Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Finn

I spend the morning in my studio painting. Working on a triptych that I'm entitling Past, Present, and Imperfect Future . The colors go from serene, to chaotic, to a blur. The paintings represent the way I see this tumultuous world, the past so peaceful, the present so chaotic and violent, and the future so unknown. I'm almost done with the second in the series. It's a mixed media mash-up that combines monochromatic shades of gray paint with pieces of shrapnel, rusted nails, and fragments of glass. Given the political unrest and terrorism in our world, I'm thinking that the third painting may be a nihilistic splotch of black paint or tar that I'll fling at the canvas with my bare hands. But who would pay big bucks for a colossal canvas with just some random blob resembling a slimy Rorschach personality test? Then again, art collectors are unpredictable and you never know what the next breakout piece of work will be. I often like to think of Picasso, who blew away the art world with his unprecedented cubist masterpieces.

I, however, have yet to blow the art world away. At best, I've sold some pieces on Etsy and at the Fairfax Flea Market, where I exhibit every Sunday, and to some of our friends. Nothing much. I'm lucky if I make a whopping thirty grand a year. I'm fortunate my wife Skye supports us and allows me to indulge my passion. But it's nothing to be proud of. I'm thirty-two and have been at it since I was a kid. Sometimes, I want to throw in the towel. Start all over again. But Skye has faith in me. And it has never wavered. "It just takes one person to recognize your genius," she's told me over and over.

I love my wife. And today, she may be right. Kayla Phillips, one of the hottest promoters in the art world, contacted me after I shot her an email and included a file of my portfolio. It was prompted by an article I read about her in the Los Angeles Times. She said she was looking to represent emerging artists. Bold. Creative. In touch with the times. To be honest, I never expected to hear back from her, and I'm sure every struggling artist and their mother reached out to her, but she responded almost instantly. The email was brief and to the point.

Intrigued by your work. Let's meet for lunch at Fig & Olive this Friday. Reservation at 1 p.m. in my name.

Though being a little superstitious about the day—Friday the 13th—and hating lunches because they dig into my painting time, I readily agreed. Judging by her response time, she seemed eager to meet me. Maybe today, despite the stigma associated with it, is going to be my lucky day. It's my wife's lucky day. Her thirtieth birthday. Maybe we'll have an extra special reason to go out and celebrate tonight.

My studio is located in industrial Vernon—a depressing as hell place—strewn with one ugly warehouse after another. A gloomy canvas of grayness and bleakness. Population: 112. Seriously. No one lives here and I can't blame them. Even the perpetual SoCal sunshine can't brighten industrial Vernon. Adjacent to downtown LA, it's a city that hardly anyone knows or frequents unless you're employed by one of the food or fashion labels whose manufacturing and distribution headquarters are based here. For me, it was an opportunity to rent a warehouse for an unheard of reasonable sum. The hip, pricier Arts District is not far away, but to rent an expansive space like mine there would cost an arm and a leg.

After getting in some painting time, I abandon my work-in-progress and clean my paintbrushes. It's a lengthy, multi-step process involving soaking them in a paint thinner solution and rubbing the bristles against a rag until they're blond again with no trace of paint. The final step is rinsing them off with a little soap and water and storing them in a plastic container. I follow the procedure to the letter because the sable brushes are expensive as shit, some costing over a hundred dollars.

The studio has a small, dilapidated bathroom where I wash up afterward. The paint is peeling and the old fluorescent light casts a dismal gray hue. As I scrub my hands, I glance at myself in the mottled mirror above the sink to make sure no paint has mixed with my stubble. Not a speck. Nor in my thick dark hair, which is getting unruly. I've got to decide whether to get it cut or let it grow long again and tie it back in a ponytail or put it up in man bun. Skye prefers it short—and says I look like a Greek god—but in some ways, it's a lot easier to manage when it's long. Out of sight. Out of mind.

As much as I've scrubbed, flecks of paint still dot my hands. Sometimes it takes days to get rid of them. Drying my hands off with a towel, I quickly change out of my paint-stained T-shirt into another identical one I've brought along from home. Basic black though I wanted to wear a graphic one of my music idol, Bruce Springsteen. The Boss. I also switch from my sweats into a pair of faded jeans. Worn Nikes complete my ensemble. Despite feeling comfortable, second thoughts bombard me. Maybe I should have brought along a suit. From what I've learned about Kayla online, she's A-list all the way. Smart. Cultured. Stylish. Beautiful.

Brimming with a blend of dread and anticipation, I head out at noon for our lunch. With the LA traffic that seems to get worse by the day, I wanted to give myself plenty of time to get to Fig & Olive, which is located on La Cienega, not far from the Larchmont neighborhood where Skye and I live. In retrospect, maybe I should have stayed home this morning and gone to lunch from there. Time management has never been one of my strengths.

As soon as I get onto the bumper-to-bumper 10 Freeway, I wish I'd left earlier. An apropos Springsteen album plays on my stereo. The title song: "Working on a Dream." I listen to the entire album and despite the crawl, I get to my destination a little before one. There's a lineup of cars waiting to be valeted. All of them high end. Mercedes, Porsches, Jags... plus several Teslas, Bentleys, and limos. My old Ford pickup sure as hell doesn't belong, and I swerve away, looking for parking on the street... a spot where my vehicle will be out of sight. After several frustrating laps around the block, I finally find one on a residential side street. I read the sign in front of me carefully. Good. Two hours free parking. After anchoring the truck between two parked vehicles, I hop out and jog over to the restaurant. Pulling my phone out of my back pocket, I glance down at the time. It's almost one o'clock. Shit. I'm going to be late. I pick up my pace, segueing into a sprint. As I cross the street, a massive black Mercedes comes careening toward me.

Not braking. My heart races.

My career's going to be over before it launches.