The Riverhouse by G. Norman Lippert
It wasn’t just that the new painting was a little too big for the old easel. As he’d painted last night, Shane had come to suspect that this new creation was more than just a bizarre whim. For one thing, it was very, very good; Shane had recognized it even as the first rough strokes had begun to color the canvas. It was as if the painting already existed, and he’d glimpsed it, memorized it, and all he had to do now was excavate it from the white of the canvas, carefully, and without screwing it up.
And even more important than its quality, the painting seemed to mean something, even if Shane couldn’t quite grasp what it was. The painting was, in fact, possibly the first real art Shane had created in decades, the first painting made for itself, not to sell movie tickets, or fabric softener, or political candidates. It was hard to enter the room and not stop to stare at the new work. Even in its current state, rough and unfinished, it had a certain gravity, a gravity Shane wanted to orbit.
He nodded to himself. He would finish the matte painting today, and then he would move the new painting, the painting of the manor house, to his main easel, under the Escher quote, where he did his shift work. There were no other contracts for the next few weeks. Instead of lazing around playing Sudoku, going on bike rides and watching television, Shane would take his time and finish the new painting. And when he was done with it, maybe he’d do something with it that he hadn’t done with any of his other paintings: maybe he’d frame it and hang it up. Maybe he’d put it right over the fieldstone fireplace in the living room, where it could be visible from almost anywhere in the house. The last time any of his pictures had been displayed just for their art, they had been stuck to the front of his grandmother’s fridge, pinned down by magnets in the shapes of plastic fruit.
This new painting was different than anything Shane had painted for Tristan and Crane, or for any of his freelance clients, either before or since. Maybe the painting wasn’t really as good as Shane thought it was; maybe he only responded so strongly to it because it was the first thing he’d created with the help of the muse in his entire adult life. Or maybe it was just that it showed some idea of the manor house that had once been the big sister of the cottage he now lived in. Either way, it didn’t matter. He didn’t care if anyone else liked the painting. This one was just for him, and that in itself was a new, decidedly pleasant experience.
But Shane didn’t finish the matte painting that day. The shift went well, and he got close. He even entertained the idea of pushing past his normal two PM stopping time. After all, even bulldozer drivers had to put in a few hours’ overtime every now and then, didn’t they? He’d push on, at least until the foreman in his head decided to call it quits for the day. But then, unexpectedly, the phone downstairs had begun to ring. Shane froze, listening, his right hand still raised, the brush tip still touching the canvas.
Who would be calling him? Who even knew the number? Once again, his first thought was Steph, and he winced inwardly. Steph wouldn’t be calling anymore. Still, he supposed he’d been waiting for her to call again ever since that one last conversation, despite everything. The intellect may live in the realm of the logical, but the heart plays by its own rules. Shane sighed and set his brush on the side table, careful to let its tip stick over the ledge. He wiped his hands on an old towel as he tramped down the stairs, following the incessant ring of the cordless phone.
“Hi, Shane, how’s it going?” It was Morrie Greenfeld. Shane should’ve known.
“Great, Morrie, glad to hear from you. I was just finishing up.”
“Finishing up for the day?”
“Well, no, actually. I was planning on putting in another hour or two. I meant I’m almost finished with the matte. I thought I’d wrap it up today.”
“Glad to hear it,” Greenfeld said. Was there a note of chastisement in his voice? Shane was probably imagining it. “I’d love to see it myself. Any chance you could send me a few pics of it before I send somebody over to pick it up?”
“Yeah, that’s fine,” Shane replied quickly. “I’m happy with it, myself. I’ll snap off a few shots and email them to you this evening. Fair enough?”
“Perfect. You do that. If this comes off as well as I expect it to, I might have some more work for you later next week. You up for a quick turnaround on some postcard landscapes? Florida tourism is looking to go retro on some new promotional materials. ‘Wish you were here’ kind of stuff.”
“Sounds right up my alley,” Shane answered. For the moment, he dismissed the painting of the manor house. Work was work, and if he scored another quick job, he could take the time off to finish the manor house painting later. “You want me to come out to the office to discuss it?”
“Nah, don’t trouble yourself. I still need to nail down the details. They’re sending me some concept art on Monday. After that, maybe I’ll come out to you for a little sit-down at your place, take a look at the originals from your portfolio, if you’re comfortable with that.”
“Sure, sounds great. Just let me know beforehand so I can clean up all the empty tequila bottles and ladies’ underthings.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know how you artist types are. You talk a big game, but you spend most of your time writing emo poems about your long lost innocence and high school sweethearts.”
“Not me,” Shane said, falling easily into the banter. “I’m the live fast, die young type.”
“That explains the cottage out in the boondocks,” Greenfeld answered, and Shane could hear him grinning. Shane had only ever met Greenfeld once in person, at his St. Louis office a month earlier, and had decided then that this was the kind of guy most people would find a little too insightful and lot too obnoxiously blunt. Simply put, Greenfeld was one of those rare people who didn’t give a damn about getting others to like them. Shane had liked him, however, even if he himself tended to be just the opposite, more of a people-pleaser. Maybe it didn’t make for a particularly good artist-agent relationship, but then again, maybe it did.
