NO MAN AN ISLE
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Chapter 9
Don had purchased his supplies and was walking through the mall with Kurt when Mrs. Smythe approached them. "What a pleasant surprise. You've recovered from your accident, I see."
"Just in time. I was out of nearly everything."
"You've been painting that much?"
"I've finished several and there are a few more I want to get started on."
Suzanne was in the crowd coming toward them, but she had seen Don and turned aside, browsing just inside a shop entrance until they finished talking with her mother. Don noticed her evasive act; the hurt arose. With some difficulty he continued the conversation.
Erik awaited them when they returned home. "Where've you been?"
"Getting something for you to do this weekend." Don held out the roll of canvas for Erik to stretch and mount.
"Yeah? Well here's something for you to take care of, smart-ass." Erik held out a wriggling bundle of fur.
"A kitten!" Don cradled the animal in his arms, stroking the white fur. "Where'd you get it?"
"Cat at the station had a litter. They've just gotten old enough to leave their mother."
The kitten gave a plaintive cry. "He's hungry." Don raced to the kitchen for a saucer of milk.
"I'm especially glad you did this for Don today. He needed something." Kurt told him of the encounter.
"I wish that girl would either grow up or get lost. I don't like to see Don hurt by someone that immature."
"He seemed to throw it off pretty well."
Don slouched in one of the wing chairs, the kitten, its small tummy bulging, lay curled up in his lap asleep.
"Have you thought of a name, yet?" Erik asked.
"I'm going to call him Coastie."
"Why?"
"Well, you brought him from the station and he's all white except for his black paws, so he reminds me of you when you're in uniform."
"Why you little ..." Erik feigned a punch at Don.
Kurt smiled at Don. "That's a good name. We'll have to go to the village and get some food for him."
"I brought two or three cans, so there's no hurry."
"Can he sleep in my room, Kurt?"
"As long as you keep him clean so I don't have to scrub both of you in flea soap."
"I will; I promise."
"Put him down and we'll find something for a litter box and get this canvas stretched." Erik said.
With the new canvases prepared, Don continued to work. Kurt noticed an improvement in the smoothness with which he painted and further development of his distinctive style. He also began to wonder what could be done with the steadily mounting number of works.
Don was transferring one of the final sketches in his pad when the buzzer sounded. He switched on the intercom. "Yes?"
"Mr. Warner? Edith Smythe."
Kurt joined Don on the steps. "It's kind of you to visit us again."
"This is my husband Doctor Smythe."
Kurt shook hands with the small graying man, not at all what he had imagined her husband would be. Once inside, the doctor looked about the library carefully. "You're not married," he stated flatly.
"How did you know?"
"This wonderful room. A man can be comfortable in here. It's not full of cute dust catchers." He turned to his wife. "Damn it, Edith, if you'd just leave my study alone."
"Yes, dear," she replied with surprising meekness.
While her husband chatted with Kurt, Don placed each of the recently completed paintings on the easel at her request. She commented on several, talking with him at length.
Some time later, over drinks, she explained the reason for their visit. "Mr. Lawrence, if you will permit, I believe I can arrange a showing for this young man at one of the galleries on the beach. I know it's getting late in the season, but certainly the exposure won't hurt."
"If Don wishes to exhibit, I'll be happy to help in any way I can, but he must make his own decisions. What do you say, Don?"
"I don't see how a gallery would even look at my stuff, I'm just a beginner."
"Nonsense," replied Mrs. Smythe. "You already have a technique and style that some others I know will envy, and I can see a great deal of growth in your present work."
"What should I show?"
"The ones you have completed and those you have hanging in this room that you haven't duplicated."
"I don't want to sell the ones here, I did them for Kurt and Erik."
"You can have the gallery mark them as from a private collection."
"Well ... if you really think I'm good enough."
"Of course you are. I'll stop at the gallery on the way home and arrange it."
Once the Smythes had gone, Don sat with Coastie in his lap, his brow creased in thought. Finally he asked, "Am I doing right, Kurt?"
