The Medium of Desire Read online

  “Hello?” Olivia asked, her voice shaky.

  “Hey, it’s Brett. What’s going on?”

  “Not too much.”

  “I was just calling about the lesson we were supposed to have yesterday?”

  “Oh yeah, sorry. I should have texted you. I was on a Tinder date and lost track of time.”

  A Tinder date? What was she doing on a Tinder date? Why was she telling him that? What the hell? He wondered if anything had happened. He wanted to see her even more. He felt so weak, malnourished.

  “Let’s reschedule.”

  “When?”

  “How about today?”

  “Today? I’m kind of busy today.”

  “I was going to show you how to paint mountains,” Brett said, trying to strengthen the meekness in his voice. He had to be strong.

  “Well, I had been wanting to paint Mount Rainier.”

  “Yea? Why Mount Rainier?” Brett asked.

  “I used to go there when I was a little girl,” Olivia said. “Is that a bad reason?”

  “It’s as good a reason as any.”

  “When would you like me to come over?”

  “I’ll be at the studio all day.” He looked at the countless crusty brushes he had neglected to clean, lying fallow among the rest of the objects on his table of interesting things.

  “So I can come over anytime?”

  “Anytime you’d like.”

  Chapter 19

  Waiting for Olivia, Brett stared up at clouds for hours. A stack of new magazines had arrived, but he wasn’t interested in reading. He hoped Olivia would arrive at any moment, but the longer he waited the scarcer his motivation became to start on a new painting. Rather than force himself to produce, he just kept staring at the sky, replaying the afternoon with Olivia that turned unexpectedly romantic, trying to determine what he had done wrong. Gradually the once happy memory became only a flash point for self-criticism, and increasingly, a cause for self-doubt.

  A knock finally came at the studio door, and Brett raced to meet her. When he slid the door open, there she stood, t-shirted and flip-flopped and absolutely gorgeous.

  “Glad you made it,” Brett said, stuttering.

  “Yeah, I had some time free up,” Olivia said. “I hope you weren’t in the middle of anything.”

  “No, it’s fine. I can pick this back up whenever.” Brett waved his hand towards a distant easel, as if that was where he’d been working. “I’m glad you could come over.”

  He quickly set to work, showing her several pictures of mountain ranges and peaks he had torn from various magazines and printed from Google images. He showed her the ridgelines, the peaks and crests.

  “You want to hold on to the tension that’s caused by the tectonic plates colliding, how the mountain strains under pressure to create these great muscles of mass that grasp into the heavens, the natural sovereign of their surroundings, with all the majesty and mystical incumbency,” Brett said.

  Olivia locked into the task, one well-thought brush stroke quickly following another. He stepped back to admire her. She had a certain poise, an admirable power of focus. She attacked the canvas, pausing only to swish her brush on the pallet. Even if her work was from a technical prospective amateur, she was an inspired amateur. She retained information as well as anyone he had ever met.

  Would she stay with him long enough to master the brush? He couldn’t help but think of her Tinder date. He imagined her out with some handsome yuppie at a fine restaurant during its busiest hour, sorting through the details of one another’s past, finding breaks in the tension to laugh together. What did they talk about? Had she gone home with him? Had she given the stranger what Brett had been denied? Had Brett and Olivia even gone on a date? Maybe their kisses were just an accident, maybe that explained her coolness. Maybe she liked him as a painter and only in that capacity, and she was confused? Maybe that day was never supposed to have happened.

  He watched her paint for nearly two hours, only occasionally breaking the silence to give a few directions. When she finally took a break, she walked over to the table of interesting things and shook an empty cigarette pack.

  Brett produced a pack from his pocket and tossed them to her.

  Olivia dangled a cigarette in her mouth and lit it with the strike of a kitchen match. She glanced around, wandering over to the fringe of the space where the light met the impenetrable darkness. She took too deep of a drag and coughed.

  “What do you see out there?” Brett asked.

  “I feel like there’s something out there,” she said. “What else do you keep in here?”

