“I've been gone for a month, and to be honest, it was a mess before that. In fact”—he grinned broadly at her, slightly out of breath as they reached his landing—“it's been a mess for years.” So had his life, but he didn't point that out to her. He had appeared to be a pillar of stability to the women he went out with, but compared to Sylvia, he seemed haphazard and disorganized. She ran an extremely successful gallery, had had two long relationships in her life, raised two normal, healthy children to adulthood, and everything about her life and apartment was impeccable, orderly, and neat as a pin. When he opened the door to his apartment, they could hardly get through the door. One of his suitcases was blocking it, there were packages the super had just shoved in, and a stack of mail had fallen and was spread all over the floor. The bills he'd paid the day before lay open and in disarray on a table. There were clothes on the couch, his plants had died, and everything in the apartment looked tired and worn. It had a comfortable, masculine feeling to it. The furniture was decent looking, although the upholstery was worn. He had bought everything in the place secondhand. There was a round dining table in the corner of the room, where he entertained friends for dinner sometimes, and beyond it was what had once been the dining room, and had always been his studio. It was why she had come.
She walked straight toward it, as he tried in vain to make order in the place, but it was beyond hopeless, he realized. Instead, he followed her into the next room, and stood watching her reaction to his work. He had three paintings on easels in various states of development. One was nearly finished, another he'd just begun before his trip, and the third he was pondering and planned to change because he didn't think it worked. And there were at least another dozen or so paintings leaning against the walls. She was stunned by the power and beauty of his work. They were representational and meticulous, dark in most cases, with extraordinary lights in them. There was one of a woman's face, in a peasant dress from the Middle Ages, that was reminiscent of an Old Master. His paintings were truly beautiful, and she turned to him with a look of admiration and respect. It was completely different from what she showed in her gallery, which was hip and new and young. She had a real passion for emerging artists, and what she showed was easy to look at and fun to live with. She sold some very successful young artists as well, but none had the obvious training he did, the masterly skill, and the expertise that showed in his work. She had known Gray was a painter of the first order, but what she saw in his work now was maturity, wisdom, and infinite ability. She stood next to him then, looking at the work, wanting to absorb it and drink it all in.
“Wow! It's absolutely amazing.” She understood now why he only did two or three paintings a year. Even working on several at once, as most artists did, it had to take him months, or even years, to complete each one. “I'm blown away.” He looked thrilled with her reaction. There was one of a water scene that was absolutely mesmerizing with sunlight on the water at the end of day. It made you want to stand and stare at it forever. Sylvia knew, looking at his work, that he needed an important gallery to see his work and represent him, not hers. He knew the kind of work she sold, he had just wanted her to see it so she could see what he did. He had a great respect for her understanding of art history, and even modern painting. He knew that if she reacted favorably to it, it would be a major compliment to him. And whether she liked it or not, it was what he did. “You have to find a gallery to represent you, Gray,” she said sternly. He had told her he had been without representation for nearly three years. He sold his work to people who had bought them previously, and to friends, like Charlie, who had bought a number of his paintings and also thought they were very good. “It's a crime to leave all these paintings just sitting here, without a home.” There were stacks and stacks of them leaning against the walls.
“I hate all the dealers I meet. They don't give a damn about the work, just the money. Why give my work to them? It's not about money, at least not for me.” She could see that easily from the way he lived.
“But you have to eat,” she chided him gently. “And not all dealers are that greedy and irresponsible. Some really care about what they do. I do. I may not sell work of this caliber, or as masterful as these, but I believe in the work I show, and my artists. In their own way, they have tremendous talent too. They just express it differently than you.”