"You can learn a lot, I think, if you listen to the comments which may be valid, as long as you don't let the criticism upset you."
On Saturday, Erik brought a note for Don addressed in care of the station. The showing was arranged to begin the following Friday, if the owner approved Don's work. He would visit them Sunday afternoon. To Kurt's surprise, Erik was against the idea. After some argument when they were alone, Erik agreed not to mention his feelings to Don.
The gallery owner, a taciturn man who Kurt judged to be in his forties, was startling with his pony tail and thick beard. "You're Warner?" He asked when Kurt opened the door.
"No, I'm Kurt Lawrence. Come in. This is Warner."
He stood for a moment regarding Don without blinking. "I thought Smythe said she regarded you as a promising young artist. She was at least part right, you're young." He paused. "Ian Campbell. I suppose as long as I've managed to get here, I might as well look at what you've done."
Don found it difficult to cope with this directness. Campbell grunted at the introduction to Erik and immediately began to place the paintings on the easel. He asked for the lights and continued to study the paintings without expression. Don, Kurt, Erik stood together awaiting his opinion, Don nervously stroking the kitten.
Having gone through the paintings, Campbell moved to those hung in the room, studying each from several angles. He finally seated himself comfortably on the sofa and lighted a cigarette. He suddenly nodded.
"Your work's better than I expected, so I'll exhibit you. I've been suckered so many times by people who think they know something about art I'm always prepared for the worst. Edith isn't usually too far off in her judgement, though. You're far from finished and some of your execution is amateurish, but your subject matter will make a decent show. I'll need a list of the paintings. Since she said there were some you don't want to sell, you'll have to mark them. I'll expect most of them to be for sale since I'm showing them. This is business, you know."
"What about prices?" Don asked.
"Leave that to me. Since you're a beginner, I'll set a reasonable price and bargin a little if I have to. I get a flat twenty-five percent off the top. Oh, yeah. I agreed to let Smythe give a reception for you at the gallery Friday night. Invited guests only, so if there's anybody you want to include, go write their names down and give them to me. I'll pass them on to Edith. The show opens Saturday and runs through the next Thursday. Anything that isn't sold by then, you get out Friday morning. Bring your stuff in ready to hang this Friday morning."
Don hastily wrote four names on a slip of paper and handed it to Campbell, who crammed it in his pocket and left.
After the morning's work, a shower and rest returned some of Don's color. It was a handsome, self-assured young man who entered the gallery. Mrs. Smythe and her husband arrived just after Don and Kurt. Though she protested that she had only arranged the showing, it was evident from her greeting of the guests that she had chosen from a wide group of acquaintances.
Once the guests each had a glass of wine in hand and were viewing the paintings, an older man engaged Don in conversation, discussing his style, subject matter, and execution. Don tried to answer to each question, asking for clarification when he was not certain of the man's meaning, and listening intently to the offered suggestions.
As soon as Campbell was able to corner Don alone, he hissed, "You idiot, what were you talking to him so long for?"
As Don explained the conversation, Campbell paled. "That's the critic from the Norfolk paper and he's death on young painters. He's not that important anymore, but he can still hurt you as far as sales are concerned. I don't know how Smythe managed to get him down here. "
Shaken by Campbell's words, Don sought out the chief for comfort.
"I'm proud o' you, son; you done some fine work. It makes me a little sad, though. Last time I was at one o' these affairs it was fer my son."
"It wouldn't have been the same without you, Chief." Don told him of the encounter.
"From what Billy once't told me back when he was a-showin', I think most critics write about art 'cause they know they can't do as good. You were honest with him, and if he recognizes that, then I'm sure he won't be too hard on you. It's them who think they know everything the critics go after."
Don felt a sense of obligation to Mrs. Smythe for having arranged the reception which had turned into a pleasant gathering, despite the dour predictions of Campbell.
"How can I pay Mrs. Smythe for all of this?" He asked Kurt.
"She was particularly taken with the painting of the wreck," Kurt commented.
