“It’s so unfair,” I murmur.
“What’s unfair?”
“That a jerk like Krell has so much talent. What’s it called?”
“Duncan.”
I nod at the photographs. “I’m guessing that’s the real Duncan?”
“Yep.”
Even unfinished, the painting is more subtle and complex than I could have imagined. The portrait is somehow realistic and abstract simultaneously, as the right side of the man’s face disintegrates before the viewer. I peel a photograph off the wall and hold it up to the canvas. The look in the man’s eye is unmistakably Duncan’s.
The urge to touch the painting floods me, and I reach out, but Adam grabs my wrist. “Wait. Don’t touch. You’ve got oil on your fingers.”
I jerk, surprised at myself. “Sorry. I don’t know why I did that.”
“No problem.” He reaches for a bottle of hand sanitizer. “Here. Hold out your hand.”
Adam squirts the gel on my palm, then sandwiches my hand between his. Goose bumps race up my arm as he rubs the cool gel into my skin. It’s been so long since I’ve been touched.
“It happens to me sometimes,” he says, his voice molten. “A painting or a sculpture grabs hold of me, and it’s not enough to take it in with my eyes.”
He lets go of my hand, and it’s like a snap, a current breaking. I almost need to steady myself.
“Now you can touch,” he says.
I glide my fingers over the painting, reading the layers of pigment like a language. Krell built them up slowly, a layer of oil paint mixed with beeswax then fused to the layer beneath. They are a topographical map of expression. The painting is both the artist and his subject, a conversation, a pact they’ve made.
A feeling builds in my chest, a longing I can barely grasp much less explain: I want to be this good; I could be this good if Krell would help me.
I have to get him on my side. But how?
Gazing into the electric pulse of Duncan’s eyes, I realize I’m looking at a window into Krell. All his techniques are on display, all the beliefs that fuel his artistic decisions, from how to compose a painting to how to choose pigments.
Everything he refuses to teach me is right in front of me.
Click! I look up and Adam holds out his phone. “You need to see your face.”
He’s caught me reaching out, my fingertips skimming the surface of Krell’s painting, mouth open like I am trying to breathe in its essence, taking it in not just with my eyes, but with all my senses.
“Give me your number,” Adam says. “I’ll send it to you.”
I stick the snapshot of Duncan back on the wall, rattle off my cell number, and turn back to Krell’s painting. “This is one of the Strata series, isn’t it?”
“You read Krell’s interview in Artforum. I’m impressed. Yes, Duncan’s portrait is layered over another image.”
Adam throws his head back in a pose that’s classic Krell. “‘In the Strata series, I layer over my obsessions. Locking away my innermost thoughts acts as a form of cleansing, allowing me to concentrate purely on my subject. The painting that results is both public and private, offering the viewer a shared and concealed reality.’”
He flares his nostrils as he finishes, and I crack up. “You’ve really got Krell down.”
“I’ve had five years to observe him, so, yeah, I’ve got him down.”
I run my hand along the edge of the painting. “You know what’s underneath, don’t you? What Krell’s secret obsession is.”
Adam steps back, a hand raised in denial. “No, when I saw Duncan, the lower strata were already covered.”
I’m glad I don’t have an X-Acto knife on me, because Adam would have to wrestle it out of my hand to stop me from scratching through the surface and seeing what’s there.
“What did you learn?” I ask him.
“What do you mean?”
“You told me you studied Krell’s paintings to learn what you needed for your art. What did you learn?”
He shrugs. “I can’t put it into words, and even if I could I doubt it would help you.”
I stretch, raising my arms over my head, reaching for what’s beyond my grasp. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“Seen enough?”
“Yes,” I tell him even though I could easily stand here another hour or two.
We pick up our stuff and duck out of Krell’s studio. We’re quiet as we make our way to the back door. Adam props it open and I expect him to follow me out, but he says, “I need to say good night here, I’ve got to go back upstairs to work.”
I’m slightly disappointed, but I say, “Thanks. I really appreciate you showing me Krell’s painting.”
“Anytime.”
The door shuts behind him, leaving me alone beside the loading dock. As I walk away, my phone buzzes and the screen lights up with the pic Adam took of me in front of Krell’s painting. I shake my head at the look of rapture in my face.
It’s like they say: Love the art, hate the artist.
I’m halfway up the block when Adam sends me a second pic, one of Krell’s entire painting. I spread my fingers to enlarge it, but the details blur.
You really can’t tell much about a painting from a photograph.
I’m dreading Painting Strategies on Wednesday, knowing I have to face not just Krell and Kevin, but everyone else who witnessed my humiliation in class on Monday.
I get to class early and stake out a stool next to the easel Kevin normally picks. Yesterday, when I thought about what I said to him, I realized I needed to come up with a better apology than simply saying, “I’m sorry.” Taysha and I talked it over, and this morning I set the apology for him on my lap and wait for Kevin to arrive.
My classmates trickle in, and it’s like Monday never happened. No one’s ignoring me or offering me pity smiles, they’re basically going about their business.
I watch the door and can’t help noticing how much sharper and edgier my classmates have become since the semester began. It’s not just their painting, it’s them. Bernadette’s long blond hair is tipped neon pink, and the left side’s shaved. Gone is her simple white tee; the black one she now wears under her slouchy overalls is shredded almost into ribbons.
Keiko’s got ten more chains hanging off her ears, and somehow they make a plaid skirt with suspenders look angry. Birch sets his paint box down a few seats from me. His gold metallic shorts are shorter than any I’ve ever worn, and a new silver nose ring taps his upper lip. Instantly, I’m taken back to a fight I had with Mom junior year.
She was cooking me a veggie omelet while I thrashed through my wardrobe trying to create an artsy, edgy look.
“Why can’t I get a nose ring?” I railed. “I look so boring. I’m practically invisible.”
“And that’s exactly how you will look as long as we live at the Taylors’.”
I grabbed a granola bar, ignoring the omelet she’d put on the table. “It’s not fair! I shouldn’t have to dress to make them happy.”
Mom took my face in her hands, holding fast as I tried to push away. “You don’t need a nose ring to prove you’re an artist. You’ve got talent, Sabine.”