They were sated, and curled up in big chairs in the library with steaming mugs of thick, rich coffee liberally laced with cachaça. She wore a flimsy robe of silk open to the waist, he wore a similar silk wrapped around his hips. She had continued the story.
“And when we came back, he was still unhappy with the results. He had painted the room in muted gray, in brown, and in black. The black canvas was the closest to happy I’d ever seen him. He had begun to explore using the paint as sculpture. Giving the image dimension as well as color”
“Oh,” Brent said. “Like-”
She gave him a withering look. “I’m coming to it.”
“Sorry.”
“I forgive you because you’re so… vigorous,” she told him with that curving smile. He colored a little.
“Toefler examined what he had done and asked him very pointed questions. Why he had chosen those colors, what the ghostly shapes meant. How he intended the painting to be viewed. And then he suggested that the canvases that Ossirian used were inadequate. The reason he was unsatisfied with the view of the hall was that he wasn’t showing the entire picture. So Ossirian set about making his own canvases. First the frames were traditionally square and rectangular. But eventually as he backed further into the foyer, he realized what he was trying to do. And so he built a canvas that would represent the view from the doorway of our house. The view inward to his trials. To his love. To the testament to his resolve and talents.”
Brent stared back down the hall toward the unusual gallery hall. He looked back at Carolyn. “You mean-”
“He painted that same canvas six times. Each a shade darker as the day wore on. until finally… finally it was too dark to paint with natural light. So he and Toefler and I… retired for the night,” she cleared her throat and gave Brent that smoky, half-lidded gaze again, “and he awoke before first light to wait for the sunlight to return. Inspired, he selected new paints. He began to paint again, from complete black to purest white. And the seventh time he painted the hall… he used two dozen shades of white. From titanium to chrome, to eggshell, to beige. And he created a painting of which he was finally not angry about. And when he was done, he was ready to begin painting other works again. He never again lost his focus. Never again had trouble. But…” she trailed off.
“But?”
“But he needed to sell more pieces. I arranged a showing for him that next month, and shipped all the canvases he designated as complete… or complete enough. And one extra. The one he almost burned.”
“Why would he burn a canvas?”
“Because it was for technical appreciation, a test of his skills. A trial run, if you will. But I instead had it mounted in the gallery. And he was suitably indignant. But this time, both Toefler and I were there to calm him. He was ready to burn down the gallery to destroy the undeserving work. Instead, Toefler proposed an alternative to destruction.”