Work of Art ~ the Collection (21 page)

Sunday, I’m finishing the first draft on another chapter when my phone rings.

“What are you up to?” It’s my new best friend and he sounds happy.

“Thinking about you . . . because I’m working on your book.” I laugh.

“Oh, for a moment I got really excited, because I was thinking about you,” he jokes.

“Were you?” I say with a flirty tone.

“Yes, will you play with me today?”

“Wow, two offers to play with you in the same weekend. And why do I get this honor?”

“Because you’re more fun than anyone else.”

I smile, loving how special he’s making me feel. “Okay, so what are we doing today?”

“I’m going to drag you to thrift stores all over town.”

“Ooo, hold me back! It’s a dream come true! Now why on Earth would I want to do that?”

“’cause it’ll make me happy and I want your company.”

“I’m such a pushover.”

“I’ll be there in an hour.”

“Okay, but I’m expecting a good meal out of this, at least.”

“You bet.”

After he hangs up, I feel an unexpected thrill, even though thrift-store shopping is probably the last thing I would choose to do on a Sunday.

Max arrives in an old flatbed truck. “It was my mom’s. She used it for hauling stuff—like the plants she always bought from the nursery.”

It makes a lot more sense to use this for our outing than his Porsche.

Max pulls out a printout of thrift stores and we pick the closest one to visit first. From there, we’ll head toward downtown.

As we pull up to the Salvation Army, I ask him what we’re shopping for.

“Paintings—and they must be hand-painted. No prints and they don’t have to be good.”

I’m not sure what I expected, but I definitely wasn’t expecting that.

“Paintings of what?”

“It could be anything. I’ll know it when I see it.”

“Are you redecorating?” I tease him, knowing that anything we find in a thrift store won’t be hanging in his home.

“Actually, I’m going to incorporate the paintings we find into a new series I’m developing. It’s like when rappers sample parts of other musician’s songs. That’s why I have my camera,” he gestures to the case on the center console. “The pictures I take may become part of the work, or at least part of the story.”

I’m fascinated. The mind of an artist is bewildering to navigate.

When we step out of the truck, he takes a picture of the thrift shop’s storefront. As we go inside, the sights and smells of a million disparate objects that have all once belonged to different people hit me. There are racks of clothes, stacks of dishes and shelves of books. Everything has a forlorn look, nothing matches and it makes me feel a little sad. It reminds me of those early days in L.A. when I frequented places like this for things I needed.

The efficient thing about looking for paintings is you can quickly scan through the store for anything to consider. This store disappoints because all we find is a framed Scooby-Doo poster and a needlepoint of a vase of flowers that’s starting to unravel. Max takes a shot of their offering and we head out.

In the second store, we have better luck. Hanging crookedly on the wall are several prints and paintings. Max chooses a brown-hued landscape and a large, poorly executed painting of a ship at sea. He not only takes pictures of the store, but several of me paying for the painting with the cash he’s handed me. He takes the receipt and carefully folds it into his wallet, explaining that it might end up in the art as well.

By the time we’ve snaked our way downtown, we have more than a dozen paintings crammed behind the seat of the truck. My personal favorite is the paint-by-number masterpiece of horses running across the plains, though I can’t wait to see what he does with our finds.

He looks not just happy, but inspired. He keeps opening up a leather journal, making notes and drawling little thumbnail sketches. Being able to intimately watch his creative process develop is something I’ll always remember.

“Okay, time to feed you!” He smiles as he pulls into a parking lot by the train station. There’s a sign that says Phillippe, The Original French Dipped Sandwiches.

“Is this where we’re going?” I ask.

“Yeah, I promised you good food and you’re going to get it!”

If the long lines of people at the front counter waiting to place their order are any indication, then he’s right about it being good.

Max shoos me away to find a table, and I score a little wooden booth near the vintage candy counter. There’s sawdust on the floor and old-fashioned linoleum-topped tables with wooden stools. Vintage photos of the establishment over the years surround the sign on the wall that says Phillippe’s has been open since 1908. The place hasn’t changed much.

