put them to work.
“What’s up?” Matthew asked, after walking Sam to the side.
Sam’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I think I owe you an apology.”
“Oh?”
“My dad.” He raked his fingers through his long straggly hair and acted as if he might hyperventilate. “I’m really embarrassed.”
“At the gallery.” Matthew appreciated the awkward position the kid felt like he was in. “Look. You don’t owe me an apology and don’t be embarrassed. Your dad is proud of you.”
“He thinks I’m a loser. He’s proud of you.”
“No. It might feel that way, but grownups don’t always know how to express themselves, and what I saw was a proud father. A father who loves his son and wants the best for him.”
“He thinks the only painting worth doing is painting a house. Every time he catches me working on a painting, he hands me a bucket of paint and a roller and makes me repaint my bedroom. He thinks he’s refocusing me on something that I can make a living at, but that’s not the same thing.”
“No, it’s not the same thing, but he’s not entirely wrong.” Matthew laughed. “It’s not easy making a living as an artist, but if you believe in your work and are authentic to it, it is really rewarding. That backup plan of painting houses might serve you well along the way.”
Sam laughed. “I’m getting pretty good at it.”
“There you go.”
“I understand if you need to fire me. We signed that paper saying we’d keep our grades up and stay out of trouble,” Sam stuttered through the last part. “The whole acting responsible thing.”
“I’m not firing you, Sam.” He cuffed his hand to the boy’s shoulder. “I’m really proud of you for coming to me. I know that wasn’t easy. All I ask is that you do your best and for the right reasons.”
“Thank you for picking me to help with your project. I won’t let you down. This project definitely made Dad look at me different.”
“I remember from your application that you like to paint nature.”
“I do. Animals, birds, trees. Someday I’d like to live out in, like, nowhere, and just paint.”
Matthew smiled. “When I was your age, I sat up in my parents’ apartment and sketched every day.” He lifted his hand, pointing out across the city toward the water. “The skyline of the city buildings. The river. The sidewalks. Sometimes I’d just take blue and white paint and paint nothing but sky. Every little variation in it. I found peace in that.”
“I get it.”
“I know you do.” He could see so much of himself in this young man. “Let’s get to work. We’ve got something beautiful to share with this town.” Matthew lifted his hand for a high five. “I’m glad you’re on the team.”
“Thank you.” He slapped Matthew’s hand and then turned and ran to catch up with the others.
Matthew watched the kid, his old flannel shirt hanging loose past his hips, sleeves rolled up over a logo T-shirt. Tennis shoes unlaced; Matthew laughed at the inclination to tell him to tie them.
Skip sent Sam to work on the second level. That kid climbed the scaffold like a spider monkey on a mission.
Something good comes out of everything. Losing a couple of sales wasn’t going to make or break Matthew. Maybe he could bring Sam over to the studio to help gallery wrap a couple days a week. It would give him some extra money, and learning the skill to wrap your own canvas on frames was a money-saver that would help on his journey, unless he really did become a house painter. The thought of that made him a little depressed.
Matthew’s phone rang, pulling him out of his thoughts. Travis. Now he felt as nervous as Sam had looked just a few minutes ago.
“Good morning, Travis.”
“Yes. Every morning is a good one. How are you?”
“I’m doing fine. I think at the moment I’m more concerned with how you’re feeling about things this morning,” Matthew admitted.
He heard Travis take in a long, slow breath. “Well, that was quite the unusual little display last night.”
“Unexpected.”
“Met with mixed reviews. But look. I’m not taking down the paintings. I spoke in haste. What you’re doing is good, and no one has a right to judge you for helping others. It’s actually quite commendable.”
“Thank you, Travis.”
“I think you probably need to make a clear mission. You’re straddling two very different art concepts here. The consumers of those two areas don’t always play well together. Matthew, I’m speaking as a friend here. Your serious work is getting real attention. That position in the marketplace is yours to lose. I have some ideas on how we might spin this in your favor. Let’s talk soon. Maybe we tease about showcasing you and your prodigy together in a show in the future. I don’t know. We’ll figure it out.”
“Thank you, Travis.”
He watched Skip talking to the teenagers and painting alongside them. They had no idea how celebrated Skip’s work was, and they were all working shoulder-to-shoulder. They’d get a kick out of working with him on this project.
Matthew pulled up an album on his phone. If this didn’t inspire them, nothing would.
“Hey, guys and Cammy, gather over here for a sec.” Matthew waited until they all circled around. “I really appreciate you being on the team. This is going so well, and we’re right on schedule. I bet you didn’t realize that the storm last night made a mess of a few things.”
“Skip was telling us about that,” one of them said.
“I thought you might like to see who you’re working with today,” Matthew said. “A long time ago, he and I were y’all’s age and dreaming of becoming artists. Some people will tell you it can never happen, that you will never make a living doing what you know in your heart is meant to be. It does happen, though.”
Matthew turned his phone around and let the pictures slide through. Mouths dropped wide. Skip’s face reddened, but he loved it too. “Yeah. This guy.”
“You rock,” one of them said.
“How big was that painting?”
Skip’s brows shot up. “Oh, it’s big. Not as big as this mural.”
“But it’s big, right?”
“Ever heard of the fifty-seven rule?” Skip asked.
The kids looked at each other, but no one had heard of it.
“Here’s your one new thing to learn today. The fifty-seven rule is that when you hang a painting in your home, standard room, the center should be fifty-seven inches from the ground. My pictures’ middles are more like eighty inches, which means that rule could not apply. In fact, it wouldn’t fit in your standard house with eight-foot ceilings.”
“Really?” Cammy held her hand up at eye level. “Like there?”
“That’s big. Who buys something that big?” Sam asked, still doing math in his head, trying to figure out just how big Skip’s painting was.
Matthew and Skip exchanged a smile. “That picture is twelve feet tall. Galleries. Hotels. Museums. Resorts. People with really tall ceilings in big houses.”
“Big money,” said Cammy.
They all laughed, but the kids were impressed.
“Okay,” Matthew said, “I just wanted to take a minute and let y’all know a little more about my friend here, and that also means that now you know two artists who can say they know your work ethic and art styles, which you will find quite handy if you pursue a career in the art field. Let’s get back to work so we can see this thing come to life.” Matthew clapped his hands, and the kids dispersed.
Skip hung back. “Thanks for that.”
“I didn’t do it for you. I did it for them.”
Skip looked at Matthew, then shifted his gaze back to the building with those teenagers coloring the walls. “You’re never giving up doing these murals, are you?”
“Not in a million years.” And he was at peace with that, whatever it meant.