BY THE TIME I got to the cheese table, they were out of cheese. Rather, one guy was shoveling all the remaining cheese on to his plate. Like almost two pounds of cubed cheese on a tripled-up paper plate. He was a big, hairy guy, with a big black beard and big eyebrows. All the hair made me a little queasy, and I no longer wanted any cheese.
Behind his hirsute highness was a smaller Asian guy. If I were to guess, and I don’t like guessing at people’s backgrounds, I’d say he was probably Vietnamese or something like that. Luckily, I didn’t have to guess; they introduced themselves.
The furry guy sheepishly offered me some cheese, and I politely declined.
“I’m sorry. I eat when I’m bored.”
“You must be pretty bored,” I said.
“I’m no good at social events unless I’m doing something. I’m Bruno. Bruno Passi. This is my associate, Sonny Vuu.”
“I’m Zack Virtue. Hi Bruno. Hi Sonny.”
“Hey, you’re not the Zack Virtue?”
“No,” I said modestly. “I’m just a Zack Virtue.”
“You’re the artist?” asked Sonny.
“I am.”
“So, you’re in the demonstration tonight?”
“No, no. Just a guest. I’ve got a few pieces in the show.”
“We’re both big fans. All that bleeding for your art …”
“Oh, you.”
“And how you saved that girl!”
I shrugged. It wasn’t something I talked about.
“How are you not in the demonstration?” asked Bruno.
“I think they’ve got enough artists.”
“Would it help if we said something?”
I smiled. “I can’t imagine how that might help,” I said.
“Oh, we have some clout in these circles.”
“You must be pretty big fans. You’re either art collectors or blood spatter experts.”
Bruno blinked at me. A couple of cheese cubes fell to the floor. “We’re a land development company. The Passivuus Group? Surely you’ve heard of us. We buy land and turn it into—”
“Money?”
“—neighborhoods.” He smiled. “And also money.”
It suddenly occurred to me that I was looking at the Sydney Greenstreet and Peter Lorre characters from The Maltese Falcon.
“I’m so pleased to meet the both of you,” I said, smiling. “Will you excuse me? I see my glass is almost empty.”
I left my full wine glass there and went to grab another coffee from the Bunn-O-Matic dispenser. I had just poured myself a nice little styrofoam cup of coffee when I was struck from behind. My coffee spilled over myself and the table, and I spun around to see a panicked art critic pick himself up off the floor.
“Holy crap, Thunderclap! What the hell?”
He stood and faced me with some crazed look on his face. “Virtue!”
“A guy can’t catch a break around here!” I grabbed at the napkins and started wiping my hands.
“Sorry!”
I sighed. “No problem. Just a little hot coffee.”
He scanned the room, eyes wide. About a dozen people were staring at us. He leaned in and said, “Help me.”
“Ah, you’re okay. No harm done.” I dusted him off.
“Help me!” he hissed, and shoved something into my hand. Then he stormed off into the crowd.
I stood there with coffee running down my pants, wondering what had just happened. In my hand was a plastic penguin. I pocketed it, finished wiping myself off, and before I could grab another cup, someone else shoved me. This time, it was Anna Papadopoulos.
“Zack, I have a big favor to ask.”
“You need me to buy more cheese?”
“No, we need someone to fill in for Adrian Gomez. He couldn’t make it tonight.”
“Fill in how?”
“For tonight’s Frame Job.”
“For what?”
“For the art demonstration. We’re calling it The Frame Job.”
“Who came up with that name?”
Anna shrugged. “It was Bruce’s idea. We brainstormed a bunch of names: The Paint In; The Brush Off; Art Attack. We settled on The Frame Job. Well, Bruce did.”
“Sorry, I don’t enjoy doing things in public. You know, painting, performing, being naked.”
“Oh, come on Zack! People love your work.”
“Seriously, Anna. I’m no good with people watching over my shoulder. If I wanted to disappoint someone, I’d go have dinner with my father.”
“Well, too bad. Eddie Sutcliffe said you’d do it, and you’re the only other big-name artist here. Let’s go!”
Damn that Eddie Sutcliffe. “Okay, what do I have to do?”
“It’s all sorted out. Just take your place by the others, and we’ll take care of the rest.”
“Fine, fine. I guess I’ll help. Wouldn’t want to waste all that work I did setting everything up.”
“Great! We’ll make the announcement.”
“Just let me get a coffee for the—”
“No time! Come on!”
She stormed off to the main stage. I pulled the little penguin out of my pocket and examined it. The penguin, made from black and white silicone, had a manipulative head. I pulled at the head and uncovered an embedded USB drive in the figurine. I scanned the room for Andrew Neumann, but he was nowhere to be found. He asked for help. Help for what?
Whatever he meant, it would have to wait for later.
