Amabelle texted the specifics of his next work and “Boring” was all he could think of. Boring was what he visualized as well. Granted, he could easily produce a decent, albeit boring piece, but he had his newfound “Artist Perception” now. Robert wanted to do real abstract art instead of an hour’s bit of drivel. Twenty minutes tops before drying and sealing, that is.
The artist moved from the studio to the living room where his laptop lay open on the coffee table from where he had been looping “Higher.” The commission was from the head of Guarin Accounting and Associates. Robert looked up the business but found it was surprisingly old and did not have a website. He jotted down the business’s information and dialed their number.
“Guarin Accounting and Associates, how may I help you.” said a woman in a thick French accent.
Robert fought back the urge to flirt before continuing on.
“Hello, yes, I am Robert Doddson, the artist who is assigned to work with Mr. Guarin. Is there a chance that I can come in to consult with him regarding the painting?”
There was a long silent pause. Robert shifted on his sofa while he listened to the digital lack-of-sound noise that most phones tend to generate. He didn’t hear the telltale click of being put on hold, nor the noises associated with someone simply remaining quiet on the other line. It was as if the lady with the sexy accent was motionlessly holding her breath perfectly.
“Allain Guarin.” said a distinctly older male with a noticeable lack of french accent. “With whom am I speaking?”
“Robert Doddson, the artist you commissioned for a painting. I was hoping to meet with you to discuss the finer points of the work so that I can better provide the vision you were hoping to capture.”
There was another very long pause. This time there was some clicking noises in the background.
“Mr. Doddson, our offices are very busy, but the best I can do is about thirty minutes this evening at 4:30 pm.”
“That’ll be fine. I’ll be there shortly.”
The train and taxi ride to the tower in which the accounting firm resided was pleasant, despite feeling a little pickled by day drinking. Robert rarely went out after knocking back a few, and while he had not drunk nowhere near as much as normal, he did not like riding around in such a state. The cool air helped to regain his composure as he walked into the lobby. A well-dressed security guard asked him his business as he approached the desk, and Doddson gave it. The guard quickly dialed a number on his desk-phone which merely chirped in response.
“Elevators are behind me. You’ll want to get off on the 35th floor. Offices will be right in front of you.” The guard said.
“Thanks.”
Robert shouldered his gear into the elevator and hit the corresponding number. The carriage was fast, but an older model, giving no view of any part of the building or exterior during the ascent. It soon glided to a gentle halt on his floor and the doors opened with a ‘ding’.
Guarin Accounting and Associates presented him with a glass-fronted foyer entrance, but sadly no lady at the receptionist’s desk. As he reached for the glass double-door, an older gentleman appeared from down the hallway.
“Mr. Doddson.” the man said. “Welcome to my floor.”
The two men shook hands.
“Did you intend to paint the picture here? We will be closing soon, as you can see, and we have already sent most of the office workers home already.” he continued.
“Absolutely. It’s a new thing I have been trying with our clients to get better product satisfaction.” Robert replied.
The man looked about him nervously for a moment. Robert, though not visibly displaying so, was taken aback. Is he hiding something, he wondered.
“I don’t know about this. This isn’t like what your agent agreed to.”
The older man mulled things over and began pacing. He then eyed the artist with open suspicion.
“I’m guessing you’ll want to see the whole floor?”
“Not really, just a comfortable place for you to sit while I work.”
The older man continued to eye him suspiciously.
“I could come back later if you want.” Robert offered.
“Let’s do the painting right here.” The man snapped.
“Ok.”
What’s this guy’s deal, Robert thought as he began to set up. I’m half a mind to leave out, but I am equally intrigued by what I might produce now that I have met the guy. Is this even Mr. Guarin at all? I’m definitely going to add these elements to the piece. Robert set his colors on the pallet and readied the canvas.
“So how long have you guys been in business?” Robert asked as he began his visualizing technique.
He already was basing the visuals on the foyer itself with ultra-deep shadows to add to the weird paranoia of the man he was talking to.
“The Guarin firm has been in business for three generations.” the man answered. “Our current residence was just in my tenure.”
Robert began to set paint to canvas. The hard lines of the office were hued with yellows and grays in contrast to the deep pools of black along the edges of the background. He added lines of green and blue contrast to signify the improved lodgings. The older man moved from his chair to stand near the artist. Doddson thought it might’ve thrown him off, but found that his Artist Perception remained focused on the canvas even when he glanced over to his client.
“You are really doing it. Really painting the piece right here.”
“Like I said, it is the best way to get the better feedback and a more perfect capture of the energy and essence of what our clients want.”
Robert continued working while the man watched. Recalling the boring information from his agent’s text, Robert added some flat elements to change the piece’s mood a little more. Periodically, he would ask the man for some trivia regarding the business. As the piece progressed, the man became less and less creepy. By the end they were simply talking about random things in general. New York City. Favorirte restaurants. Transportation times.
“And there you have it.” Robert said, opening his jar of thinner.
“That was amazing, Mr. Doddson. I have never seen such work, let alone seen it made right in front of me.”
The artist cleaned his brushes and packed up his paints.
“Would you like me to take it back to my studio to seal it?”
