“Not that kind of interview,” Mona snapped. “This is for a job.”
The road curves around the side of the hill, and the houses up here are planted farther apart. A couple still have their Christmas decorations up even though we’re halfway through January.
When I called the phone number, the woman said the artist she worked for needed someone with my skills, and I’m still wondering what she meant.
I find the address I’m looking for and steer past the mailbox down a driveway cut into the hill. The drive flattens into a circle in front of a one-story house.
This better be for real. I’m tempted to drive away. I’ve already been contacted by dealers who wanted me to touch up paintings they said were in bad shape. The money they offered was way too much to be legit.
But none of them went through CALINVA to reach me.
I pull up to the carport under the sprawling limbs of an oak. The matte-brown L-shaped house is a classic midcentury with clean lines and long triangular windows under the low roof. I take my portfolio out of the car and walk to the ocher red door. I’m five minutes late. Damn.
It doesn’t matter if you don’t get this job, I tell myself. You mostly came because you were curious. Right now I work enough hours at Artsy and La Petite Tomate to cover my expenses.
An Asian woman wearing a black tunic and loose khaki pants opens the door. Her black hair is fastened into a short ponytail, and a chunky turquoise necklace circles her neck. “Ms. Reyes?”
“Yes, sorry I’m late.”
“Five minutes in LA isn’t late.”
I step inside and huge black-framed windows offer a panoramic view of the canyon. A fire road zigzags up the opposite slope, a mustard-colored cut through the silvery gray-green brush. “Wow. This view is amazing.”
“Surprising how serene the location is considering its proximity to downtown.” The woman smiles at my port-folio. “Good. You brought your work.” She motions to me to follow her. “I’m sure you have questions, and I apologize for the mysterious nature of the invitation, but Willy is a very private man. He did not wish to expose himself to anyone whose purpose in coming was questionable.”
We start down the hall. Long angled shelves of art books offer their covers to us.
Willy who? I run through every Willy I can think of in the art world, and as we emerge into a huge room at the back, I see two enormous portraits.
Holy shit, it’s Willy Steam.
Several eight-foot-tall portraits fill the wall opposite me. The faces look like mosaics assembled from brightly colored shapes: diamonds, squashed circles, and triangles. Oversize photographs of the people he’s painted hang next to the acrylics.
The paintings draw me to them. How Steam has captured these people using abstract shapes I can’t even begin to understand.
I come close to the canvases and then back up again. How does he do that?
A soft thunk thunk makes me wheel around. “Mr. Steam. Hello.”
Steam shambles forward with his walker, but seems too young to shuffle this way. He commands my attention with his piercing blue eyes and streaked mane of hair. His eyes take me in, assessing me, sizing me up.
“Sabine Reyes. Thank you for coming. I wanted to meet you.” He chokes and his words break up as he speaks, but his eyes are fiery.
I fumble through thank-you-glad-to-meet-you-too, and follow him as he crosses the room to a pair of chairs positioned by the wall of windows. I take the chair he offers me. “I brought my portfolio,” I say.
Steam falls back into his chair. “Don’t need it.”
This has got to be some kind of joke. Why am I here? “I don’t know what you know about me.”
“I know you paint so well you fooled Collin Krell.”
Heat rises into my cheeks and I pop out of my seat. “I’m sorry. I made a mistake coming here.”
“You’re mighty indignant for an art forger,” he calls after me.
“I am not a forger. I copied his work without permission, and that was a huge mistake.”
“What if I asked you to paint a copy of something?”
“I’d say no.”
“What if I asked you to be my hands?”
I stop at the doorway.
Steam lifts his hands off the arms of the chair and holds them out. He tries to hold them steady, but his fingers jerk and twitch like they’re playing a frenetic song. “Parkinson’s. I can barely hold a brush.”
His confession makes me gasp. What would it be like to have so much talent, so much vision, and not be able to express it? I go back and sit down. “Tell me what you need.”
“I begin a painting by taking a photo and breaking it into a grid. I’d need you to lay the grid out on the canvas.” He rushes to finish as his chest seizes. Coughs rack his body, and his face turns red.
He tries to explain but can’t get out the words, so I say, “I guess we’d talk through what shapes and colors to use in each square on the grid.”
He nods, so I continue. “Then I’d paint in the square, and we’d change it if it isn’t working?”
“Yes. Exactly.” The coughing has stopped, and he takes a deep breath. “What do you think?”
I run my eyes over the canvases. I’ve never seen anything like them before, and I doubt a pariah like me will be offered a chance like this ever again. I could learn from him.
I’ve begun painting again, fighting my way through, experiencing moments of joy, times when I see my visions take form, when the feelings that roil me are tamed in paint.
Six months ago, I wanted to be top in my class, Zoich winner, Krell’s fawned-over protégée, but now that dream feels empty.
What feels right is to do all I can to be as good a painter as I can. And working with Willy Steam, helping him make his visions real…feels right on so many levels.
“I don’t want any secrets or confusion,” I say. “If I work on your painting, I want your dealer to know. And if someone buys it, I want them to know, too.”
“Complete transparency.” Steam glances at a half glass of water on the sawed-off tree trunk by his chair. “Agreed.” His hand closes around the orange plastic glass, and the water inside sloshes back and forth as he goes to drink from the straw.
I’m tempted to jump up and help, but I don’t because I know it would kill any chance I have to work for him.
I want this job, but I don’t want him to regret hiring me. “You should check my references. My boss at Artsy says he’d be happy to answer any questions.”
“Nope. I don’t need other references. I have Collin Krell’s.”
My head spins, and nausea rises from my gut.
“You can’t believe it,” Steam says.
I shake my head no.
“I didn’t either…at first. Collin was my student. I asked him for a name, and he suggested you.”
Now I’m the one struggling to speak. “Did he say why?”
“He said he failed you.”
“Not true. He taught me so much. He changed the way I look at painting.”
“Yes, he said you progressed, but he was not the teacher you needed.”
I’d love to ask Steam how Krell’s doing. Taysha told me she heard he’s in therapy. But I sense Steam’s told me all he intends to about Krell. “When would you need me to start?” I ask.