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CHAPTER TWO
Thomas
Speaking infront of people was never my thing, nor was explaining what Idid for aliving.
What Idid excel at was sitting on astool behind acanvas and painting portraits of my wealthy clients. Aprofession Ichose years ago. Iexceled at it, even years after it didn’tfit me anymore.
After fifteen years of living abroad inside of alavish golden cage—my ultimate comfort zone—Ihad had enough. The paintings earned me more money than Iknew what to do with, and along with it, it killed any creativity Ihad as ayoung artist.
Which brought me back here, to my hometown of Boston. Istood at the back of the gallery, prepared to start speaking at the Artists’ Market, despite being exhausted due to lack of sleep.
Ishould’ve arrived earlier from Russia and regulated my jet lag; it was the responsible thing to do, and Iwould’ve done it if not for my clients. They wouldn’tlet me go easily, forcing me to cancel two flights, one after the other. Eventually Iarrived here last night and was about to lecture with the help of five cups of coffee.
People trickled in and browsed the paintings Ishowcased. These were older ones, from when my right brain hemisphere still functioned, from when my creativity was avery alive thing. It embarrassed me to admit that Ididn’tput up my recent works because there weren’tany.
So Idecided Iwouldn’tsay anything about them at all. Paintings, like me, preferred to stay silent.
“Welcome, everyone, and thank you for coming here today,” Istarted once the coordinator closed the door. “My name is Thomas Mark Cooke and I’maBoston native who lived and worked as a…” Over the last three or four years Igrew to hate the termcommission painter, so Iworked around it. “…as apainter of people.”
From there, Ielaborated on stories of the art world, who were my influences, the techniques Iused in the paintings Ihung on the walls of the gallery. Ispoke just about everything without handing out details about my personal life.
Peacefully undisturbed, Ifell into the groove of talking. The initial unease settled, and Ifound that Ienjoyed it, explaining and not defending myself.
With confidence Iraised my head from the first few rows and examined the room, every part of it, until Isawher. The woman who thought Iwas athug and wanted to blind me last night.
She stared at me from across the room with her deep brown eyes, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, her long, brown, tousled hair resting on the front of her body. She was short, less than five foot nothing, and yet her beauty radiated all over the room.
Ihad no idea how Ihad missed her earlier.
Ihad no idea why she attended my speech either, after begrudging every word that came out of my mouth. With her bored stare, she looked like she’drather be anywhere but here.
Regardless of her reasons, the room waited for me to move forward with my talk. The next part Ihad planned focused on the highly interesting and important subject of the Zorn palette.
“Since Iwas old enough to read and educate myself on art through books, the palette Ichose to use was the Zorn palette. With its four colors—titanium white, ivory black, yellow ochre, and vermillion, which is asort of brilliant scarlet red—one can create any masterpiece they desire. They present you with an opportunity to grow, to experiment and mix colors until they unfold into new shades and tones. They help you define who you are as an artist.”
Two or three people besides the coordinator had their phones on, recording me speak freely about my ideals. “Irealize that adding colors from amanufactured tube would make our lives easier, but is it really what we’re looking for? It feels like letting go of our creative part.”
Although Ihad cameras aimed at me, my eyes were drawn to the same woman from yesterday, only to see her rolling her eyes, then glancing everywhere except me.
Unable to stop myself, Iaddressed her and her contempt of me. “Do you have anything you want to say?”
“Me?” Her disgust diminished with everyone turning their heads in her direction. “No.”
“Something Isaid obviously bothered you.”
Same as yesterday, Iwanted to add.
“Um.” She bit her lower lip, gazing down at her feet. “Not everyone can apply your method.”
“They can’t?”
She nodded, her eyes glued to the floor.
“Can you please be more specific?” My patience was running low and Ishould’ve ignored her. My curiosity over her thought process and contempt drove me into doing the opposite.
When she raised her eyes, Inoticed wariness had clouded over her previously bored expression.
“You’re practically saying we’re unimaginative or lazy. Most artists don’thave the luxury of blending and seeing what happens on and on for weeks at atime. We need to produce aproduct.”
