Chapter 1-3
768 Words
“When can I expect another painting?” Randall asked.
“When I’m damned good and ready and not before,” Ellis replied, running a hand through his graying black hair. He tried to hide his frustration, knowing Randall wouldn’t like the true answer, which was ‘Maybe never’. By acting pissed he hoped to deflect any more questions on the subject.
“Ellis, come on. People are clamoring for something. Anything.”
“The crap I’ve given you in the last year or so?” Ellis said scathingly.
“It’s not crap. It’s not your best work I’ll agree, but it’s still better than…” Randall looked around the gallery and pointed. “Than that.”
Ellis almost laughed. The picture was so totally opposite his style there was no way to compare it to anything of his. “I suppose,” he admitted. “Still…”
“Ellis, please, I’m begging you. Bring me something.”
“We’ll see.” Ellis fingered the check he’d just picked up from the gallery owner. It was much less than his past commissions, but then the two paintings that had sold were, in his opinion, not even close to being worth the price Randall had asked for them for. “I’ll try to have something the next time I’m in town. I promise.”
He left the gallery, feeling like a rip-off artist. He knew it wasn’t his fault people were willing to pay the prices Randall asked. But the fact they were buying his name and nothing more did little to assuage his crumbling self-confidence.
He decided, since he was in the Magazine neighborhood, to stop by Ignatius for their Creole jambalaya. The day was hot so he knew he was lucky to actually find an empty table on the patio. Of course it was next to a group of noisy tourists, one of whom was declaiming about the dangers of the city after the sun went down. Ellis was tempted to tell the man he was full of it. In the mood I’m in, I’d probably go off on him and get ousted. He was saved from making a fool of himself by the timely arrival of a waitress. When he ordered a mojito and the jambalaya she looked at him askance. “You know that’s very spicy, sir.”
“Yes, my dear,” he replied, feigning a grandfatherly pose as he ran a knuckle over his short gray beard, “I am well aware of that. My doctor wouldn’t approve I’m sure, but us old codgers have a right to enjoy life once in a while.”
“Ellis, behave.”
He turned quickly to see one of his very few friends standing behind him.
“Now why would I want to do that, Bernard?”
“Because you’re a gentleman and this poor young woman should be treated like the lady she is.”
Returning his attention to the now flustered waitress, Ellis apologized for his manners. She in turn offered an apology for treating him as if he didn’t know what he was ordering. With that settled, she left.
“Will you join me?” Ellis asked Bernard.
“For a moment.” Bernard pulled out the other chair and sat. “So what brought you into town and why didn’t you call me first?”
“I’m taking a break for the day.”
“From?”
“Trying to paint.” Ellis shrugged. “I seem to be having a difficult time of it these days—or months to be honest. Nothing inspires me.” He smiled ruefully. “If there’s a muse of painting she’s on sabbatical as far as I can tell.
“Sorry to disappoint you but there is no muse of painting. Several mythical gods and goddesses are connected to art, such as Minerva and Dagda.”
“Well, whichever one it is, they’ve deserted me,” Ellis muttered.
“Then, my friend, you need to find a personal muse.” Bernard grinned. “I know Sara would love to introduce you to a couple of the guys she works with.”
“Gods. Tell your wife I love her dearly but I do not need her trying to play matchmaker.”
“I will. Not that it will do any good. The woman is stubborn when it comes to wanting to see the people she knows happy.”
“I am happy, damn it. Just frustrated because…Because I’m not painting any better than a four-year-old right now.”
“I was by the gallery yesterday,” Bernard said, resting his elbows on the table. “Randall told me he’d just sold two of your recent paintings.”
Ellis’s mouth tightened. “Not to sound egotistical, but that’s because they’re mine. Someone will hang them in their living room, not caring they’re inferior to what I used to create. Then they’ll announce to all their friends, ‘Look, I own an original Ellis Williams. Aren’t you jealous?’”
“Ellis, stop beating yourself up. Every artist and writer I know goes through a slump. You’ll pull out of it. Until then, go out and have some fun. As a matter of fact, come by the house on Saturday. We’re having a gathering of some of my colleagues from the university and people Sara works with. Good booze, good conversation.”
“I’ll…think about it.”
“Please do.” Bernard stood, saying, “It was great seeing you again, even if I do have to dash. Enjoy your lunch and come to the party.”
“I’m sure I will. Enjoy lunch that is. As for the party…perhaps.”
“I suppose that’s better than a definitive no.” Bernard smiled and left just as the waitress arrived with Ellis’s meal.
- Writer
