Page 33 of The Leaving Kind
“Is this the first time my numbers have trended downward?” He hadn’t sold a lot during his last showing, but he rarely sold out an exhibition anymore. “How many of those paintings are still listed?”
“Everything that remained afterward.”
The prickle at the back of his neck became a pinch of cold fingers. “And when were you going to tell me this?”
“I wasn’t concerned, Victor. You’re on a low swing of the pendulum. Your next series will see your worth rise again.”
His next series. The one he was having trouble finishing. Trouble conceptualizing. The series that now had no show. “Who is going to see these damn paintings if Natali Wirth won’t show them?”
“We can wait to see when they’ll have an opening or look for a new gallery.”
“Wait to see ... What, you mean, they don’t have a new date for me?” He was screeching once more. Victor glanced at the front door as he strode past, and the echo of his show there, nearly two weeks ago, felt bitter. He continued on around to the south side of the house.
Jazmine sighed. “Vic, can I be honest with you?”
“Oh, please do.”
“You’re so talented.”
“I thought we were being honest,” he said, pushing some of the bitterness he felt into his voice.
“We are. And I am. I love your style. But it’s not as unique as it was. Heck, nothing is. The market is cluttered and becoming more crowded every day. You don’t stand out the way you once did, even as a mainstay.”
“Don’t call me a mainstay! I refuse to be compared to a product line at Walmart.”
“If you don’t want your prints to become the new backing paper for their buy-one-get-twenty-free frame deal, you need to come up with something new.”
Victor stopped outside his studio and panted into the phone. “I ...”
“Look. I know you explore a different direction with every series. That you’re constantly testing the boundaries of your style to see where it will go. I admire that. A lot of people admire that. It’s why you’re still popular. But you’re not exactly painting anything new, Victor. You’re not breaking those boundaries or reaching outside of yourself.”
Staggered, Victor contemplated dropping to the ground. The grass beneath his feet was longer than it should be and inviting in all its lush greenness. Could he hide there until his son left, then perhaps crawl to the kitchen in search of solace?
No more drinking.
He started walking again and stopped by the hole at the edge of the patio garden. Leaned forward to study the deep brown depths.
Jazmine kept her silence, which he appreciated—though the sound of her voice, or rather, the content of her small speech, continued to haunt him regardless. “You’re not exactly painting anything new, Victor. You’re not breaking those boundaries or reaching outside of yourself.”
She was right. And had they had this conversation last year or the year before, she’d also have been right. He thought about the canvas in the studio, the painting that hadn’t progressed beyond too red, too green, and too vertical. He’d been clinging to a formula. Had conceived this series based on a fucking formula. Why hadn’t he recognized that?
Then there were his teaching plans for the Hearts & Crafts program—recycled so often, they were no longer new objects. How did he still have students?
“Vic?” Jazmine, her voice quiet but not consoling.
“I’m staring at a deep hole and wondering whether I should crawl into it.”
Sage, who was still on the patio with Billy, looked up sharply.
“Maybe for a little while? But don’t let yourself be buried. Think for a while but don’t roll over. And if you want to talk about it, I’m here. If you want to toss around any ...” She hesitated.
“New ideas?” Victor filled in.
“I’m here. You know that. Always.”
“Don’t we have a contract with certain obligations?”
“You’ll never be just a contract to me. You could sell nothing and I’d still represent you.”