I smile, thinking about Max. He’s happiest when he’s focused on the creative process and relaxed enough to be himself. It must be a relief to spend a day with a friend without the spotlight of the art world focused on everything he does. This carefree, inspired side of him is a side of Max few people see.

He carries a plastic tray loaded with food—French dip sandwiches, little plates of macaroni salad, a slice of apple pie and two bottles of root beer.

“Just one piece of pie?”

“I thought we could share,” he says, smiling.

After we unload the tray, I take a bite of the sandwich.

“Mmm!” I moan and roll my eyes with pleasure.

“I know, great huh?” He laughs, looking delighted. “Wait until you try the pie.”

“You know all the good places, Max.”

“Well, when I was in high school, I had friends from all over the city, so I learned where all the cool places were. I’ll have to take you to Chinatown some day for dim sum.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Hey, at your studio, do you guys print artists that aren’t part of your gallery?”

“We do. Why? Are you thinking about making serigraph prints of your work?”

“Yeah, Dylan’s talked about it for the Barcelona show.” His eyes light up. “Hey, you said you’ve worked on the prints, right? Would you work on mine?”

“Oh, wouldn’t that be great! I’ll ask Adam if I can be involved.”

“Well, I’ll insist you’re a part of it.”

I give him a sly grin as I sip my soda. “I love it when you throw your weight around.”

“Yeah, I’m unrelenting. And just think, I can help. How fun would that be?”

“Loads . . . but you need to know what you’re getting into by helping. We screen the colors on one at a time, so it can take weeks before the final edition is printed. I’m not sure you’ll be able to stand me for that long.”

“I guess I’ll suffer for my art.” He winks.

When it’s time to tackle the pie, he waves his fork happily before sinking it into the crust.

“So, one thing I can’t figure out, Ava, is why you don’t have a boyfriend,” he says while fork fighting me for the next bite of apple pie.

“A boyfriend?” I tip my head, and arch my brows.

He gives me a sideways-glance and fights off a smile. “You know, a guy who’s your only one—who you’re involved with. The guy you’re madly in love with.”

“Oh, one of those,” I reply coyly. “I don’t know.”

“You’re a lot of fun when you’re not sending bitchy emails.” He grins widely.

“Okay, let’s forget those emails. I promise not to send them anymore.” I look down and lick the apple goo off my fork. “I guess I’m emotionally stunted. I seem to have lost the ability to give my heart away.”

He looks down and pushes the plate away. “Do you get lonely?”

I shrug. “Do I seem lonely? I have more than enough going on to keep me happily occupied.”

“What about sex?” He looks into my eyes with an expression that is a little
too
curious.

“Ah, that’s what you’re digging at! You want to know if I have secret lovers at my beck and call.”

He raises his eyebrows and waits.

“I’ll never tell, Mr. Caswell. I’ll never tell.” I can’t believe I’m being such a tease. But just because I know too much about my new BFF’s sex life doesn’t mean he has to know about mine. Besides, it’s a lot less dynamic than his . . . unless you count Jonathan’s flirting.

“What about you, Max?” I quickly turn the tables. “You told me you weren’t into relationships. Do you think you’ll ever change your mind, or are you going to continue down the swinging-single path?”

“I don’t know. I guess time will tell,” he answers cryptically.

As we get in the car to head home, I feel sad that our day together is coming to an end. When we’re away from all the bullshit, Max and I really have fun together.

He’s quiet as he drives, and I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing.

I pick up his camera case from the floor, ask if I can check it out, and he nods. I zip it open, carefully remove it, and check out all the dials and modes. “This is a great camera,” I say as I look through the lens. “Where’d you get it?”

“Samy’s Camera. Why?”

“Oh, just missing my camera that was stolen in the robbery.” I can’t hide the sadness in my voice as I switch the camera to the view setting. “I’m trying to save up money to buy a new one. Do you mind if I look at what you shot today?”

He hesitates for a second and looks uncomfortable, and I almost retract the question, but then he quietly says, “Okay.”

I start clicking through the images. He’s shot a lot more than I would’ve guessed—not just the outside of the stores and the art we found, but candids of people shopping and close-ups of stacks of hats and toys.

