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“The difference is, I not only wasn’t close to my father, but no one around me even knew him. And I’m an obvious hard-ass.”
“My mother was well-known in Sonoma,” she says. “You said you weren’t close to your father. Didn’t he raise you after your mother died?”
“The many versions of a nanny my father wanted to fuck raised me after I ended up back with him.”
“I see,” she says, and I sense she wants to ask or say something more, but she’s too busy rebuilding that wall to let it happen.
“Why’d you leave L.A.?” I ask before she finishes shutting me out.
“My father died, and my mother was struggling to handle the winery. I came back to help.”
“For two years?”
“It was supposed to be a few months. At six months, I figured out she just couldn’t handle it.”
“And you bought this house.”
“Yes. I spent my inheritance on it, which, in hindsight, was a poor use of my cash. But at the time I needed something that was mine. I had it remodeled, actually. The entire top floor is my studio.”
“Because your art is everything to you.”
She sets her ice cream and her spoon down, and when she refocuses on me, she says, “You didn’t ask about why I might admire you.”
“I promised to stop pushing you before I got the chance.”
“All right, then. I’ll tell you now. When I saw the tiger tattoo, and despite now knowing the meaning, even the ‘an eye for an eye’ tattoo, those tattoos told me a story about you. They told me that you know who you are. You own it. You claim it. You have the tattoos to prove it.”
“You’re an artist, Faith.”
She picks up her ice cream again. “I think I’ll eat the rest of this pint before I respond to that.”
“That statement was a fact. It doesn’t require an answer. Why black, white, and red?”
“Black and white is the purest form of any image to me. It lets the viewer create the story.”
“And the red?”
“The beginning of the story as I see it. A guide for the viewer’s imagination to flow. I know it sounds silly, but it’s how I think when I’m creating.”
The red isn’t blood. It isn’t death. It’s life. “You mentioned your new work to Josh.”
“It’s really six months to a year old,” she says. “He just thinks it’s new. I haven’t painted recently.”
“You paint about life.”
“Yes.”
“And yet you just defined yourself by death. No wonder you can’t paint.”
Her eyes go wide. “I…I hadn’t thought of it that way.” She glances away from me and back again. “I painted today. It was amazing.”
“And what music did you paint to today? Elvis?”
“No Elvis today. No music today. I was inspired before I picked up the brush.”
There is something in her eyes, in her voice, that I can’t read, but I want to understand. “By what, Faith?”
“Life,” she says, indicating my ice cream, her brow crinkling in worry, with the cutest dimple in the center. “You’ve hardly eaten that. Do you want the Doritos?”
