A Vision Of The Night…Job 33:15
“Put the Delta canvases on the south wall. I think the lighting is better for them there.” Julia Barrister turned to the woman standing behind her. “Don’t you agree?”
“Yes.” The young artist, taciturn as always, was looking up at the largest clean white wall, the place of honor, where two workmen were lifting a large canvas into place. “Be careful!”
“It’s all right, Marie. They’ve done this before.” The art-gallery manager came to put her arm around her newest client, but the girl shied away from her. “I’m sorry. I always forget.”
Marie managed a smile. It was so odd, being called by her real name again, but there was no explaining silly codenames in the normal human world. Even in New York, or maybe especially here, with Xavier’s school so close, it was just calling attention to what was better left hidden. She hated the lies, but she hated revealing herself even more.
So she’d simply explained away her scarves and gloves as the necessary accoutrements of a skin condition, without specifying what that condition was. She’d left most of the planning up to the gallery manager, but there was no getting around this meeting. The opening was tomorrow night.
Julia offered her coffee, tea, sparkling water. Marie turned them all down and continued to watch as the men lifted her title painting into place. She allowed herself a little smile as the large, colorful canvas was placed and its protective covering was pulled away.
New Orleans was her last project, the one she’d completed the most recently, so she was still getting acquainted with what she’d made. People who weren’t artists never really understood that feeling, the idea that you had to meet what you created, had to learn your connection to it all over again every time you saw it in a new light.
She imagined it was something like giving birth, though that was something she’d never know about.
“Marie?” Julia was calling her, and she turned, forcing herself to look bright and pleased. “Come here. I’ve got something special to show you.”
Julia led her through the gallery space, the white walls sparkling in the morning sunlight. Marie loved this space, and she was fond of the bright Southern woman who’d carved it out of a shabby building on an unfashionable block in New York long before it became trendy. A real firecracker, they’d have called her back home. It was one of the reasons she’d wanted to show here.
In the back there was a tiny alcove, almost a private space of its own, it was so isolated from the rest of the gallery. One wall was covered with a sheet. Marie felt her heart drop when she saw it and her carefully-schooled expression slipped. “No.”
“Just look.” Julia stepped forward and pulled the sheet away, turning back with a smile, which fled from her face when she saw her client’s reaction. “Marie—honey, I just wanted to—”
“Take them down. I told you, Julia. I don’t want them shown.” Mechanically Marie turned away from the three paintings, from the connections she didn’t want to make. “I swear, I’ll cancel the whole show. I mean it.”
“All right. All right.” Hastily Julia recovered the wall with the sheet and came around to face the artist. “I’m sorry. I thought maybe when you saw them—”
“I’ve seen them.” Almost unwillingly, Marie glanced back over her shoulder. The sheet, hastily and imperfectly hung, didn’t cover part of one of the pictures, the one on the right. The portrait. Marie jerked away from Julia’s hand and walked to the wall. Slowly, methodically, she straightened it so that it obscured the painting completely. Her black-gloved fingers smoothed the white cloth into place.
“I’ll take them down.” Julia’s normally cheery tone was muted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I know.” Marie’s hand lingered over the outline of the canvas under that blank cloth. “It’s all right. Just please put them away. I don’t want to see them up again.”
“I’ll store them. In the back. All right?” Julia took Marie’s elbow gently and led her away from the alcove. “I’ll put up some of the other portraits here—it’s a nice intimate space for them.” Artists could be odd about their work, but this was such an extreme reaction, and from such a young painter—it wasn’t even as though the works were particularly disturbing, though they were certainly powerful. But now clearly wasn’t the time to argue about it.
Marie let Julia lead her back to the front of the gallery. Up until a few days ago, she’d had every intention of showing those pieces. Somehow, though, the idea of putting that part of her self-journey out for everyone to see on opening night was just too much. She didn’t want to answer the questions, couldn’t face everyone seeing what those paintings revealed.
Besides, they really weren’t her secrets to tell.
It made her angry, for the first time in years, because it wasn’t following the plan. And the plan was all that mattered now. She forced herself to relax as Julia brought her a cup of coffee, skillfully turned her attention to discussion of what to expect the next night.
Once this was done, the rest would be easy. She let go of the thought of what she was leaving out of the show. She knew the rest of what she had done was good.
It would be enough. The show would be a success, Marie knew it somehow. She felt a strange thrill in the knowledge, and a smile touched her lips as she looked at the program Julia was excitedly handing her, the list of invitees, the menu from the caterer.
There was a mirrored glass sculpture on Julia’s desk, an abstract little object with swirls and curves. In it were reflected the rich colors of New Orleans on the spare white wall behind her, waiting to speak.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Last section, we left Rogue creating something. Now it needs to be shown.
I know, I know, this one is short. If you're all very good, there will be more later today. Promise.
I know, I know, this one is short. If you're all very good, there will be more later today. Promise.