Thought Farm | Chapter Six

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My cell phone rang. The screen showed Amanda’s photo, her too-happy face. I watched it, debating before I finally answered.

“It’s about time,” Amanda said. “I thought you were going to call me.”

I apologized. “There’s been a lot going on.”

“Leave it to you to ditch your own opening.”

“It was an emergency.”

“It’s all right,” Amanda said. “I decided to forgive you after I read the advance copy of the reviews.”

I sat on the couch, and the cat jumped onto my lap. “How did you get an advance copy?”

“Simple, I asked. Okay, are you ready?” Amanda read with punctuated inflections. “Amanda Stone, of Stone Galleries, long distinguished for grooming an impressive stable of artists, once again proves she knows how to bet on a winner.”

I made a mock whinny.

“I thought you’d like that. How about this one? Stanton’s work juxtaposes beauty against horror, and when viewed as a whole, opposites are somehow understood as essential to one another.” Amanda paused. “Dramatic. I like it.”

Of course, she liked it. The description was lifted right out of the press release Amanda had issued before the show. It’s just color against surface, I reminded myself. Scott advised against believing my own publicity or placing too much stock in the opinion of the critics. The advice was sound. If people accepted my work, it should be on my own terms. If it weren’t for Scott, I’d still be a street artist working in retail to pay off my student loans. I stroked the cat and gazed out the window. Sunlight spangled off the surface of the pool.

“Now for my favorite,” Amanda said. “Get this. ‘A view into the art of Chloe Stanton is like being subjected to an involuntary Rorschach test.”

I groaned. It was always easier to ignore the good reviews than the bad.

“Wait, there’s more.” Amanda continued, “At first glance, Stanton’s work appears as a study of extraordinary color underscored by sound composition. Look further at its chameleon properties, and the viewer realizes that Stanton is a shapeshifter of the highest order. Like a trick image that can be interpreted as a young princess or an old witch, the beauty of Chloe Stanton’s art is that it reveals the eye of the beholder.

“Hey, kiddo, not bad,” Amanda said. “Due out in this Sunday’s Chron.”

“Young princess, old witch?” I joked but allowed myself a moment of satisfaction. The arts editor at the Chronicle had a reputation for penning reviews in an artist’s blood.

“Oh well, what do you expect from a writer? Cut the man a break,” Amanda said. “Besides, he’s giving us a feature. So, tell me, what was the dire emergency last night?”

“Oh. A student of Scott’s had some kind of mental breakdown and got into his lab.”

“How awful. Is everything alright?”

“As far as I know. Scott had him checked into the hospital for treatment.”

“That must be upsetting for you, dear. Are you okay?”

Was Amanda concerned for me? Or was she worried that the distraction might trigger what she’d coined as ‘one of Chloe Stanton’s critical periods of creative incubation’? I was gaining a reputation as an artist given to bursts of frenzied productivity followed by unpredictable dormancies. I’d painted eighty works in a month one time before collapsing in a stupor.

“I’m fine.” Oliver purred as he kneaded his claws into my thigh.

“That’s a relief,” Amanda said. “What about his lab?”

“Oh, I didn’t even think to ask. Scott didn’t mention it,” I said. “He hasn’t been too talkative.”

“He probably doesn’t want to upset you. Your nerves must have been shot after the opening.”

Maybe it was the concerned tone of Amanda’s voice. Maybe I feared that since Scott and I had seen Amanda just the night before, something had changed, but I wasn’t sure what. It was a tiny fissure too faint to talk about. I wanted to push the thought from my mind. I continued my conversation with Amanda as I climbed the circle of stairs and entered the master bedroom.

Once in the bathroom, I witnessed my reflection encased in the infinity of mirrors. The air smelled of lavender with all its associations... a hot bath, Scott’s aftershave…tranquilizers. I opened the cabinet drawer and rifled through a myriad of prescription bottles until my search was satisfied.

Amanda was in the middle of a recap about the opening when the doorbell rang, an ostentatious series of gongs that always made me jump.

“Someone’s at the door.”

“I gathered,” Amanda said. “By the way, a lawyer in Pacific Heights wants to commission you for two works. Lunch tomorrow to discuss?” I agreed, and we said our goodbyes as I descended the stairs.

Through the peephole, I saw a teenage girl smoothing flyaway strands of blond hair. Probably selling something, I thought. Normally, I might have ignored the doorbell, but today the distraction was welcomed. I opened the door and folded one arm across the bare skin between my halter top and jeans.

“Hi, Mrs. Stanton?”

I nodded.

“My name is Brenda Breedlove, and I’m with the Atherton Crier. Are you familiar with our paper?” The young girl fidgeted through a purse the size of a small suitcase.

The Atherton Crier was a village tabloid full of ads for day spas and Botox treatments. “Not really,” I said. “We get the news online.”

The girl’s naturally pink cheeks fell. “Then you may have seen the story this morning.”

I rarely paid attention to the news except for the art beats. Brenda Breedlove handed me the result of her quest through her purse, a business card with her name typed below The Atherton Crier. She was a reporter, not a salesperson. I eyed the young girl.

She tried to appear contained but gushed with puppyish enthusiasm. “I’m interning,” Brenda said, seeming to read my question about her age. “Over the summer,” she added. “This would be such a great story. I mean, being that Jason Leroux was Dr. Stanton’s research assistant and everything.”

I was confused. “I’m sorry, what story are you referring to?”

“Dr. Stanton’s research assistant. You didn’t hear?” Brenda’s expression registered a faint shock. “He’s dead.”

I hesitated and opened the door. “Come in.”

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