Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 101398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Bennett Bishop is best known for defying rules within the art world. He has been nicknamed “the Chameleon” by American art critics, and European art critics have been known to call him the “bad boy” of the art world because he doesn’t follow rules. He is one of only a few artists who has been able to span different art genres with great success.
Life and death tends to be a central theme in Bishop’s works. A constant push and pull of living and dying is what Bennett Bishop is most famous for. He received notoriety at the age of eighteen after a series of impressionistic-style paintings showcased raw portraits that made distinguishing life from death impossible for the viewer.
Five years into his career, he sold an abstract painting called “The Mourning After” for a record-breaking $10.4 million.
I don’t even reach the end of the Wikipedia page before I come to a halting stop.
Bad boy of the art world?
10.4 million dollars? For one freaking painting?
And he’s been famous since he was eighteen?
None of this adds up with the man in the pickup truck and faded jeans who set me out in the dirt on my way into Red Bridge. Or the man who stepped into CAFFEINE and punched Thomas in the face…twice.
Or the grumpy bastard who seems to enjoy pissing me off to the point where I slapped him in the face. Or the mental case who kissed me after I did.
The article doesn’t say anything about Summer. To be honest, it’s lacking any and all information on Bennett for the last ten or so years.
Who Bennett Bishop Used to Be is what the title should have said.
I, for one, want to know who he is now. And since I start working for him tomorrow, I guess, maybe, just maybe, I’ll get to find out.
Friday, August 20th
Bennett
Norah Ellis has been working for me for three days, and it already feels like a mistake.
Not because she’s dumb or because she hasn’t done something I’ve asked or hasn’t been prepared. Honestly, her work performance has been the exact opposite. She’s been on time, on task, thinks ahead, and has made my ability to focus on painting and nothing else ten times easier. She’s a hundred times better at this than she is at making coffee.
But she’s also got a laugh that’ll cut through even my deepest concentration, wild, curly hair I can’t stop imagining sinking my hands into, and is already in so deep with my daughter that Summer refuses to hang out anywhere but the studio anymore.
Breezy was right that I needed an assistant, but I should have gone with fucking Paul.
“Norah!” Summer shouts excitedly from her chair. “Stop!” Her laughter comes in peals, her breathing nearly ragged as Norah flicks another tiny droplet of water onto her leg from the slop sink.
I step back from my canvas, examining the reds and maroons that fade into brown around the edges. It’s a soft brown, one with a creamy center and flecks of golden speckle. I pretend it has nothing to do with my new assistant’s eyes.
“Norah,” I call, raising my voice enough to break through the cackling. “I need a new brush, a damp sponge, and the one brown color…” I search my mind for the name of it, but she beats me to the punch.
“The Mauve on Marron?”
“Yes.”
“On it!” she chirps happily, scooting around Summer with a smile and a wink and grabbing the paint from the closet in the back. After dropping that off, she grabs a sponge and a brush from the shelf, wets the sponge on the way, and sets them on my cart behind me while I pry open the top of this new can.
After doing that, she heads straight for Summer’s chair, turning it gently so that she can see the almost finished canvas hanging on the wall.
“Wow, Daddy. That looks cool!”
A little fatherly pride swells my chest. Funny how the approval of my seven-year-old means more than the experts at MoMA.
“You like it, Summblebee?”
“I’d like it more if it was pink, but the red and brown is cool too.”
I laugh. “They can’t all be pink, baby.”
Norah’s gaze jerks toward me suddenly, but when she notices I see her, she turns away.
“What?” I ask, completely uncomfortable not knowing what she’s thinking—an entirely new concept for me.
“Oh. Me? No, nothing. It’s nothing.”
“Norah, what?”
“I…” she starts so softly, I almost can’t hear her. “I’ve just never really heard you laugh before.”
“Isn’t it the best?” Summer interjects excitedly, making Norah smile, if hesitantly.
“What do you think of the painting?” I ask Norah, avoiding the other subject completely.
“I think it’s really interesting.” She steps closer to the canvas to inspect it. “I’ve never seen anything like it, never seen colors like those together in that way.”
“What does it make you feel?” I ask the most important question of all. Something becomes art when it makes you feel. It doesn’t matter the emotion, but it has to evoke something from inside you. A memory. A feeling. A fear. A desire.