  “Nothing. It’s just a big damn empty space.”

  “It doesn’t feel empty,” she said.

  He wanted to ask her out to dinner, but he didn’t want his feelings for her to be mistaken. If he did have a chance with her, he wanted her to know his interest was sincere. If some asshole from Tinder could take her out, then he could take her out on a proper date, too.

  “Why do you need all this space if you use so little of it?” Olivia asked.

  “Well,” Brett said. “A 10,000 square foot space here costs me as much as 500 square feet in the Fan. I like the openness of it, it’s a lot better than huffing paint fumes in a tight space. Plus, I don’t know, maybe I’ll need the extra space one day.”

  She nodded and puffed on the cigarette, but he doubted whether she was inhaling deep enough to achieve the physiological effect. She ambled back around to the sofa, dropped on the opposite side and flicked her cigarette into the void.

  “What are you doing tonight? Interested in grabbing a drink?” Brett asked.

  “I have dinner with my parents,” Olivia said.

  “What about tomorrow? Want to grab a drink with me and my friend Paco?”

  “Sure, I could do that. But can I bring a friend, too?” Olivia asked.

  “Why not?” Maybe they were back on track. He wanted to tell her how he felt, but what would he say? He wasn’t comfortable with her seeing other people, but was he ready to date someone exclusively? How far ahead of himself was he?

  Chapter 20

  The day arrived for Arthur Pinstead’s visit to Brett’s studio. Brett

  paced his apartment, uncertain as a political prisoner being led through a galley blindfolded to the shouts and scorns of other prisoners, uninformed whether the end of the walk held either release to his countrymen for a safe journey home, or a final descent into an executioner’s chambers. Haunted whispers of the place filling his head. He changed out of his habitual tank and cutoff jeans in favor of a blazer and tie, but ultimately changed into normal clothes to risk being himself.

  He had scoured the internet for information about Arthur Pinstead, but found only his reviews of other artists. They were all erudite, and were as variously glowing as they were scathing.

  He paced, wringing his hands. Maybe a drink to calm his nerves? No, he needed all of his faculties, he shouldn’t impair himself. Why did anyone ever drink? For the release from our conscious selves? He’d definitely need something after. A joint. A dozen beers. Something.

  A light knock rapped from the door.

  The moment had arrived.

  Pinstead wore thick spectacles, a button-down and slacks, like an accountant on casual Friday, his only divergence from the professional imperative the mop of blonde hair waggling on his head contrasted against the day’s growth of hair on the shaved sides. He removed his glasses and wiped them with a silk handkerchief.

  Brett introduced himself and led him towards the paintings. Some rested on easels, others were crudely displayed, leaned against cinderblocks, but rather than examine the paintings, Pinstead examined the dark corners of the warehouse.

  “You’re rather opulent in your austerity,” Pinstead said.

  “I like to have space.”

  “Does this facility have electricity?”

  “No.”

  “How do you paint when the sun goes down?”

  “Besides
when there’s a full moon?”

  Pinstead nodded, acknowledging the quip. Yes, besides then.

  “Torchlight, mostly.”

  Pinstead surveyed the room until his eyes fell on the iron rod Brett had planted in the cement floor, burnt rags still wrapped around the pinnacle. Pinstead leaned in close to the torch, and sniffed.

  “I’ve heard you’re an anthropology aficionado,” Brett said.

  “I know we share similar interests, Mr. Bale,” Pinstead said. “Tell me, on what material is this oil-painting?”

  “The one of the shaman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wild boar leather.”

  “Where did you acquire it?”

  “It was a gift from a friend. He’d been hunting in Tennessee or somewhere. I told him I’d make him something on it.”

  “Do you know the toughest part of my job?” Pinstead asked, moving to sit on the sofa, hesitating when he noticed its rough condition. Brett guessed his guest was disgusted, but Brett had been around the well-heeled before, those acclimated to luxurious accommodations. He certainly wasn’t bothered to be around one now. Pinstead’s attention fell on a painting of an orange sun bleeding into a tumultuous red sea, and he found a seat in spite of himself.