Greenfeld went on, “What if I come over sometime middle of next week? Thursday afternoon, maybe? I can show you the Florida concepts and we can talk about the matte painting. If you liked doing it, there are a lot more out there. Less and less of you guys are doing them nowadays, since so many studios are crossing over to making computer generated virtual sets. The few purists who still like the look of paint on canvas are having a hard time finding professionals who are willing to do it. What do you say?”
“I say I still have a beer or two in the fridge with your name on them. I’ll see you on Thursday afternoon, Morrie.”
Greenfeld ended the phone call with characteristic brusqueness a few seconds later. He took some getting used to, but Shane was glad not to have to waste time on inane small talk.
That was one thing he didn’t miss about Tristan and Crane. There, as in any other office environment, small talk was like a sort of contagious disease. It was hard not to get sucked into it, and once it caught you, it was even harder to tear back out of it. Shane had never been the kind of artist who could chat the day away while he painted. Steph had always told him that when his shift was on, it was like he was a hundred fathoms deep, like some old-time deep sea diver in a metal suit and a glass face-plate, clanking around on the ocean floor with hundreds of feet of rubber hose connecting him to the surface. It took him a while to sink that deep, but it took him a lot longer to climb back to the surface, even just to answer a quick question about what he was doing for lunch or to remember the damned oatmeal cookie sitting there on his art table.
The call from Greenfeld had been thankfully short, but it had still been an interruption. Shane wasn’t fathoms deep anymore. Now, metaphorically speaking, he was sitting on the deck of the boat with his diving helmet off, blinking in the bright, briny sun, wondering if it was worth the effort to make the trek back into the deep again, or if it was time to just call it quits for the day.
He couldn’t do that, of course. Greenfeld was expecting photos of the finished matte painting e
When he got back upstairs to the studio, however, Shane stopped in the middle of the room. The new painting struck him all over again, and he stared at it. A moment later, he stepped lightly over to it, passing the matte painting on the main easel, but picking up the still-wet paintbrush from the edge of the work table.
He leaned toward the new painting, examining it, frowning slightly. Something wasn’t exactly right about it, some basic element. He could fix it, and quickly—it was that simple. He just had to figure out what it was.
He deliberately blurred his vision a little, making the image bleed together before his eyes. There it was. One brush stroke, part of the upright of the far right column, wasn’t quite right. It pulled the shape of the column out of the gentle taper, made it appear a little awkward and crooked. Shane dabbed, using whatever color was on the brush. It was red. He painted out the sloppy brush stroke. Later, he’d refine it, and cover the red, but just fixing that bad stroke made an amazing difference.
He shivered a little. The muse could be a demanding bitch, but she certainly made it worth your while. He stood back again, taking in the painting as a whole. It was incomplete, but it was right. Later, when he finished it, it was going to be excellent. For now, however, he had to get back to the matte painting. Time to clock a little overtime. Time to get back to work.
Instead, he dabbed at the new painting again, fleetingly. And then he leaned in, painting in earnest. Eventually, fifteen minutes later, he did cross back over to his main easel, but only for a moment.
Only long enough to grab his stool and his palette.
The next day, Shane discovered the old walking path. It was hidden in the front right corner of the cottage’s small yard, on the other side of the gravel drive. He never would have seen it at all if he hadn’t been deliberately mucking around outside, trimming a few bushes, digging up weeds, avoiding going back into the cottage.
He’d come out to mow, once his shift was over. He was tired from having stayed up too late the night before, and the last thing he wanted to do was clump around the yard with the old manual lawnmower, wrestling it over the uneven landscape, man-handling it around the trees on the perimeter, but he was determined to do it nonetheless, even despite the bugs and the bright, hard sun that hit the back of his neck like a hammer the moment he stepped outside.
Partly, it was the memory of Steph, from their days together here in the cottage. She’d never said it outright, but Shane knew she believed that, left to his own devices, he’d become so entranced by his work that he’d neglect the day-to-day responsibilities of life, things like paying the bills, doing laundry, and yes, mowing the lawn. Shane had never discussed it with her because, deep down, he thought she was very likely correct. Now that she was gone, however, he found that he wanted to prove to himself that he could manage the dull details of life like any other responsible adult, that he wouldn’t turn all reclusive and shaggy, even if it meant a nasty sunburn and a dozen bug bites.
But that was only part of it. The more immediate truth was that Shane was putting off calling Greenfeld.
And be honest with yourself, Tiger, he thought as he pulled the mower out of the shed next to the cottage, you’re avoiding him calling you, right? You’re hoping that he gets those photos you just emailed him first, and that he’ll be so happy with how the painting looks that he’ll forget you finished it barely a day before the shipping date.