“Do you always shoot this much?” I ask.

“Yeah, that’s how I like to work. It’s so easy to delete images after the fact, and I don’t want to miss something in the moment.”

As he’s talking, I begin to realize something. There are pictures of me . . . not just the ones I am aware of like when I paid for the paintings, but all kinds of shots, close-ups and long shots that he must’ve taken when we were on our own looking for things.

As I flip back and forth through the images, my heart speeds up because there’s something so intimate about what he’s done here. In one close-up of my face, I’m looking up and biting my lip. The illumination from the window brushes across my face from light to shadow, and I look . . . pretty. Is this how he sees me?

Why did he shoot all these pictures of me? Does it mean anything or am I letting my imagination get the better of me? I shut the camera off and quietly put it back in the case.

“Will you give me an advance preview of your paintings from this series when they’re done?”

He smiles and nods, watching me closely, but I don’t give anything away.

When we pull up to my house there isn’t any parking on the street, so he double parks while I unbuckle my seatbelt.

“Thanks, Max. I had a really great time.” I lean over and hug him. We both hold the hug a little longer than is necessary . . . I suppose because we don’t want the day to end. I pull away and open the door.

“Wait, Ava.” He reaches down for his camera case, takes out the camera and removes the tiny flash card. After he puts the card in his shirt pocket and puts another flash card in the camera, he hands the case and camera to me.

My mouth drops open. “What, Max?”

He smiles at me warmly. “I want you to have it. I’ll give you the manual and charging cord next time I see you.”

“But, it’s your camera,” I say with a gasp.

“Now, it’s yours. I want you to have it. Let’s not fight about it.”

I press my lips tightly together as I fight off my tears.

“Besides, I have to go to Samy’s next week, so I’ll just get another one then. I was already thinking about upgrading to the newer model, so it all works out.”

“But, this is an expensive camera.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Here’s the deal . . . how about next week you take me out to Huntington Gardens in Pasadena? It’s great in the spring and I haven’t been there in a long time. So, bring your camera, I’ll bring my new camera and we’ll take some shots. Deal?”

I sit for a moment, holding the camera case tucked into me like a running back holds a freshly-caught football. This is not a fair trade. It’s almost too much, his being so nice to me. This side of him is too wonderful, and it takes my breath away. I fight back a wave of emotion.

I take a deep breath and calm myself. “Thank you, Max . . . thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome.”

I open the door and, as I step out, I turn to him once more.

“You know, if you keep being this nice, it’s going to be hard to get rid of me.”

“I’m counting on that,” he says quietly with a smile.

I sigh as I shut the door and watch him drive away until his truck is a tiny dot on the horizon.

Chapter Fifteen / Hello Kitty

Life is about using the whole box of crayons.

~RuPaul

“W
ell, Ava, your influence knows no bounds.” Adam announces at Monday morning’s meeting.

“Influence?” I ask, startled.

“Yes. Dylan called me this morning about printing an edition for Max Caswell. It may be the first in a series.”

More projects for the studio. “That’s good news, right?”

“Absolutely! We want to develop a reputation of printing younger artists as well as the established artists we built our reputation on. This is very good news.”

“So, what does this have to do with Ava?” Sean asks warily.

“Well, Caswell will do the project with us only if Ava’s involved in the printing,” Adam explains.

Sean looks irritated. He takes it as a personal affront.

“And . . . Caswell wants to be present during some of the printing. He may explore doing some remarques and manipulation on the prints,” Adam adds.

“Oh, Ava! Looks like you have a not-so-secret admirer!” Brian exclaims.

I make a face at Brian and try to deflect the assumptions. “No, we were just talking about serigraphy the other day, and I spoke very highly of the studio. He may’ve just assumed I’d be involved with the printing. I can tell him it isn’t necessary.”

“When did you have this talk?” Sean asks.

Adam ignores him and addresses me. “No, I want you to be there with Sean. If it makes Max more comfortable having you there, it only makes sense to do that. You usually help Sean anyway on the more complicated print runs. I have the original in my office, and I estimate it’s easily thirty colors.”