Read Online Cafe Nevo by Barbara Rogan - Free Book Online

doesn’t exhibit is autistic; he may perfect his technique, but sooner or later he loses the ability to communicate, without which there is no art.”
    â€œI understand what you’re saying, but I’m afraid.”
    Moriah laughed scornfully. “Of the critics?”
    â€œNo. Of showing those.” She indicated the pictures that Moriah had selected.
    â€œYou must. They’re your best. Listen to me, dearie. I don’t know where you got all that detail. I don’t buy the old photographs story, but there’s no reason why other people shouldn’t. At least they can’t disprove it, and whatever else they suspect they’ll keep it to themselves, for fear of appearing foolish.” Staring at the pictures, Moriah struggled with herself and lost. “How on earth did you do it?”
    Sarita shrugged.
    â€œAre you psychic?”
    â€œWhat does that mean?” Sarita fastened her eyes on the ground like a sulky child. “Sometimes I paint what I see, and sometimes I paint what I imagine; that’s all.”
    â€œThat’s one hell of an imagination. If we could bottle it and sell it, we’d have it made, kid. We could call it ‘Witch’s Brew.’“
    â€œI’m not a witch,” Sarita said angrily.
    â€œOf course you’re not I was only joking. You’re a painter, and a good one at that. Will you accept my offer?”
    Sarita looked at her. After a moment she said, “When?”
    Six weeks later, the Sheinkin Gallery opened, and with it Sarita Blume’s first exhibit.
    Sarita came unescorted, dressed in a forest green gown of silk and lace. It was an astonishing dress for Sheinkin Street, which in all the years since its conception had not known an occasion to support it, and no woman less beautiful than Sarita could have carried it off. The dress had been her mother’s, who had left her no money but a closetful of magnificent, dramatic clothes, seldom worn but lovingly preserved by the daughter.
    The opening also served as a kind of personal debut for Sarita. Her shyness, though habitual, was not inbred, and when the time was right she had no difficulty in discarding it. She invited friends of her parents, some of whom she hadn’t seen since the funeral, and they, compelled by guilt and curiosity, attended en masse. They came intending to be pleased, and so they were, as much by the artist as by her work. She looked, they whispered, just like her mother.
    The press was tremendous, for in addition to the invited guests, all of Sheinkin Street seemed to have turned out Among the hundreds who attended was one who looked at the paintings, then at Sarita, and left, quite unnoticed, without a word.
    The opening was a great success. Most of the pictures bore little red dots before the end of the evening, and Moriah Benveniste, who had not printed the prices, charged twice as much for the last pictures sold as for the first. Sarita exhibited but would not sell the pictures of old Sheinkin and its inhabitants, for she felt they were not entirely hers to sell. There were viewers who recognized old friends and relations and even themselves as youngsters, but oddly enough they seemed to find nothing strange in this and made no inquiries.
    One week after the opening, Moriah called on Sarita at home.
    â€œI’ve obtained a commission for you,” she began with a mysterious smile.
    â€œA commission?”
    â€œFor a great deal of money. One thousand dollars, for a single painting.”
    Sarita gave her a disbelieving look.
    â€œLess my commission, that’s eight hundred dollars.”
    â€œYour commission,” Sarita repeated.
    â€œAs your agent. Well, you need an agent, dearie. What do you know about marketing, promotion, pricing, all the business side of art? You don’t want to spend your time on that, but you need to make a living.”
    â€œBut are you an agent?”
    â€œEvery dealer is an agent. Trust