Yes, this was surely true, and Shane wasn’t shamed by it. He was an artist, damn it, and a good one. He was usually as reliable as the day is long, unlike the moody, temperamental starving artists T and C had occasionally hired back in the day. He could be forgiven one close call in a decade, couldn’t he? Granted, the timing of this particular close call was especially bad, but still. Greenfeld would understand, at least once he downloaded the pics and saw the finished matte painting. That’s all that mattered, really. Thus, Shane had decided to avoid the phone until he could be reasonably certain that Greenfeld had, in fact, received the email with the photo attachments.
Shane hadn’t sent the photos the previous afternoon, like he’d intended. He hadn’t finished the matte painting until late this morning, in fact. He’d gotten… distracted. But the important thing was that it was done, and it was good. Good enough, at least. Not as good as the new painting, of course, the one of the old manor house. By comparison, the matte painting was a dull, lifeless trinket, but that was no surprise, was it? After all, the matte painting was just client work. The client didn’t want art; they just wanted a product, one that Shane was uniquely qualified to deliver.
The new painting, however, was inspired. That sort of thing didn’t happen very often, but when it did, it was a different kind of art entirely. Once again, Shane thought about how easy it would be to become addicted to the muse’s secret embrace, to become her slave. That wouldn’t happen to him, of course, but he understood it now. He had a little more sympathy for the starving artists, even if he, himself, would never become one.
He finished mowing the front yard, drew a few swipes of the mower along the sides of the cottage, and decided that it was enough for the day. The back of the cottage was so rocky and steep, dropping toward the rocky bluff and the river below, that it was almost easier to cut it with the weed trimmer. Better yet, maybe he’d just let the field grass and wildflowers grow in, at least until they obscured the view.
He stashed the mower back in the shed, parking it next to his bike, and grabbed the big garden shears from their hook on the wall.
He spent several minutes prowling the perimeter of the yard, lopping the bushes into submission and chopping off the occasional errant branch from the encroaching trees. That was when he discovered the abandoned footpath in the front corner of the property.
He’d hacked off a particularly stubborn branch from a very old oak tree, and when it finally broke away, it struck the ground with a sharp clunk, as if it had fallen on something much harder than weedy earth. Shane pulled the branch aside and kicked at a thatch of dead grass. There were flagstones embedded in the ground beneath, almost entirely obscured by a blanket of moss.
Had this been part of another patio at one time? It was too narrow to be of much use, and rather too deep, extending into the perimeter of the woods. Shane ducked, following the flagstones, feeling for their hardness beneath the weeds, and found that they formed a path, apparently long forgotten, that arced off between the trees.
He followed it carefully, pushing aside the intervening branches and stepping over the bushes that had grown up through the cracks, prying the rocks apart. The footpath meandered and curved, but led generally downhill, following the line of the river.
Shane stopped occasionally, using the garden shears to cut away some of the heavier undergrowth and reaching branches. There was a splash of color up ahead, where the trail curved around a gully, and as Shane worked toward it, he was surprised to see that it was a drift of hydrangeas, red, yellow and pink, lush in an errant sunbeam. The large flowers bobbed on their stalks, overwhelming the footpath and flowing down into the gully. Bees roamed from flower to flower, humming in the hot, sleepy air. Shane had never seen hydrangeas growing in the wild. Granted, flowers had been Steph’s specialty, not his, but he was fairly certain that these were a domestic breed, not a native wildflower.
He waded carefully through the waving blooms, trying to stay on the path, and struck something hard with his shin, almost pitching forward into the colorful mass. He swore, and his flailing hands grasped something buried in the flowers, preventing him from falling headfirst into the gaily colored blooms. Whatever it was, it was made of metal, hot in t
He pushed the flowers aside and saw wrought iron scrollwork, painted black wherever it wasn’t orange with rust. It was a seat of some kind. He brushed more of the thick hydrangea stalks aside, breaking some of them, and found that the vines had grown up through the metal shape, twining into it and completely burying it. It was, in fact, a bench. It leaned precariously backwards, but it had apparently, at one time, been positioned to provide the occupant a view of the low gully and the river beyond, just visible through the intervening trees. Shane was intrigued, even as his shin smarted from its collision with the buried bench.
He pushed on, feeling his way carefully through the drift of hydrangeas and coming out the other side. The flagstone footpath was a little clearer here, where it ambled around the lip of the gully. Moss filled the cracks between the stones, and vines and roots snaked over it, threatening to hook the foot of the unwary traveler, but Shane continued on, stepping carefully, his curiosity piqued.
After a few hundred feet, the flagstones gave way to broad stairs, cut from some dark, sharp stone. Shane had seen such stone recently, but couldn’t quite remember where. The stone steps were crooked and leaning but still very solid underfoot. They followed the curve of a hill, descending into a density of thick, thorny trees.
At the bottom of the steps, where the flagstone path began again, Shane was shocked to discover something else buried in a mass of vines and flowers. He could tell by the height of it that it wasn’t another bench. He leaned close to it, examining it, and was completely unprepared for the face that leered calmly out of it.