“Hard to say.” He picked it up again. “It’s quite good, for what it is. It’s no pig, though.”
“Pity.”
“Hmm.” Fortin considered for a moment. “I’d say two hundred, maybe two hundred and fifty dollars.”
“Is that all?”
“I might be wrong.”
Clara could tell he was being polite, but getting bored. She rewrapped the carving and put it in her bag.
“Now.” Denis Fortin leaned forward, an eager look on his handsome face. “Let’s talk about really great art. How would you like your work to be hung?”
“I’ve done a few sketches.” Clara handed him her notebook and after a few minutes Fortin lifted his head, his eyes intelligent and bright.
“This is wonderful. I like the way you’ve clustered the paintings then left a space. It’s like a breath, isn’t it?”
Clara nodded. It was such a relief talking to someone who didn’t need everything explained.
“I particularly like that you haven’t placed the three old women together. That would be the obvious choice, but you’ve spread them around, each anchoring her own wall.”
“I wanted to surround them with other works,” said Clara excitedly.
“Like acolytes, or friends, or critics,” said Fortin, excited himself. “It’s not clear what their intentions are.”
“And how they might change,” said Clara, leaning forward. She’d shown Peter her ideas, and he’d been polite and encouraging, but she could tell he really didn’t understand what she was getting at. At first glance her design for the exhibition might seem unbalanced. And it was. Intentionally. Clara wanted people to walk in, see the works that appeared quite traditional and slowly appreciate that they weren’t.
There was a depth, a meaning, a challenge to them.
For an hour or more Clara and Fortin talked, exchanging ideas about the show, about the direction of contemporary art, about exciting new artists, of which, Fortin was quick to assure Clara, she was in the forefront.
“I wasn’t going to tell you because it might not happen, but I sent your portfolio to FitzPatrick at MoMA. He’s an old friend and says he’ll come to the vernissage—”
Clara exclaimed and almost knocked her beer over. Fortin laughed and held up his hand.
“But wait, that wasn’t what I wanted to tell you. I suggested he spread the word and it looks as though Allyne from the New York Times will be there . . .”
He hesitated because it looked as though Clara was having a stroke. When she closed her mouth he continued. “And, as luck would have it, Destin Browne will be in New York that month setting up a show with MoMA and she’s shown interest.”
“Destin Browne? Vanessa Destin Browne? The chief curator at the Tate Modern in London?”
Fortin nodded and held tightly to his beer. But now, far from being in danger of knocking anything over, Clara appeared to have ground to a complete halt. She sat in the cheery little bistro, late summer light teeming through the mullioned windows. Beyond Fortin she saw the old homes, warming in the sun. The perennial beds with roses and clematis and hollyhocks. She saw the villagers, whose names she knew and whose habits she was familiar with. And she saw the three tall pines, like beacons. Impossible to miss, even surrounded by forest. If you knew what to look for, and needed a beacon.
Life was about to take her away from here. From the place where she’d become herself. This solid little village that never changed but helped its inhabitants to change. She’d arrived straight from art college full of avant-garde ideas, wearing shades of gray and seeing the world in black and white. So sure of herself. But here, in the middle of nowhere, she’d discovered color. And nuance. She’d learned this from the villagers, who’d been generous enough to lend her their souls to paint. Not as perfect human beings, but as flawed, struggling men and women. Filled with fear and uncertainty and, in at least one case, martinis.
But who remained standing. In the wilderness. Her graces, her stand of pines.
She was suddenly overcome with gratitude to her neighbors, and to whatever inspiration had allowed her to do them justice.
She closed her eyes and tilted her face into the sun.
“You all right?” he asked.
Clara opened her eyes. He seemed bathed in light, his blond hair glowing and a warm, patient smile on his face.
“You know, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but a few years ago no one wanted my works. Everyone just laughed. It was brutal. I almost gave up.”
“Most great artists have the same story,” he said, gently.
“I almost flunked out of art school, you know. I don’t tell many people that.”
“Another drink?” asked Gabri, taking Fortin’s empty glass.
“Not for me, merci,” he said, then turned back to Clara. “Between us? Most of the best people did flunk out. How can you test an artist?”
“I was always good at tests,” said Gabri, picking up Clara’s glass. “No, wait. That was testes.”
He gave Clara an arch look and swept away.
“Fucking queers,” said Fortin, taking a handful of cashews. “Doesn’t it make you want to vomit?”
Clara froze. She looked at Fortin to see if he was kidding. He wasn’t. But what he said was true. She suddenly wanted to throw up.