Read Online Framed and Burning (Dreamslippers Book 2) by Lisa Brunette - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lisa Brunette
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bacon. Donnie.
If he were athletic, maybe he’d go shoot hoops, or pump iron. Music usually gave him some solace. He and Donnie used to play one of the thousands of tapes or records Mick housed in that old studio, but they’d been melted by the fire. All he had was the stuff he kept at the beach house, old 45s he’d been given by his own grandfather. They were scratchy, though, and the songs were mostly too patriotic for his current feeling, a lot of John Philip Souza with a smattering of political speeches thrown in.
There was always the business of art to attend to, even though Mick paid for a contract agent/publicist. He was given a reprieve from the appearances for a while because of the fire, but he did need to talk over his business with Beverly, who was a smart, jovial publicist often distracted by her other, more important clients.
But that wouldn’t take much time. Mick was supposed to be making art. His livelihood depended on his work. And not only was he not painting now, but the entire collection of art he’d stored in the back of his studio no longer existed. This, Beverly informed him, had reduced his potential net worth by several million dollars.
If only he’d updated his insurance, as Beverly had kept reminding him. It had been on his list, but he kept getting sidetracked. So his settlement would not include his last ten years’ production as an artist.
But Mick tried to put distance between that loss and himself. Even if he had updated his insurance, it wouldn’t have compensated him for what his art might have earned on the open market. Not that the market itself wasn’t fickle and arbitrary. There were so many collectors these days speculating in the art trade, buying and selling paintings as if they were stocks. Some influential blog critic could declare his style dead. He was already seeing interest in his work wane. Besides, his paintings often sold for wildly different prices, depending on who sold it, where, and to whom. Mick understood from years of beating his head against its multicolored, glittering walls that the art world is essentially a Wild West of capitalism, and entirely unregulated.
He and Beverly were sitting in her home studio, which had a view of her tightly manicured garden, a white dolphin fountain flanked by bougainvillea, its pale yellow pistils hovering between vivid purple petals. He’d seen an army of Mexican laborers attack her garden on a regular basis with leaf blowers, rakes, and electric trimmers. Mick as always became distracted by the patterns the shadow of the trellis made, perfect diamonds on the wide St. Augustine grass.
“But there’s a bright side,” said Beverly with a wry twinkle in her eyes. “What paintings are left will probably double in value. I mean, once word gets out that the supply has diminished.”
“That’s a morbid thought,” Mick scolded her.
“Sorry, Mick,” she said, squeezing his shoulder. He knew she was holding back on saying “I told you so,” as she’d been after him for years to update his insurance and find a proper art-storage facility rather than keep the canvases in his studio. But he used them as reference pieces, often needing to go back to study an old painting to see how he’d previously handled one aspect or another or to remember the landscape of his mind at the time of whatever painting he had created.
The “I told you so” hung in the air, without Beverly having to say it. She sat down at her computer. “Still,” she said, “It’s a good thing you’re as tuned into the business side of things as you are, Mick. A lot of other artists would be worse off. Most don’t even have insurance.”
She tallied the damage. Fortunately, half his work had either been purchased outright, was in rotation in a gallery, or was in one of the lesser, smaller-city museums that had acquired it for their permanent collections. His recent opening in West Palm Beach had been well attended and critically
If he were athletic, maybe he’d go shoot hoops, or pump iron. Music usually gave him some solace. He and Donnie used to play one of the thousands of tapes or records Mick housed in that old studio, but they’d been melted by the fire. All he had was the stuff he kept at the beach house, old 45s he’d been given by his own grandfather. They were scratchy, though, and the songs were mostly too patriotic for his current feeling, a lot of John Philip Souza with a smattering of political speeches thrown in.
There was always the business of art to attend to, even though Mick paid for a contract agent/publicist. He was given a reprieve from the appearances for a while because of the fire, but he did need to talk over his business with Beverly, who was a smart, jovial publicist often distracted by her other, more important clients.
But that wouldn’t take much time. Mick was supposed to be making art. His livelihood depended on his work. And not only was he not painting now, but the entire collection of art he’d stored in the back of his studio no longer existed. This, Beverly informed him, had reduced his potential net worth by several million dollars.
If only he’d updated his insurance, as Beverly had kept reminding him. It had been on his list, but he kept getting sidetracked. So his settlement would not include his last ten years’ production as an artist.
But Mick tried to put distance between that loss and himself. Even if he had updated his insurance, it wouldn’t have compensated him for what his art might have earned on the open market. Not that the market itself wasn’t fickle and arbitrary. There were so many collectors these days speculating in the art trade, buying and selling paintings as if they were stocks. Some influential blog critic could declare his style dead. He was already seeing interest in his work wane. Besides, his paintings often sold for wildly different prices, depending on who sold it, where, and to whom. Mick understood from years of beating his head against its multicolored, glittering walls that the art world is essentially a Wild West of capitalism, and entirely unregulated.
He and Beverly were sitting in her home studio, which had a view of her tightly manicured garden, a white dolphin fountain flanked by bougainvillea, its pale yellow pistils hovering between vivid purple petals. He’d seen an army of Mexican laborers attack her garden on a regular basis with leaf blowers, rakes, and electric trimmers. Mick as always became distracted by the patterns the shadow of the trellis made, perfect diamonds on the wide St. Augustine grass.
“But there’s a bright side,” said Beverly with a wry twinkle in her eyes. “What paintings are left will probably double in value. I mean, once word gets out that the supply has diminished.”
“That’s a morbid thought,” Mick scolded her.
“Sorry, Mick,” she said, squeezing his shoulder. He knew she was holding back on saying “I told you so,” as she’d been after him for years to update his insurance and find a proper art-storage facility rather than keep the canvases in his studio. But he used them as reference pieces, often needing to go back to study an old painting to see how he’d previously handled one aspect or another or to remember the landscape of his mind at the time of whatever painting he had created.
The “I told you so” hung in the air, without Beverly having to say it. She sat down at her computer. “Still,” she said, “It’s a good thing you’re as tuned into the business side of things as you are, Mick. A lot of other artists would be worse off. Most don’t even have insurance.”
She tallied the damage. Fortunately, half his work had either been purchased outright, was in rotation in a gallery, or was in one of the lesser, smaller-city museums that had acquired it for their permanent collections. His recent opening in West Palm Beach had been well attended and critically
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