The Artist III

Brent now made his way to the art gallery through the frozen streets of the city, winding between the shadows of men who he failed to truly see. They were not people that he cared about; they were not part of his world. His world was small, and select and it allowed him to do as he pleased, which counted for a lot.

“You do yourself no justice selling things like this,” Brent said, running a hand down the frame of a low priced painting and looking at it critically. “I am not saying that I expect every one of your pieces to be done by masters but this looks like hotel art. I could have done better at twelve.”

“You’re an artist?” asked the owner of the gallery. She never argued with his appraisal of her art pieces, mostly because usually she agreed with them. She was not very surprised to hear him talk of doing some form of art; she had suspected it all along from the way that he talked about art. For him it seemed to be a type of love, he showed more interest in a painting then he ever showed in a person. Even now he was looking at the painting instead of her, even though they were having a conversation.

“I have done some painting,” Brent admitted, though the less people knew about him the happier he was.

“You should bring one of your pieces in for me to sell,” the gallery owner suggested. “It couldn’t hurt to try and I would be happy to sell it for you.” Brent considered this. He didn’t want anyone to see his work, he knew that he was good, but it was still drawing attention to himself. On the other hand he needed some new clothing and that cost money. He would also need some more paints and he knew that he couldn’t earn enough at pawnshops to get that sort of money. It was hard enough to find a pawnshop that would take his paintings at all. Most of them weren’t willing to take art of any sort. The ones that were, weren’t willing to pay much for the pieces. It would be a risk to his status but the more he thought about the more of a good move it seemed.

“I’ll bring in a painting for you to look at in a couple of weeks,” Brent promised the owner of the gallery, thinking of the blank canvass at home and what he could do with it. Ideas were already swirling through his head as he walked back to his easel in the basement of the abandoned building.

Brent realized that he hadn’t done a self portrait in a long time. Of course that would simply add to his chance of recognition but he doubted that too many people would see it or connect it to his face. It would give him something to work with. He didn’t own a mirror which helped comfort him. He was going to have to paint something from his memories, how he imagined himself, and whatever it was he saw in passing these days when he passed store windows. He doubted that it would look anything like him when he was done but it was something to do, and people tended to like pictures of people so long as they were done. They liked landscapes better but Brent and never painted just for the public and he was bored of landscapes. They were easy to mass produce if you didn’t care about quality but to do a good self portrait would be a true evaluation of his talent.

To be continued...