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Brendan Keane was by no means a novice to the arts. He had, in his lifetime, learned the infinite differentiations between Rembrandt from Picasso, just as he had Socrates from Plato.
In truth, he rather liked art.
There was a consistency to painting—a rhythm—which varied between each artist. As every person perfected their own system of colour, other styles were too inspired.
The McAteer Art Gallery was a magnificent example.
The ground floor contained the pieces themselves; ranging from exquisite oil paintings to carefully moulded sculptures. Marble women, entirely bare, stood silently upon stone pedestals with their heads delicately turned and arms reaching down toward the polished floor. Each remained slightly varied, but the concept was very much the same. Feminine grace spilled from their lasting forms as water from the infamous fountains of Rome. There were a few pieces that perhaps did not depict conventional beauty; yet, Keane would be mistaken to believe anything regarding art was traditional. Centred in the main room was the great Athena—a woman of immeasurable wisdom and war-like instincts—with her helmet worn high on her proud head and the sword clasped within a ready grasp.
Yet, there was a peace to her.
A still, small yearning for peace that allowed her to be oddly human in the gallery’s fine lighting.
Oddly human and strangely familiar.
“She is beautiful, yes?”
“Quite”. Then, suddenly realising he had not asked the question himself, Keane turned around to face a rather unextraordinary gentleman studying a field of wildflowers just behind him. The man was not unextraordinary in the sense he was without the natural features given to humanity upon their creation, but in the sense there was nothing incredibly extraordinary about him. He was older than Keane—balding through the brown hair—and balanced a pair of spectacles on his rather large nose. The singularly unusual aspect, if it indeed could be called unusual, was that the man’s eyes were simply that: eyes. There was no great phrase to be said of them. No line to reflect their reaction to life. In some respects, they were lifeless. They were simply two, unassuming dots on his face.
His voice was much the same.
“I see you are an artist.” Keane glanced down at his paint-splattered fingers before moving his gaze to the older variation of the other man.
“As are you.”
“Ah, but no longer, I am afraid.” The knobby hands stretched slightly, then relaxed again. “The painter’s curse. Arthritis.”
“My sympathies.”
“You have no reason to be sympathetic. My life is much better now. I own this gallery. I make money. I do not starve anymore.” The unusual break to his words, as if preparing for the next breath, was not a trait unfamiliar to Keane, though he could not place the exact cause. It was not a stutter of the mind. Of this he was quite certain. His memory too seemed intact enough not to encourage such interruptions. Keane immediately jotted the man’s short sentences to habit, or at least a lack of familiarity with the Scottish brogue.
His own Irish blood used to cause similar trouble in his youth.
Keane’s head jerked slightly.
“Pardon?”
“You came to work.” The man repeated, a tad more firmly than the first attempt. It was not a question. Not even a request. There were only observations born from recognizing hundreds of others born upon the same profession. Therefore, Keane was not required to give an answer before the man continued. “I have a room open upstairs. It is a nice studio. Good lighting. When you sent the telegram, I had it readied. You would care to see?”
Keane followed behind the man only so much as walking in the same direction. As for both stride and distraction, he entirely separated himself. The gallery owner appeared less interested in the art than he was a long string of abrupt conversational pieces, while Keane found himself unable to resist a slight pause every now and again as they passed works of true mastery.
“You like Joan of Arc?” The man nodded to where Keane had drawn to a halt at a full-length portrait of the beloved saint; clad entirely in armour with a flag held stiffly in one hand. He cleared his throat, but the gallery owner continued on before Keane could utter more than a slight loss of breath. “You do not need to answer. I know you will say it is the art, not the woman. Many men come here for art. Those cinemas have taken away customers. They are good inventions, but—ah.” A key appeared and was effortlessly slipped within a worn, splintering door.
The studio itself was a sizable, open space with walls seemingly composed from window-glass alone. A foldable screen stood in the least lit corner with an elegant chaise lounge and easel pushed nearer towards the sun. The man nodded toward an enormous collection of cupboards, where Keane discovered an elite array of painting supplies as well as a single bottle.
“Champagne.” The owner explained. “I have a good supply. I must. There is no artist who didn’t appreciate a fine drop. When he works, of course. His spare time too, I think. Ah, but I am rambling. When you called, I made certain a girl would be ready for you. Rebecca. She is a nice girl. Very artistic.”
Keane winced.
He had met several ‘artistic’ women in his time; many of whom were less dedicated to the art than the painter himself. Extraordinary loyalty in the habitual ritual of recreational procreation, rather than the uprising of new works.
Not that they were all bad models; however, as is life, so often true grace and beauty is spoiled by the corrosive elements implanted within an unfortunate majority. There were young women—far more talented than himself—who would go on to become legends.
Even the great; however, must disappear.
Keane replaced the bottle of champagne in the cupboard.
“Thank you, Mr...“
“McAteer. Donald McAteer. You needn’t tell me your name. I know us painters are a secretive sort.”
“Indeed.”
“All that hiding identity, or finding oneself. Anyway, I will go call Rebecca for you. She should come soon.” Keane thanked the man and, at the moment the door had closed, systematically began arranging the atelier just so. The easel was pulled away from the enormous windows to be positioned carefully beneath the room’s electric lighting. The lounge, he thought, should be basked in the natural glow of the sun; however, the sudden tightness in Keane’s abdomen when attempting to heave the velvet beast forced him to see the benefits a somewhat dim approach put forth.
Paints appeared next in their metal tubes. A pallet and brushes followed, along with a clean, white canvas. Keane gaped at the abrupt emptiness of the stretched fabric; brows drawing further together as he opened his cigarette case. The familiar brush of silver left every movement free and automatic upon the luxurious intake of tobacco. His hand extended as the smoke filled the depths of his lungs; warm and comfortable.
Controlled.
“Don’t burn the building down.”
A mound of flaming ash dropped from the end of Keane’s cigarette as he spun on his heels. In truth, he half expected a certain short-haired American (though loath she was to admit it) standing in the open doorway.
But no.
These were long, dark tresses; gently curled as they cascaded down past the woman’s graceful shoulders. Her feminine curvature was ever so slightly accentuated by the silk dressing gown cinched about her pinched waist.
Keane extinguished his cigarette on an empty pallet as a soft smile spread over his haggard features.
“You must be Rebecca.”