The old man was transfixed by the painting for a moment before he answered.
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather you left it here to dry. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to the painting between here and Brooklyn.”
“No problem. Just let my agent know that it is completed and how you feel about the work.”
Robert snapped a picture of the piece and texted it to Amabelle. As he turned to shake the man’s hand before leaving, he was handed a narrow envelope.
“Thank you, but the commission has to go through my agent first.” Robert said as he tried to hand the envelope back.
“Your agent will be paid as promised, but no this bonus is for you. I am truly impressed with your work and if the need arises, hope to hire you again.”
Robert was again taken aback, this time in gratitude. He had never met a single client he had painted for, nor received any kind of direct feedback beyond Amabelle’s bland acceptance. Without further protest, he took the envelope and slid it into his jacket pocket. The older man thanked him again and showed the artist to the elevator. It wasn’t until the door had closed did he open the envelope.
“Considerably generous.” Robert quietly exclaimed. “I should do all my work this way.”
Again, like many times before, his dream came to him. With another paycheck or two, he would have enough to sponsor his work in a gallery or even rent a space to host his own opening. He could see himself actually preparing like he had in his ritual, giving his thank you speaches, entertaining guests. Over and over it played in his mind throughout the cab ride back to his apartment. No train ride for this paycheck. It followed him up the stairs and to the studio where he deposited his tools. Then he deposited that notion there in the studio for tomorrow.
“What the hell am I going to do now?” The artist thought aloud. “I’ve never completed a work before 2am and it is only just now getting dark.”
Robert did not feel like painting, and the research he wanted to do for his gallery could wait until tomorrow. His kitchen was currently turned into a laboratory, so he decided to order Papa John’s. He placed the call while making his way through the disused diningroom area to the livingroom.
The artist was about to walk towards the door, when his phone rang. No sooner did he hit the digital button to recieve…
“What the fuck are you doing!?” Amabelle yelled into the line.
Robert didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond. The sudden and unexpected explosion in his ear froze him nearly to his core. He could hear his agent’s heavy breathing on the other end. She was angry but there was something else.
“I am at a loss, Amabelle.” Robert responded. “Something wrong with the piece?”
“Why did you talk to the client!? What are you trying to pull?!” She continued, loudly.
“I was bored and wanted to do the whole-painting-in-person thing again. Like I did for you and Darcy. The gentleman really enjoyed it. Why? Did he say otherwise?”
Amabelle didn’t respond. She continued to breathe heavily into the phone. Robert surpressed a lewd joke before driving on.
“I want to have my protfolio hosted in a gallery.” He continued, seeming to ignore her outburst.
Again Amabelle did not reply. He could tell she was about to scream. The intake of each breath seemed to say “I would be hitting you right now if I were there,” but she continued to not answer. He could only wonder as he tried to think of a way to steer the conversation in order to reveal the reason.
“I can do this with another agent if you continue to go on like this.” Doddson said taking the stab.
He could hear a hand brushing across a face.
“Do not talk to the clients. I talk to the clients, do you understand?”
Doddson thought for a moment.
“No, I don’t understand. I’m starting to find a niche and you are wanting me to tank it. Not to brag, really, but I’m catching fire here.”
“Robert, these commissions are a delicate thing. You can’t simply walk over and meet with whomever. My arrangements are very particular and most the clients are very busy people. Do you understand? You ‘re hurting my reputation of being efficient and unobtrusive.”
“Still not following.”
“They want to be left alone. Period.”
Again, Robert was not following. Amabelle did not seem as angry, or was it frightened, as before. Maybe she had shadier stuff going on, but he didn’t care. He was into making art and making money. And finally having fun doing both.
“So my gallery…”
There was a sigh.
“No.”
“I’m going to have my work in a gallery, and I would want my agent to be a part of it. Especially how much work we have done for each other.”
“Do you even know what the hell it takes to set that up?”
Robert thought a moment.
“A lot of money up front to bet against losing it all on possibly bad publicity.”
“Don’t act so clever. You don’t have a reputation. I DO. If your work goes south so do I and the rest of my business.”
That’s awfully fatalistic, the artist thought. It’s not like I am taking a dump on the Virgin Mary and slapping a ‘creative license’ label on it.
“Look, this could be big or it could be a dud. My past work was very medicore, but I have moved on from that. The meduims I have been working are very fresh and marketable. Right now, a decent display could catapult both of us up pretty high and attract even bigger clients. Or we could simply be the only ones there waisting our time and a few thousand dollars.”
Amabelle was silent. Granted, Robert didn’t know whether or not any of what he said was really true, but it sounded like a good pitch. She didn’t sound like she was going maul or mate with him anymore, however.
“Just don’t talk to my clients.”
With that she hung up. It wasn’t really an approval, but there was something else. Was there someting really shady going on with the accounting firm? Why did she say ‘My’ clients and not ‘the’ or ‘our’?
Later, Robert thought, I have to figure out how to get a gallery together. He strode over to his studio and thumbed through his collection. All of his newer works were indeed fresh, but he had no idea if the appeal would be there. One thing that wasn’t was the mysterious piece.
“Now I am a bit worried.”
Chapter 16…
James C Gilliam 