Chapter 1
DEVON STARR stood by the gallery wall and breathed a sigh of relief. The opening of his new exhibition seemed to have gone well. He had schmoozed with every person there, and the excitement had been palpable. Judging by the red stickers on the pieces, he had sold a large number of works. That was the real point of the entire exercise, even though no one but Roz, the gallery owner and manager, seemed to want to talk about that. No, instead, all evening long he’d spoken about the inspiration for a work or what he had been trying to capture in the image. Some aficionados had already figured what they thought Devon was expressing through his art and wanted to see if they were correct.
Still more people had spoken quietly to each other, and their conversations were the most interesting. “We should just buy and get in on the ground floor. The pieces are going quickly, and all his work is going up in value.” Then they would hurry over to one of the gallery staff, and a few minutes later a red dot would appear on the work… and a piece of Devon’s spirit would fly away to the highest bidder.
Okay, maybe that had been true once, that he put a piece of himself into each work, but for the past few years…. Devon didn’t even realize it was happening until it was too late—his spirit well seemed to have shriveled in on itself. The pieces that hung on these walls now, they were good art, but they didn’t contain a part of him, not like his older works had. Maybe he was the only one who saw it, but Devon knew.
“You did well,” Roz said as she fluttered up, a glass of white wine in her hand. Devon turned away for a second. When his gaze drew back to her, the wineglass had been placed on a side table, and she continued. “We sold over half the pieces just tonight, and I have people coming in who are interested in the rest.” She smiled, and Devon did the same.
“Thank you. I’m glad,” he said. His well of energy was empty and in desperate need of refilling, which, here in New York, meant sleeping for the next two days and then figuring out his next projects.
“Roz.” Andy, her assistant and right-hand person, approached them quietly. “Oh, hi, Devon.” They shook hands. “I have something I think you should both see.” He tilted his head toward the office and then led the way before closing the door behind them. Andy motioned to a large monitor. “I got this as a courtesy, but this will be printed tomorrow.” He angled the monitor, and Devon read the review.
“The latest exhibition by Devon Starr, who took the New York art world by storm just four years ago, seems… uninspired. The works are technically good, but they lack spark and don’t jump off the canvas the way his earlier works did. I have been a fan of this artist’s work since I saw his first exhibition, and I’ll admit that I was bowled over. But his latest work seems to have fallen a little flat.” The review continued with an overview of the exhibition, and Devon skipped to the end. “Devon Starr’s work continues to be good, and good art is worthy of hanging on a wall, but great art inspires the soul… and that’s exactly what these works lack.”
Roz grew pale, and Devon found it hard to breathe. Not that he could say that the reviewer was wrong, but his failings had been put out there for the entire world to see, and it hurt, even though he knew it was true. “What are we going to do to?” Devon asked, his stomach roiling.
“Sell what we can and move on,” Roz said.
Devon couldn’t bear to look at the words any longer. They were starting to hurt his eyes. The last of his remaining stamina seemed to be flowing away like a fast-running brook, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. “I want a drink. Maybe an entire bottle of Jack.” He wasn’t kidding. The craving hit him like a freight train all at once, and he breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth.
“Devon, I…,” Roz said, grasping his hands hard. “You know that isn’t the answer.”
Devon sighed. “Sure it is. These are the first works that I’ve done stone-cold fucking sober. Maybe I needed to be drunk in order to tap into whatever energy and piece of my soul these people demand of me.” His hands shook.
Andy grabbed a chair and guided him down into it.
“No. It isn’t. This is a minor setback, and you need to take a little time and let some inspiration come to you.” Roz held his shoulders gently, but Devon felt it through clouds and cotton, like he was removed from it. “Andy, will you take Devon home, please? There’s nothing more to be done here tonight.” Roz came around and stood in front of him. “That was one person’s opinion, and everyone tonight loved the pieces. Please think about this before you do anything rash,” Roz pleaded, her face set with deep worry lines.
Devon took a deep breath, heaving himself out of the chair. “I’ll be fine,” he told her… and himself. Devon’s hard-fought battle with the bottle was not going to be lost over one goddamned review. He had worked hard for this, and the war was going to continue for the rest of his life. There were times when it was waged much closer to his defenses than others, and right now the Huns were at the gate, battering it within an inch of its life, but it was holding, and Devon would make sure it stayed that way. “Just take me home.”
Roz didn’t look convinced, but Devon was tired and needed to eat. He followed Andy out of the gallery and down the back stairs. A white Hyundai sat in the lot. The car had definitely seen better days, but Devon got in and let Andy drive up chaotic Sixth Avenue and then turn left onto his quiet street in the Village. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”
“Yes. I’m going to be fine,” he promised Andy as well as himself. He was going to be. The Huns were already withdrawing a little, and the more he was able to think, the more he shored up his defenses.
Devon got out of the car, thanked Andy for the ride, and waved goodbye.
He took a deep breath of the night air and nearly coughed from the smell. This was New York, and Devon was willing to bet that he could wear a blindfold and earplugs and still know exactly where he was by the combined scent of garbage, piss, and people. It was depressing if he thought about it, so he pushed the idea aside and walked to the little corner deli, which was just getting ready to close. Devon hurried inside and got a sandwich and a few cold salads, paid, then walked to his building and climbed the stairs to his two-floor loft apartment slash studio. He unlocked and slid the door to the side on its rollers, closed it again, and locked himself inside.
He got a soda out of the refrigerator, sat at the table, and ate automatically. Devon knew he was just going through the motions, that he had been for quite a while. He hadn’t been living, just existing, and he needed to pull himself out of this shell and get back to being out there. Of course, being out there meant clubs, dancing, and booze, booze, booze.
Was he going to have to drink himself half to death in order to produce his art, the one thing that made him feel alive and worthwhile? That was the big damn question, and according to Martin What’s-his-fuck, the art critic, the answer seemed to be yes.
The idea was scary as hell, but it made sense to him. Still, it was one person, he kept telling himself as he ate his dinner.
After tossing out the wrappers, Devon headed to the bathroom. He got out of his gallery clothes and showered, trying to scrub away the stench of failure and frustration, but it seemed to permanently cling to him. Giving up, he turned off the water, dried himself off, and turned out all the lights before climbing into bed in the only other space segregated from the rest of the otherwise open loft. The main space’s floor-to-ceiling windows that let in all kinds of natural light during the day let in the city’s glow at night, which would have made it impossible for him to sleep. Thankfully, once he was in his dark bedroom, oblivion claimed him. But only for a while.