Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Less than five minutes later, he’s standing beside me in the apartment’s library, frowning down at the coffee table.
“It looks expensive,” he notes. “Are you sure we’re allowed to move it?”
I prop my hands on my hips. “What’s the worst thing that could happen?”
The worst thing that could happen is that we rip the rug that sits underneath the coffee table the second we start to push.
Oh crap.
I didn’t even think about how delicate the rug was.
I glance up to see the color drain from Terrell’s face as he assesses the damage.
“Maybe he bought it at IKEA?” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.
Terrell looks even more horrified.
“Okay, right. Listen, you were never here,” I say, already prodding him toward the door of the library. “I moved this by myself. Do you understand?”
“No. That’s not right.”
“Yes, it is! I’m Walt’s wife and this is my apartment now too, and you were only following my lead. You’re not in trouble. You were helping me. So thank you and have a wonderful rest of your night.”
“I can’t let you take the fall—”
“The fall? Don’t be silly. Walt has enough money to buy a thousand more of these silly rugs, and besides, he’s wildly in love with me and won’t care one bit about any of this when he gets home. I assure you.”
He nods then, finally starting to believe my lies. They do make sense. Why would Walt care that much about a rug anyway?
I convince him not to take the situation too seriously by the time I’ve escorted him out of the apartment, and in doing so, I’ve almost convinced myself too. I mean, it’s a rug. It’s nothing compared to the painting hanging up in the room, the painting that lures me back into its clutches when I walk back into the library.
I decide to put the issue with the rug on the back burner for now as I scoot my chair to the perfect position in front of the fireplace, pick up my pencil and sketchpad, and get to work.
I spend my entire night in that spot, only moving to use the bathroom and grab an apple from the kitchen before I get back to work. When my hand aches and my eyes turn blurry, I move to one of the leather sofas and wrap myself up in the cashmere throw draped over the side arm.
That’s where I sleep until the sun rises through the windows and wakes me up. I’m not even mad considering the painting is the first thing I see when I blink my eyes open.
My stomach grumbles with impatience as I stroll through the apartment, trying to decide which room to use to freshen up. Terrell put my suitcases in Walt’s room yesterday, but there’s no way I’m invading his space like that. Instead, I settle on the smallest of the guest rooms, which is still palatial by anyone’s standards. After I rinse off in the steam shower, I grab a pair of black jeans and an oversized butter-soft chambray button-down shirt.
In need of caffeine and food, I head into the kitchen and make myself a bowl of cereal. Then, I attempt to figure out the built-in espresso machine. I manage to both steam and froth milk before any coffee has even been dispensed. I call the machine a few choice curse words while clutching my fists, and finally, only after pressing a random series of buttons in a fit of rage, does the damn thing spurt espresso down into my mug.
I thank the lord, grab the mug before the coffee evaporates, and then haul butt back to the library.
I don’t plan on leaving the room all day. I’m concocting a plan, and the room is helping me think. So far, my postgraduate work has been completely aimless. For a few weeks, I’ve sketched on and off with no real goal in mind and it’s been slightly maddening, but I feel so inspired by De Heem’s masterpiece. I know I want to base my next series off of the painting.
My loose plan is to deconstruct the classic still life using a combination of cubist and modernist techniques. I want to develop De Heem’s muted colors and saturate the canvas with layers of pastels and acrylic paint.
I sketch compositions all day, pre-planning a few pieces as I think about which New York City galleries I could pitch the series to. A big player like Hauser & Wirth would be a dream, but last I heard, they weren’t acquiring new artists. There are smaller galleries that would be more willing to take on a fledgling voice in the art world, but even they’re a long shot. In the age of social media, I don’t necessarily need representation. Many young artists don’t even bother with brick and mortar galleries, but I can’t seem to give up the dream of walking into my own show and seeing my art on display. It’s always been my goal.