  “No,” Brett said definitively.

  “I’ll give you a hint. It’s not looking at paintings.”

  “Meeting people?”

  “Artists can be a difficult breed,” Pinstead said, as if recalling some lost memory. “They can be very difficult. Their passion for vanity. No, the toughest part of my job is finding the words to describe my experience.”

  “What experience is that?”

  Pinstead laughed. “You’ve hit upon the point exactly. How to define the experience. What to emphasize and what to conspicuously omit.”

  What is he trying to say? Was he going to ask him about his inspiration? Who influenced his style? His worldview? Or was he going to chide him for his lack of observation?

  “Do you have anything to drink?” Pinstead asked.

  Brett pointed to a huddled collection of liquids, a withered case of bottled water with only a lucky few still retaining their labels, a quarter bottle of Jim Beam and a few loose beers of miscellaneous manufacture.

  “No thank you. I’m actually in the mood for an espresso, but how foolish to have asked since you don’t have electricity!”

  “Indeed,” Brett said.

  Pinstead stood and dusted himself, looking for the door.

  “Is everything alright?” Brett asked.

  “I know your time is valuable, and I have everything I need.”

  He’d blown it. Under the crushing weight of the final failure of his life’s work, Brett followed Pinstead to the door, who escaped into the summer air without ceremony, leaving Brett alone. He’d blown it, and the only lingering question was how bad. He could guess he wouldn’t get a glowing review, but had he made such a negative impression that Pinstead would put him out of business? Despite wanting to run after the Pinstead, he just stood at the door to his studio, his confidence shaken to its source.

  Chapter 21

  “Does he fuck good?” Carol asked.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Olivia replied.

  “I bet he’s got a cock like a jackhammer.”

  Olivia had had no trouble convincing Carol to join her and the celebrated artist for drinks. Olivia and Carol arrived in the Fan outside of Postbellum in the waning hours of the warm, orange daylight, when the sun glowed like a bride. Carol wore a stringy spaghetti strap and Navajo feather headband that made Olivia feel old-fashioned in her beige polo. Olivia hesitated outside of the restaurant, wishing she’d never agreed to tonight. Brett was a player. Cock like a jackhammer. Olivia laughed. She’d let him show her some painting tricks, but that didn’t mean she was going to let him try any other tricks on her, no sir. Meeting him and his friend here tonight had nothing to do with art and everything to do with being a big fat mistake. Being a boy, she knew his invitation was laden with expectations of expanding his conquests. Worse, she feared after a few drinks, she wouldn’t be able to resist his charms. She wasn’t falling for that sensitive guy crap any longer. She wasn’t about to become just another one of his girls.

  Carol took her arm and led her across the street into Postbellum. They walked past the hostess, crossed the rows of booths and hightops supervised by a mounted moosehead on the wall high above, climbing a narrow set of stairs, the bumping music and cacophony growing louder, until they crested at the rooftop bar.

  “Which ones are they?” Carol asked, her voice laced with eagerness.

  Olivia surveyed the bar, spotting Brett leaning against the edge next to a handsome, exotic guy.

  “Olivia,” Brett said, greeting her with a big hug, which she did not reciprocate. “Ladies this is my friend, Paco.” Paco had on a t-shirt with the word Castrol scrawled diagonally across, and she could hardly get over his thick rowdy mess of hair.

  “Hey girls,” Paco said with a light wave, hunched over the bar sipping his mixed drink through a bendy straw. “Paco.”

  “This is awesome,” Brett said, his eyes lit on her like a police officer’s flashlight cast on a flighty suspect. Like she was a person of interest to him.

  “Yeah,” Olivia said. She realized she was so wound up she was at a loss for conversation. She hadn’t read a magazine, cracked a book, seen a movie, or done her nails since that day at the studio. Since that day, all she could think of was Brett and that slut. She surveyed for exits, for signs of what to do.

