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The waiter appeared to take our drink order.
“Sparkling water, for now,” Jane said, then turned to me. “So. Cole Matheson. Tell me about yourself.”
“Uh, sure. Well, I’m from Massachusetts originally. I went to NYU and then came here to get a post-graduate degree from the Royal Academy of Fine Arts. I edited its magazine, and until recently, I was employed at Mulligan’s Pub.”
“Aside from the Art Faire, you’ve not exhibited anywhere?”
“No. I’ve been doing the starving artist thing.” The memory of the bridge and the black water jumped at me. I offered a wan smile. “It’s been a little tough-going, to be honest.”
“I can see that; it’s all in your work,” Jane said, her eyes boring into me. “Now, tell me about your demon.”
“Um, well, since graduation, I fell into a kind of depression. One night I had a dream, and he was in it.” I shrugged. “Not much more to tell.”
The lie tasted sour in my mouth, and Jane looked as if she didn’t believe me. The waiter returned and sat down two wine glasses with lime wedges perched on the rim. He poured the water, and when he was gone again, Jane rested her hands on the table, gold bracelets and tasteful jewelry adorning her wrists and fingers.
“I think you’re being modest, Cole. And protective. Not that I blame you. Far be it for me to pry into an artist’s process, but I jumped on a plane in the middle of a very successful show in Paris to meet you. Because you have that magical, once-in-a-lifetime combination of traits that make an icon: commercial viability and genuine artistry.”
Jane took a sip of water while I attempted to absorb her words. Like trying to swallow the ocean—it was too much.
“Demonic images are not unusual,” she continued. “But you’ve infused your creature with a humanity that resonates. He’s a reflection of what many are experiencing these days: depression at the state of the world, feelings of isolation, loneliness, but with a glimmer of hope still shining through. Commercial viability occurs when consumers identify with your art on a grand scale, and that’s going to make you a very wealthy young man.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said, reaching for my own glass.
“As for the other half of the equation,” she continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “Are you aware that the name Lucifer means ‘light-bringer’ or ‘morning star’? Before modern Christianity turned him into the devil, Lucifer was connected with the planet Venus, a symbol of hope and light.”
“I had no idea.”
“A degree in History comes in handy now and then.” Jane’s smile faded. “Do you want to know what I see when I look at your demon, Cole?”
I held my breath, nodded.
“I see hope and light. I see love trapped in darkness with the potential for its liberation held within it like a precious seed. It might languish in the dark and die. Or it might be nourished and thus be reborn into something beautiful. That,” she said, pressing her finger into the table, “is genuine artistry andthatis what’s going to make you a legend.”
I stared, stunned to hear the deepest secret of my heart repeated back to me and far more poetically than I could ever express in words. As if Jane had ripped my heart open and laid everything I’d seen in Ambri on the table between us.
No, I put it all in the paintings.
Jane sat back in her chair, mistaking my dazed expression. “You’re humble, Cole, and honest. That resonates too. People are so tired of bullshit. So long as you keep that honesty, I believe you will have a long and fruitful career.”
“I…I don’t know what to say.”
“You can say that you’d like me to represent you.”
I nodded, bewildered at the speed at which all this was happening. “Yes, of course. I would be honored.”
“Then we can exchange this sparkling water for champagne and celebrate,” she said, flagging down the waiter. “I’d like to get you a show as soon as possible. There’s a gallery not far from here that I think would be the ideal size. I’m assuming you don’t have more of these paintings?”
“No, but I want to do a new series. In oil, not acrylic.”
“Good. Twelve paintings, in say, six months.Is that possible? Too fast?”
“I can do that. They sort of fly out of me.”
“Perfect. That puts us in April. Perhaps this rain will have let up by then,” she said, smiling wryly. “I’ll have Austin messenger you the contract. Or if you’d rather, we can finish our lunch and head to my offices. I want to lock you down immediately. I meant every word I said about your work, Cole. I believe in it—and you—with all my heart.” She sat back, smiling. “But I also want to make us both an obscene amount of money.”
I chuckled, still shaking my head. “If you say so, Ms. Oxley.”
“Jane,” she said. “Or, if you prefer, ‘my agent.’”
