The Artist and the Actor – 5

 

 

Thomas Michaelson was, if not ecstatic, at least obviously relieved when he saw Colin come into the gallery Tuesday morning to deliver the final two paintings for the show, as promised.

 

"Colin, you're going to give me gray hair," he rumbled as he removed the brown paper to reveal the paintings. He studied them, and then tapped one. "Very different from your usual style, but I like it. I think it will bring a good price."

 

"And money is everything," Colin replied wryly.

 

"On a practical level, yes." Thomas patted Colin's arm. "It keeps you in supplies, you know that."

 

Colin chuckled. "At least you didn't say my lavish life style."

 

"You may have a nice house, but from what I've seen of it, you hardly live lavishly."

 

"I save that for my art," Colin admitted as his gaze swept along the gallery wall that held the paintings for his newest exhibition. Most of them were small, with rich, intense colors, depicting the reality of life as seen through the eyes of dreamer.

 

"One reason your works sell. They give the viewer the feeling you understand their deepest feelings, good or bad. Although…" Thomas picked up the painting Colin had just finished. "In this case, I'm not so certain hope is what the average person would feel when they looked at it. Why, Colin?"

 

"Why the change? It's personal, Thomas. In memory of my brother, who shouldn't have died, but did."

 

"I understand," Thomas replied, and his expression said that he meant it. "Yet you're willing to sell it."

 

Colin nodded. "I suppose you could say I exorcised the demon of my loss when I painted it." He smiled as he looked at it. "Don't worry; I'm not going begin creating new ones in this style. It's not me. As I said, it was something I needed to do at the moment. I don't need to keep it to remind me of the past." I get enough of that each time I look at that photo of Kenny. He bit back a sigh before saying, "If you don't need me for anything…"

 

"Not until Friday evening. And Colin, please dress appropriately."

 

Colin chuckled. "Don’t want me playing the starving artist? Not to worry. No one would believe it if I did. I'll see you, dressed to perfection, in three days."

 

Leaving the gallery, he walked two blocks to Wazee and one of his favorite restaurants, happy to find that he wasn't too early. He found a seat on the patio, ordered coffee and the tuna melt when the waiter arrived, and then took his sketchpad and pencils from his messenger bag. An hour later, he finished eating, closed his pad, which now held several ideas for his next painting, and paid. After returning to where he'd parked, he headed home.