  “So how do you two know each other?” Brett asked.

  “We went to undergrad together,” Olivia said.

  “Were you like roommates or something?”

  “No, we weren’t,” Carol said. “Just kind of knew each other. How do you two know each other?”

  “We went to grade school together,” Brett said.

  Paco nodded.

  “Wow, go way back, huh?”

  “All the way back,” Paco said.

  “So I understand Brett is a painter,” Carol said. “What do you do, Paco?”

  “I’m a chef.”

  “Really? Where do you cook?”

  “Nowhere currently,” Paco replied, quickly finding an insignificant spot to stare at on the ground.

  Olivia didn’t know whether the small talk was really that excruciating, or if she was terrified for it to end, or mortified by where it could go. She really needed a drink.

  “He quit his job to start his own business,” Brett said.

  “Really, well that’s great,” Carol said. “I love entrepreneurship. The saints of capitalism. Bearing all that risk on your shoulders for the good of society. I hope you find your fortune.”

  Paco cracked a toothy smile.

  “Should we get you girls some drinks?” Brett asked.

  “Definitely,” Carol said.

  Olivia stood back while the boys ordered drinks. Carol had an impeccable ability to locate and aggravate raw nerves. Like by taking an immediate interest in Brett. It was clear Carol had an eye for him, but he kept trying to deflect Carol to Paco while searching for Olivia with those puppy-dog eyes. Jesus. How many girls did this guy keep on ice?

  “Kebabs?” Carol asked in a fake New Jersey accent. “Not really a chef’s work, are they?”

  “I think they’re great,” Brett said.

  “Don’t eat out a lot?”

  How had she lost New York for this? For dreams of San Francisco, but how had she failed to end up in either? Between jobs, it was easy for her to feel she wasn’t living at all, stuck in the intermission of her twenties. She had no income and no place of her own. Why did people always say life was what happened while you’re making other plans? She’d like to embrace the now, only it was a hard steak to chew when she was unemployed, unemployable, and the guy she had fallen for was polygamous. If she slept with him tonight, he’d screen her calls tomorrow.

  “So is Paco really your name, or is that a stage
name you borrowed from one of those UFC guys or something?” Carol asked, motioning towards the TV, where two well-conditioned athletes bludgeoned each other senselessly, blood speckling the canvas floor of an octagon-fenced cage, a live audience cheering on the destruction.

  “I wish they’d turn that shit off,” Brett said.

  “You don’t like UFC?” Olivia chimed in.

  “No,” Brett said definitively.

  “I might have thought you would,” Olivia said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “I thought artists were good at appreciating everything,” Olivia said. “No less, appreciating another man’s art.”

  “Art?” Brett asked, beer splashing over the cusp of his glass, catching the bottom of his untucked shirt. “That isn’t art.”

  “Anything can be art if you make it art, right?”

  “Violence can never be art.”

  “But violence is everywhere. Violence is nature.”

  “Mankind is defined by its separateness and lordship over nature.”

  Carol started to contest, but Brett cut her off. “Violence was the primal state of man. Art was created to elevate us above our origins. Art is a reaction to violence. Art was the catharsis primitive man needed to acquire the necessary patience to build a civilization.”

  “A civilization so advanced that it permits this sort of contained primitiveness as a sort of zoological novelty,” Carol said.

  “Something like that,” Brett replied.

  God, Carol wasn’t very subtle. Did she really have to touch Brett every five seconds? She wished she’d told Carol how bad she had it for Brett. But did she want feelings for Brett? Was Brett the cure, or a symptom of some underlying malaise?

  Olivia ordered herself another drink, and then another. The conversation raced around topics, from local politics, to watercolors, astronomy, pho recipes, and home gardening. Olivia superficially interacted, interjecting a comment here and there to appear engaged, nodding her head like a dumbass when she hadn’t heard anything that was said, her thoughts circling and doubling back on themselves, thoughts of where she was going with her career, but her attention mostly fixated on Brett.