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Chapter Twenty-Four
Emerson, six months later
Daphne’s first showing is tonight.
Not one or two pieces on some out-of-the-way wall at Motif. Not my gallery at home. A real showing.
I wanted to put her in contact with everyone I know from the art world and let them fight it out to be the one to host the event, but Daphne didn’t want that, either. My little painter insisted on doing it herself.
Well—not entirely herself. I chose the venue. The space is larger than the gallery she originally had in mind. But it’s elevated. Grander. It needs to be. Daphne’s work has expanded since we’ve been living together. Her pieces have literally gotten bigger. I have to buy larger canvases—six feet, eight feet, ten.
Our days are structured around my surfing and her painting. Daphne spends hours a day in the studio, and the effect is dramatic. Her work is getting deeper, broader. She paints from new perspectives. Different angles.
There is more in the water than there used to be.
When I first saw Daphne’s work, I thought the way she painted the ocean was revealing. It looked like revelation, but it was actually concealment.
Nothing is hidden anymore.
Not only do her pieces demand more physical space, making them impossible to ignore, they also serve to illuminate what my little painter notices about the world, which is everything.
They’re a revelation in the event space, which is actually part of a museum.
I wanted something with vaulted ceilings, with clean white walls, with beautiful flooring, so that her paintings would have an appropriate framing. I found it, showed it to Daphne without comment, and she fell in love.
And then she went back to work on her showing. She painted for months. Sent invitations to everyone in her network from college and Motif and anywhere else she could think of, including some of the people who attended the charity gala. Daphne worked with so much intensity that her fingers grew stiff around her paintbrush and many times I had to drag her away from the canvas and force her to sleep.
It’s an indescribable privilege to be lost in her work with her. The fact that I can watch her, be with her, without changing her relationship to her work, is the greatest gift of my lifetime. I have had hours of conversations with my little painter while she dances with her canvas. While I dance with her. Some of her thoughts and emotions land on the canvas, and others she saves for me. Still others are layered together and can’t be separated. Sometimes, our conversation will contribute to a painting, and I’ll begin to worry that I’ve gone too far, influenced the work too much. I’ve wondered if I should leave her alone during those times.
She never wants that. And, if I watch long enough, I can see that she’s only invited me into a space she was already making for herself.
I can’t hurt her paintings.
I drew the line at refusing all involvement in the showing. I understood her desire to do everything herself. Supported it, even. But I couldn’t do nothing. In a series of emails and calls over several days, I invited all the biggest art buyers in the country to be here tonight. The biggest art buyers in the world.
How could I not? I’m too proud of her to hide her work. As much as I want to own every one of these pieces, I meant what I said to my brothers.
Beauty like this is meant to be shared.
And, since I have the artist in my bed every night, I’m willing to let some of it go.
Some of the originals, anyway. Every piece has been scanned in archival quality so it can be reproduced, and good luck prying the rights to those photos from my grip.
She moves through the gallery now, beaming, beautiful in an ocean-colored gown. The space is crowded with her admirers. No one can stop staring at her work.
Daphne’s family is here, too. I let Leo in several hours before guests began arriving so he could double-check that the security was appropriate. I didn’t mention it to her, since he didn’t want her to worry. A harmless omission.
“When did my brother come by to bother everyone?” Daphne asked the moment we stepped inside the museum.
“Around noon. He wanted to leave enough time for adjustments.”
She just laughed.
She laughs again now at one of the buyers. Daphne’s light on her feet, like a hummingbird. I’ve gone to the back of the gallery to watch people experience the art.
Her oldest brother, Lucian, stares up at a painting she did three weeks ago. It’s called Glass Houses, but there are no houses in the photo. It’s a side view of the ocean’s surface, placid, like a mirror. The edge looks sharp enough to touch.
Beneath that reflective surface, however, the water gets dark. Something is lurking beneath the bottom edge of the frame. Out of sight, but still affecting everything it touches. Elaine stands with Lucian at the painting. She whispers something to him as they look, running her fingers up and down his arm. Lucian blinks. Looks some more. Whispers back to her.