The chief nodded. "She looked at it more times than any of the others."
"Do you think it would be all right if I gave it to her?"
"It would be a fine gesture. Have Campbell mark it sold and ask him to see that she gets it. You know everything in a showing like this has to stay up all week, even if it's been sold." Kurt said.
When Don sought him out, Campbell had softened. "Sold four tonight."
"Was the wreck one of them?"
"First one. Got what I asked for it, too," he added gleefully.
After the trip home Don went straight to his bed. Tired as he was, he found sleep slow in coming, fearing the comments of the critic.
When he came down for breakfast, Don found a copy of the Norfolk morning paper on the table, the arts section folded to the review. His hand shook a bit as he picked it up. Erik refused to say how he'd gotten a copy so early, only grinning when Don asked.
The show which this reviewer attended
last evening was lauded as the discovery
of a new talent. Unfortunately, this
reviewer cannot be as enthusiastic as
the promoters. The paintings barely
escaped banality through use of a
different approach than that usually
accorded a beach motif. If one cares
for viewing beach scenes through a fog,
then Warner's style is successful.
It seems a shame to waste what could be
an unusual treatment on such hackneyed
subject matter. Yet, the artist is quite
young and lives in the area he paints.
Thus, I gather, it is his lack of
weltanschauung, so to speak, which
causes him to paint such commonplace
scenes.
It is refreshing, however, to find a
young artist who answers questions with
commendable honesty; and, I might add,
some wit; admits his shortcomings;
and seeks constructive criticism. This
reviewer will watch with interest the
growth of Donald Warner as an artist.
Don's feelings were mixed as he laid the paper aside. "Did you read this, Kurt?"
He nodded.
"What do you think he really meant?"
Erik interrupted. "Campbell called before I left the station and said tell you it's the first review of a young artist he's seen from this man that wasn't scathing, so I guess that means he thought you were pretty good."
At Don's request the three of them drove to the gallery that afternoon. Seeing several cars parked outside, he slipped inside to try to overhear a few comments, but Campbell spotted him and beckoned him over. He seemed pleased. "Sold two more today. That wasn't a bad review, you know. He usually has kids like you for breakfast." He said before turning away to talk to a prospective customer.
Satisfied, Don was eager to begin the painting of the wreck that he wanted to give to Mrs. Smythe. Knowing exactly what he wanted, the painting took shape rapidly. Both Kurt and Erik commented on the obvious superiority of this one as compared to the one on exhibit.
Though Don begged, Kurt refused to let him visit the gallery again. "Friday will be soon enough. I'm sure if there were anything important, Campbell would get in touch with you. If you continue to show, you'll have to get over being so eager. It's out of your hands once it's in a gallery."
"I guess so, but it's hard not knowing."
Friday morning Don and Kurt were at the gallery before it opened, but seeing a few lights, they knocked. Campbell unlocked the door. "Come on in, I'm having a cup of coffee." He poured a cup for each of them. "There's not much for you to carry back, just the four you wouldn't let me sell." He slid a cheque across to Don. "That's less my commission. When you have some more, bring them in. With you letting me set a reasonable price, they sell better than a lot of the stuff I've had in here, so I won't mind keeping one or two on hand."
Don looked at the cheque in disbelief. "I expect it'll be a while before I have anything else. I'm not going to work under all that pressure again."
"Got to you, did it?" Campbell said sagely.
He helped them take down the four paintings belonging to Kurt and Erik and walked to the Jeep with them. He pointed to the wrapped painting with a raised eyebrow.
"That's one I did for Mrs. Smythe."
"Let's see it."
Don carefully unwrapped the painting.
Campbell looked at it closely. "That's the best of the lot. You would do this for her and make me show the other one," he said peevishly. "Keep developing like this and you may turn out to be some sort of artist after all."
A few minutes later, Don walked up the steps and rang the bell. Mrs. Smythe answered. "Why Mr. Warner, how nice to see you."
He held out the painting. "This is for you to say thanks for setting up the showing and reception and all."
