“Come back here,” Glover said.
She followed him deeper into the open booth. He pointed at two wildly different pieces.
“This one,” he indicated a school of jumping fish supported by a curved pole, “The fish are individually cut from sheet and hammered for shape and texture. But this one is made using the natural shape of the metal. See here how the sleigh’s runners are made from bicycle fenders which are almost unmodified?”
The fish were raw, polished metal. The sleigh was painted a rich red and white. The difference in style was astounding; both pieces were breathtaking.
“I love the fish,” she exclaimed. She stroked the two pieces and studied them from all angles. The work was amazing. “The fish are so real, and I can almost see Santa on that sleigh.”
“And, we’ve got that Santa right here.” Glover stepped aside to reveal a standing Santa with his arm raised in a wave.
She whirled around to stare at Owen. “Oh my gosh, why didn’t you tell me about this? Your work is fabulous. I’m totally going to buy a piece. I wish the fish piece was smaller. It reminds me of fishing with my dad.”
“You’re in luck,” Glover chirped. “We’ve got a series of smaller fish. There are individual fish as well as small schools. Check this out. Owen is incredible.”
It was obvious that Owen’s skills impressed the boy, but it seemed more than that. He rambled on about Owen and his work and generosity. While he talked, she selected a piece featuring three small fish which actually looked like miniature trout. The reality was stunning.
“Your work should be in a gallery.”
Owen blushed.
“He is. There are galleries in Edmonton, Calgary, and Toronto that all have his work. He’s sold quite a few pieces that way. He should be living in the city, not here in Backwoods, Alberta.”
“I’m quite happy here. I’m not city material.”
“You should totally look him up on the internet,” Glover instructed. “He’s huge in the art world. But not just that. The web won’t tell you about what he does for people. He got my mom a job and hired me to work here and help around his shop. He’s keeping my family off the street. He didn’t have to, but he’s such a great guy, and he did. He’s even teaching me to sculpt.”
“Wow. Are any of your pieces here?” She glanced around hoping to be able to pick something out.
“His pieces are on that shelf.” Owen pointed to a small, four-level shelf which was displayed as prominently as his own work.
She walked over and examined the pieces laid out there. There were only a dozen items. Most were stylized automobiles, but there were also a few trees with delicately wrought scrap metal leaves. They were a bit amateurish, but his early skill was clearly evident. She picked up several and examined them, carefully returning them to the display. “Auntie O will love this one. It reminds me of a tree of life. I love the way it wraps around the rock base. I’ll take it.”
Glover blinked and stared as a slow grin crept across his face. “Really? You don’t have to. I mean, it’s not very good. It’s too, I don’t know, rustic?” His shoulders hunched in and he stared at his feet.
“Rustic? Of course, it is. I can see that it was designed that way. Nature is rough and raw. This piece echoes that, but the delicate leaves bring it quiet elegance. I can practically feel the wind blowing the leaves. See how they all point slightly to the left? That’s obviously meant to indicate the breeze. Look, Owen.”
Owen took the piece from her and studied it. “I hadn’t noticed it. You’re absolutely right. It’s well created and thoughtful. When did you make this one?”
“You really like it? I made it last week, while you were checking fences.”
“It’s lovely, and I want it,” Rill said. “Don’t be afraid to show your work to the customers. It’s quite lovely.”
Owen voiced his agreement.
“Can I leave these here until we’re finished for the day?” she asked, handing over cash for the sculptures.
“Absolutely.” He gave her change and recorded the sales in a notebook.
She handed him ten dollars. “This is for you.”
It was Glover’s turn to blush. “No, ma’am. I can’t take that. You already bought the tree.” He shook his head.
“I insist. To thank you for your excellent talk on the artist, and for watching my sculptures for the rest of the day. But mostly because I believe your work is very underpriced.”
He looked frantically at Owen for advice.
“Accept the money, son. It’s her way of thanking you. It’s not meant as charity. It’s good manners to graciously accept a tip, and remember to thank the giver.”
