—
For a few weeks I just silently stared at that painting. With it in front of me, I couldn’t bring myself to do any painting of my own. I barely even felt like eating. I’d grab whatever vegetables were in the fridge, dip them in mayo, and chew on that, or else heat up a can of whatever I had on hand. That’s about the size of it. All day long I’d sit on the floor of the studio, endlessly listening to the record of Don Giovanni, staring enthralled at Killing Commendatore. When the sun set, I’d have a glass of wine.
The painting was amazing. As far as I knew, though, it wasn’t reprinted in any collection of Amada’s work, which meant no one else knew it existed. If it were made public it would no doubt become one of his best-known paintings. If they held a retrospective of his art, it wouldn’t be surprising if this was the painting used on the promotional poster. This wasn’t simply a painting that was wonderfully done, though. The painting was brimming with an extraordinary sort of energy. Anyone with even a little knowledge of art couldn’t miss that fact. There was something in this painting that appealed to the deepest part of the viewer’s heart, something suggestive that enticed the imagination to another realm.
I couldn’t take my eyes off the bearded Long Face on the left side of the painting. It felt like he’d opened the lid to invite me, personally, to the world underground. No one else, just me. I couldn’t stop thinking about what sort of realm lay beneath. Where in the world had he come from? And what did he do there? Would that lid be closed up again, or would it be left open?
As I stared at the painting I listened to that scene from Don Giovanni over and over. Act 1, scene 3, soon after the overture. And I nearly memorized the lyrics and the lines.
DONNA ANNA: Ah, the assassin
has struck him down! This blood…
this wound…his face
discolored with the pallor of death…
He has stopped breathing…his limbs are cold.
Oh father, dear father, dearest father!
I’m fainting…I’m dying!
6
AT THIS POINT HE’S A FACELESS CLIENT
Summer was winding down when the call came in from my agent. It had been a while since anyone had called me. The summer heat still lingered during the day, though when the sun set the air in the mountains was chilly. The noisy clamor of the summer cicadas was slowly fading away, but now a chorus of other insects had taken their place. Unlike when I lived in the city, I was surrounded by nature now and one season freely chipped away at portions of the preceding one.
We brought each other up to date, though there wasn’t much to tell on my end.
“How’s your painting coming along?” he asked.
“Slowly but surely,” I said. This was a lie, of course. It was more than four months since I’d moved here, yet the canvas I’d prepared was still blank.
“Glad to hear it,” he said. “I’d like to see how you’re doing sometime. Maybe there’s something I can do to help out.”
“Thanks. We’ll do that sometime.”
Then he told me why he’d called. “I have a request. Are you sure you’re not willing to do one more portrait? What do you think?”
“I told you I’ve given up doing portraits.”
“I know. But the fee this time is unbelievable.”
“Unbelievable?”
“It’s amazing.”
“How amazing?”
He told me the figure. I nearly let out a whistle of surprise. “There have got to be a lot of other people besides me who specialize in portraits,” I replied calmly.
“There aren’t all that many, really, though there are a few besides you who are fairly decent.”
“Then you should ask them. With a fee like that anybody would jump at the chance.”
“The thing is, the other party specifically asked for you. That’s their condition. No one else will do.”
I shifted the phone to my left hand and scratched behind my right ear.
The agent went on. “The person saw several portraits you’ve done and was very impressed. He felt that the vitality in your paintings can’t easily be found elsewhere.”
“I don’t get it. How could an ordinary person have seen several of my portraits? It’s not like I have a one-man show at a gallery every year.”
“I really don’t know the details,” he said, sounding perplexed. “I’m just passing along what the other party told me. I told him up front that you were no longer doing portraits. I said you seemed pretty firm about it, and even if I asked you you’d most likely turn him down. But he wouldn’t give up. That’s when this figure came up.”
I mulled over the offer. Honestly, it was a tempting amount. And I felt a bit of pride that someone saw that much value in my paintings—even if it was work I’d done half mechanically for money. But the thing was, I’d sworn I’d never paint commissioned portraits again. When my wife left me it spurred me to start over again, and I couldn’t reverse my decision just because somebody was willing to shell out a pile of money.
“Why is he being so generous?” I asked.
“Even though we’re in a recession, there are still people who have so much money they don’t know what to do with it. There are a lot of people like that—ones who made a killing in online stock trading, or tech entrepreneurs. And getting a portrait done is something they can write off as a business expense.”
“Write off?”
“In their accounts a portrait isn’t included as a work of art but as office equipment.”
“Talk about heartwarming,” I said.
But even if they have tons of excess cash, and even if they can write it off as a business expense, I can’t see entrepreneurs or people who’ve made a fortune trading stocks online wanting to have their portraits painted and hung on their company walls as office equipment. Most of these are young people decked out at work in faded jeans, sneakers, worn T-shirts, and Banana Republic jackets, proud to be drinking Starbucks from a paper cup. An imposing oil portrait didn’t fit their lifestyle. But there are all kinds in the world. You can’t generalize. It’s not necessarily true that no one wants to be painted sipping Starbucks (or whatever) coffee (Fair Trade beans only, of course) from a paper cup.
“But there’s one condition,” the agent said. “The other party wants you to use the client as a live model, and paint when you’re actually together. They’ll make the time to do that.”
“But I don’t work that way.”
“I know. You meet the client but don’t have them model for you. That’s your way of working. I told them that. They said they understood but they’d like you to make an exception and paint the client live and in person. That’s the other party’s condition.”
“What’s the purpose?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s a pretty odd request. Why would they insist on that? You’d think they’d be happy not to actually have to sit for the portrait.”
“I agree it’s unconventional. But it’s hard to complain about the fee.”
“I’m with you there—hard to complain about the fee,” I agreed.
“It’s all up to you. It’s not like you’re being asked to sell your soul or anything. You’re a very skilled portrait painter, and they’re counting on that skill.”
“I feel like a retired hit man in the mob,” I said. “Like I’m being asked to whack one more target.”
“Though no blood’s going to be shed. What do you say—will you do it?”
No blood’s going to be shed, I silently repeated. The painting Killing Commendatore came to mind.
“What sort of person is the one I’d paint?” I asked.
“Actually, I don’t know.”
“You don’t even know if it’s a man or a woman?”
“I don’t. I haven’t heard a thing about the sex or age or name. At this point he’s a totally faceless client. A lawyer saying he was representing the client called me. That’s the ‘other party’ I spoke with about it.”
“Do you think it’s legit?”