Read Online The Gallery by Barbara Steiner - Free Book Online

her painting. “Your passion went into this painting. You see that, don’t you?”
    â€œYes. But I’ve imitated your style. You see that, don’t you?” She still felt a grain of anger rubbing her, irritating her emotions into a bitter pearl of gray ice.
    â€œThere’s nothing wrong with that. A student often imitates her teacher. Look at all the old masters. Their students imitated them. That’s why there were schools of painting. All the Impressionists have similarities. Look at what followed Picasso’s lead.”
    â€œAre you my teacher now?” She smiled, rather liking the idea.
    â€œWould that please you?”
    â€œI—I guess so. Who are you?”
    â€œThe night. You like the night.
    â€˜Night, sable goddess from her ebony throne
    In rayless majesty, now stretches forth
    Her leaden septre o’er a slum’ring world.’”
    â€œYou’re a poet, too?” She smiled, running her fingers across the rough-textured painting. She’d used a palette knife for some parts, piling on paint for depth.
    â€œEdward Young. One of my favorite poets. I only paint.”
    â€œIf you won’t tell me your name, I’m going to call you Mr. Sable. Night artist in this dark gallery.”
    â€œNow you’re waxing poetic. And you’re in pain. Paint from that pain.”
    â€œRight now?”
    â€œDo you want to return to school?”
    â€œNo. I can’t.”
    She slid another canvas board from her bag, prepared earlier with a wash of white gesso. She stared at the whiteness, the absence of color, emotion, passion. She let it hypnotize her until she reached deep inside herself. Without thought she dipped her brush into the black paint.
    When she came out of her deep trance, that intense concentration she’d found the night before, she stared at the painting. A body slumped on a street curb just off center, curled into itself, blond head tucked into knees, arms circling legs, as if holding the body together. She imagined the body flying off in all directions, broken pieces strewing the street if it weren’t wrapped tightly. Long fingers bit into the leg flesh, holding tightly like the straps on a trunk, long sealed up, hiding a secret. The sky was leaden, threatening, as if it could easily swallow up the figure.
    She’d alternated color on a corner of the brick building so that it imitated piano keys. But probably she was the only one who would see that in the painting.
    â€œThat’s your friend, isn’t it?” The low voice spoke for the first time. There had been no verbal communication while she painted, but now that she was aware, she thought she had probably felt his presence while she worked.
    â€œHe’s in pain.”
    â€œYou’ve captured it well.”
    â€œDid—did you help me?”
    â€œDo you think I did?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    Had he guided her hand? Was this his work or hers? Did it matter? A sudden fit of laughter bubbled up.
    â€œWhat am I going to tell Roddy, Mr.Sable? That a ghost helped me paint these new pictures. That I was heavily influenced by two paintings that have appeared on the wall in my dark gallery?”
    She laughed out loud.
    â€œTell him they came from inside you. That side that is sensitive to others. You can’t escape the world around you.”
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œI tried.”
    â€œTell me about it.” She cleaned her brushes, easing the creamy acrylic paint from the soft bristles.
    â€œIt doesn’t matter now.”
    â€œWhat if it matters to me?”
    â€œThen you’ll know sometime.” He left. She felt him go.
    â€œMr. Sable!” She stood and whirled around. “Why did you leave? I’m sorry I pried. I won’t ask questions. I don’t really care who are you. I don’t care about anything but your art. My painting.” She stared into the dim corners. Even walked over and