The four of us were up on the stage, each at our own easel with a stock selection of acrylic paints and brushes. We all had identical pre-gessoed canvases in front of us, and we all faced inward while the crowd milled around behind us. There was a theme for the session, but I’d already forgotten it, and since I painted abstracts, it was meaningless to me. I could paint something more traditional, but I didn’t even want to be here, so I’d paint whatever I felt like.
Of course, I had previous experience with art displays and painting demonstrations. I’d also done solo shows and even given speeches during events. But I hated all of it. Especially since this was like a Battle Royale, but with paint brushes. Mostly, it was a pandering exercise. Whoever put on the best show, or whoever brought the most friends—well, they usually won.
Here’s how it worked: Everyone had one ticket for the show, and they put it in the jar for the artist they liked the best. And in the end, they voted by applause. Yeah, you’d think the most tickets in the jar would be an indicator of who the winner was, but that would make sense. That’s how I would do it. That way, the artists didn’t have to worry about getting no applause.
But it wasn’t up to me. I wasn’t even supposed to be up there.
So, what was the point of the tickets in the jar? This was the brilliant part. A single ticket was pulled from each jar, and the winner got to keep the painting. Now, you may ask, “Wouldn’t it be better if they just sold the paintings afterwards? Maybe by auctioning them off?” To this, the gallery would say shut up. Actually, everyone got one ticket for free (with their entry fee), but they could buy additional tickets for $5 each or three for $10. Then they could add them into whichever jars they wanted. This way, they could increase their chances of winning the painting. And they also had a chance of winning more than one painting. But since the winners weren’t chosen based on ticket count, the crowd couldn’t just buy an artist’s victory.
I guess it made sense, but whatever. I wasn’t expecting to win.
The competition started, and the DJ put on some energetic music to get the crowd riled up. When I paint, I usually have music playing in the background, as it adds a layer of creativity to my process. Tonight, my painting looked like someone opened a paint mixer at a hardware store. But the people seemed to like it, so I just kept going. The only thing I subbed out was a palette knife Anna loaned me for the event. It was big and heavy—more like a plaster filling knife than one I used for paints.
Eddie was drawing his own crowd. He mostly did the steel sculptures, but he was no slouch when it came to painting. If you’re going to be an artist, you’ve got to know how to paint and draw, regardless of your medium. They’re what you start on when you go to art school.
Mikki was wearing big studio headphones to drown out the crowd. She knew how to meditate. Her movements were quick and precise. She made me feel like a chump, and now I was glad we weren’t able to see each other’s easels.
Bull was playing to the crowd. That was his thing. He’d paint a bit, then stand up, turn around and take a bow. He’d raise his hands up to get the crowd going and then return to his work. Bull’s trademark was to wipe his brushes on his pants. It was weird and gross. He probably went through a lot of pants.
I wasn’t about to do my trademark move and bleed on my painting. That usually involved being shot at. One more thing I don’t enjoy doing in public.
After fifteen minutes, the music increased in intensity and the crowd really started cheering. I looked around, surprised to see I had my own little peanut gallery. I waved to them and accidentally flung some paint at them. They just cheered harder. Okay, then.
My hands were trembling at this point. The combination of the music, the crowd, the time limit, and the pressure of performing against other artists started getting to me, and I could feel the precision of my strokes failing. I shrugged it off, wishing I’d been able to get that cup of coffee. Hell, I’d even take that glass of wine at this point.
Twenty-five minutes in, and I was panicking. The painting looked like a rug in one of those ASMR cleaning videos you see on Instagram. The lights were hot, and I was getting thirsty, so I flagged down a person in the crowd and asked them for a glass of water. Then I started scraping away at the canvas to remove some of the muddy paint. I replaced it with bold, fresh colors, and it looked better. In the last five minutes, the painting finally took shape.
I heard a shout from behind me, and I grabbed for the glass of water. It was just what I needed to wake myself up. I drank most of it, then poured the rest over my head, to the cheers from the crowd behind me. By this point, it looked like my crowd had doubled in size, and I shook the water from my hair as I placed the glass down beside me.
It was then I realized the wetness on my hand, which until now, I’d just assumed was water. Turns out the glass had a chip in it, and my thumb was now gushing blood. I shook my hand and a surprising amount of blood spattered on the canvas. The crowd went absolutely wild at this, and they started chanting, “Virtue, Virtue, Virtue!”
Sometimes I wonder if this world is going to make it.
I wrapped my thumb up, then started cleaning up the lines with the edge of the palette knife, and when the final buzzer sounded, there was a massive applause, and I felt a hundred hands patting my back.
Then the screaming started, and everyone looked over to see a woman running down from the second floor. I turned back to my painting, and in my surprise, I’d run the knife right through the canvas.