"I must see it. Do come in. You, also, Mr. Lawrence." She called.
Kurt climbed out of the Jeep and joined them. "Thank you, but we can only stay a minute."
She unwrapped the painting and looked at it with cries of delight. "Oh, I did want that one, but Ian had already sold it. I don't know how to thank you." She set it down and stepped back a few paces to look at it. "This is far superior to the one at the showing. It will be my favorite of your work, knowing you did it especially for me."
"Thank you for all your help to me."
On the way home, Don walked proudly into the village bank to deposit the cheque.
"Kurt, let's celebrate. I'll take you and Erik and the chief to dinner tonight."
"Thank you, Don. I know they'll be pleased, too."
Mr. Lawrence, gentlemen, it's been a while."
The maitre 'd's expression of pleasure contradicted Erik's apprehension. "He won't let me in the place after what I did last time," he predicted when Don told him where they were going.
They were seated at the same table, this time secluded and quiet. "Would you care to sit elsewhere, Mr. Lawrence?" Charles asked as Kurt looked about the nearly deserted room. "I put you here out of habit. Professor Beaumont always requested this table."
"This is fine. What do you recommend?"
"The prime rib is exceptional this evening. May I choose for you?"
Kurt inclined his head. "It's Don's party tonight."
"Very good. We'll try to make it special."
"I used to come here once in a while with Paul," the chief reminisced. "I always enjoyed it. Thanks for including me, Don."
When a young woman began to play popular music on a small electric organ, Erik wrinkled his nose in disgust. "I hate those damn things and listen to the crap she's playing. That's what Frank Lloyd Wright called 'chewing gum for the ears.'"
"Do I detect a musical snob in our midst?" Kurt teased.
"Damn straight. Anybody serious about music wouldn't be caught dead playing that stuff and that crappy excuse for an organ is even worse. "
Don was intrigued by the appetizer set before them, while Kurt expressed open delight. "Marvelous! Do you serve this often?" He asked Charles.
"One of your uncle's favorites. I would have offered it on your last visit had chef had fresh ingredients."
Tiny shrimp garnished the avocado half stuffed with a delicate shrimp salad, a wedge of lemon the only dressing offered. A demi-sec white wine accompanied. The waiter filled the two glasses in front of Erik without comment. Erik shifted one to Don's place.
"This is fantastic," Don mumbled through a full mouth.
"At the rate you're being taken care of, you'll be broke when they bring you the bill," Erik teased.
"If it's all this good, it'll be worth it."
Despite his critical mood, Erik could find nothing but praise for the thick slice of beef, tender green beans in tarragon sauce, and tiny red potatoes with parsley and butter placed in front of them next. To complete the meal, the waiter set in front of each a small silver bowl containing a pierced fresh peach in champagne.
"Don, I'm jealous. We didn't receive such excellence last time," Kurt commented.
"It just shows that Charles recognizes a successful man when he sees one," Don replied in lofty tones.
"Yeah. Even if someone has to sneak wine to him." Erik retorted. "After all you've had to drink tonight I'm glad you're not driving."
Don stuck his tongue out at Erik.
"Don, perhaps you should compliment the chef. You can ask Charles to have him come to the table." Kurt suggested.
As Charles poured their coffee, Don made the request. Seconds later the small man hurried to their table, toque bobbing, a look of consternation on his face as he looked at the chief.
"I want to thank you for a wonderful dinner. Everything was perfect." Don said.
The chef's worried expression turned into a broad smile. "Thank you, sir. Were you perhaps related to Dr. Beaumont?"
"No, but he was." Don pointed to Kurt.
"This is the first time since the professor passed away that I've been called for except to hear a complaint. I was sure you had to be of his family. I'm happy I was able to make your evening a pleasant one, sir."
The maitre d' smiled at Don as the chef returned to the kitchen. "Thank you, sir. Your compliment means a great deal to John."
"I'm glad. This has been quite a day."
To be continued...
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Posted: 08/01/08