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They say the artist creates for themselves, but a work’s beauty, truth, and meaning lie in the eyes of the beholder.
“What about this one?” She ambles to the next canvas, a gessoed piece covered in ripped and torn letters and splattered in black and blue inkblots. “Does this one have a name?”
“I believe that one is called Letters Unsent.”
She leans in to inspect the piece closer. “Are these actual letters people wrote? The handwriting is different on every single one.”
“I believe so.”
Turning to face me, her brows knit. “Why won’t Halcyon release these? They’re incredible.”
Slipping my hands in my pockets, I do my best to remain casual.
“I’m sure they have their reasons,” I answer, leaving it at that.
Margaux rolls her eyes. “This is truly some of the best Halcyon work I’ve seen. Do you know, someone resold their Blurred Edges of Darkness piece last year for three times what it originally went for? These are hot-ticket items.”
“What, do you have some kind of inside track to the art world or something?” I chuckle. “That’s an oddly specific thing to know.”
“People talk, that’s all.” Waving her hand, she brushes off my comment.
She isn’t wrong. In a city of millions, it tends to feel like a small town some days. Everyone knows everyone, and if they don’t, they know someone who does. The art world is even smaller, like a community within a community. A dysfunctional extended family of sorts.
Moving on, she steps over to a larger piece, one that spans at least ten feet tall by six feet wide. The perimeter is shaded in bright-blue watercolors, which transition to acrylics before morphing into oil paint in the center. In the middle of it all, there’s an intentional gash, like the artist slashed some kind of knife through the heart of all its beauty.
“This one makes me sad,” she says. Reaching her hand toward it, she quickly pulls it back when she thinks better of it. “The emotion . . . it’s intense.”
“That one’s called Cerulean’s Ruin,” I say.
“That’s a perfect name,” she says with a sigh. Hand clutched at her heart, she steps over to a slew of smaller paintings, maybe twenty-four inches by thirty-six inches.
“Do you own any Halcyon pieces?” I ask.
She snorts. “Theodora doesn’t pay me enough to afford even a scrap of a Halcyon piece.”
“That’s a shame.”
While my aunt is an astute businesswoman with an enviable financial portfolio and one of the top branding agencies in the nation, she didn’t get that way by blowing through her money like there’s no tomorrow. She pays her employees fairly and competitively, but not generously. Enough to keep them wanting to update their LinkedIn profiles.
“Do you want one of those?” I point to the three smaller nine-by-twelve pieces in front of her.
Margaux laughs, like she thinks I’m kidding.
“It’s not nice to tease,” she says.
“Pick one and it’s yours.”
She tosses me a sideways glance. “I can’t just take a Halcyon painting . . .”
“Sure you can.”
“So you just . . . have permission to give away their art?”
I lift a shoulder and give a terse nod. “More or less.”
Her eyes scan the length of me, studying me before she settles back on one high-heeled foot.
“What’s the catch?” she asks.
“No catch,” I say before checking my watch. We have to leave in about twenty minutes so I can get home to my girls. “Just pick one.”
“I can’t . . .” She turns back to the three works. “I love them all . . .”
“Then take all three.”
She releases a sharp breath. “I can’t. It wouldn’t be right.”
“Halcyon isn’t painting anymore. These pieces are collecting dust in this loft. They should be with someone who appreciates them.”
“The fact that Halcyon’s no longer producing makes these priceless . . . I just . . . it doesn’t seem . . .”
“Are you always this difficult to give gifts to?” I check my watch again when a text comes through from my assistant, only it’s nothing that can’t wait. “I’d hate to see you on Christmas morning.”
“I’m just speechless is all,” she says. “I mean, not literally. Mentally. I don’t know what to say to this . . . wasn’t expecting it, you know? When you invited me here the other day, it felt like someone had given me a winning lottery ticket. Like a once-in-a-lifetime thing. Now that you’re giving me a Halcyon painting—”
“—three Halcyon paintings,” I correct her. “You’re taking the entire series.”
Her jaw falls, parting her pretty pink lips, which dance into a sweet smile.
“They’re a set. They should stay as a set,” I say.
“Are you absolutely, positively sure Halcyon would be okay with this?”
“You think I’d be doing this if they weren’t?” I follow her to the next piece—a realistic portrait of a canary-yellow sunflower against an impressionistic starry sky titled When Van Gogh Met Monet. It was meant to be tongue in cheek, a satire almost. “I’ll have them framed, wrapped, and delivered to you later this week.”
