Earlier chapters

by Mike Schwarcz, text and art

In Santa Fe, the last week of July rolled around and Miguel was still brooding over his lack of inspiration, but he had started painting. Small, sixteen-by-sixteen-inch canvases, tentative experimental compositions and colors. Inserting contemporary iconography in the nooks and crannies did add interest, he decided, making them a verbal commentary on certain political entities he found worthy of satire.

Abstract expressionism, at its core, was just so 1950s. He felt it needed an additional dimension: small, painted pastiches of iconic art from past eras, mixed with social commentary, hidden between and disappearing underneath irregular, dimensionally fractured planes of color. He hoped it would seem as if the under-paintings were patiently waiting for their turn to emerge. If nothing else, it had all the ingredients of good art-speak, he decided.

On Miguel's first day free of distraction in the studio, he laid out three compositions in red, yellow, and blue. He still had to work out the inserts between the fractured panes of color; right now, they were just black. He snapped a couple of pictures of them with the intention of showing Ron.

When 4:30 rolled around, Miguel texted Ron Hagen, "Fatted Calf?", with a bunch of vomit emojis. A minute later, Ron answered with four martini emojis. Ron's subsequent text read, "New waitress", and a row of breasts emoji.
"Pick me up?" Miguel asked.
"Meet me outside," Ron urged, "I'm Irish, I'm thirsty."
"So, new waitress, huh?" Miguel probed as he got in Ron's car.
"Oh yeah, Denise, you'll like her," Ron replied.
As they pulled open the double doors of the Fatted Calf, the interior gloom retreated briefly, allowing their elongated afternoon shadows to stretch over the worn tile floor.
Ron glanced at his watch. "Five thirty, perfectly timed, to the minute." He led Miguel to a table in Denise's section, and they sat down.
"Guess what's happening next week," Ron began.
"No Idea. You and Denise are getting married?" Miguel suggested.
"Ha, Ha, But no. They're having the official groundbreaking for the new SpACE gallery and studio.
"Of course, and I'm the last to know," Miguel said, exasperated.
"Don't worry, you saw the actual construction start a while ago. This is for the press and city officials," Ron assured him, as Denise approached the table.

Miguel's eyes shifted to Denise's shapely legs, following them up to her trim waist and perfectly proportioned bust. On top of that, she had red hair and green eyes. An Irish vixen for Ron, if he dared. She looked thirtyish and formidable.
"What'll it be?" She asked, not seeming particularly friendly.
"Two Manny's Specials, dirty, would be greatly appreciated," Ron shot back.
"Coming right up," she turned and headed for the bar.
"You're not going to try hitting that, are you?" Miguel asked.
"Seriously? Can't I just appreciate a great pair when I see them?" Ron acted innocent suddenly.
"Tits aside, since we got back from New York, I haven't heard boo from anybody about anything, no news about Rachel, not a word from Cece or Aisha," Miguel vented.
"Can't help you there, buddy,"
"Even Sara barely has time for a hello before she buries her head in her phone or heads out to showings," he continued.
"Is there an emoji for 'pity party'? Cause I feel that's what I've walked into. You should have warned me," Ron kidded. "Let's get Denise's tits back here, lighten the mood."
Miguel was reminded of what he liked about Ron: he was a guy, a regular guy, the single guy who seemed happier than every married guy he knew.
Denise delivered their drinks, bending extra low as she placed them on the table, knowing exactly what they were thinking.
"Anything else, gentlemen?" She smiled,
"We'll let you know," Ron said.
"When is Cece due back?" Ron asked.
"I'm not sure, I've been avoiding calling her, figuring she's got her hands full with all things New York," Miguel answered.
"And Aisha?"
"Nothing."
"Well, remember, you're not in management anymore, you're an artist," Ron said evenly, hoping he didn't sound too harsh.
"An artist with no idea what to paint. Outside events are keeping me from focusing. I keep wondering about Rachel and that Hayden character. There's more to them than meets the eye. Something's going on, and I want some answers," Miguel took another sip of his drink.
"Funny, isn't it? Where would the galleries, the Freeports, the auction houses, the art consultants, the agents, be without the artist?" Ron asked.
"I know artists don't have any financial clout. You're not putting me in a good mood. I'll ignore that you said that," Miguel's head drooped.
Ron didn't take the bait.
"How many paintings have you finished?" Ron asked.
"I brought pictures of the three I've started," Miguel said, pulling up the snaps and sliding the phone to him. Ron glanced at them quickly, before pushing the phone back across the table.
"Oh boy. You need help?" He didn't sound encouraging.
"I wouldn't mind, I could use a fresh POV," Miguel decided.
"Fresh POV coming up," Ron changed the subject and craned his neck seeking out Denise's twin buoys.
Their second round finished, Miguel and Ron agreed that Miguel could use some help, and to meet at the studio the next day.
"Okay, see you, manana, then." They parted in the parking lot.

A morning email from Aisha greeted Miguel the following day. She was inviting him to join her at the groundbreaking of the Studio/Gallery project, with Chamber of Commerce lunch afterward. Worst of all, the date was five days away.
Unsure how to respond, he typed, Love to, Luv!, and hit send. He then immediately called Ron in a semi-panic.
Ron pondered the news over his morning coffee.
"Look, I know you trust Cece, you've told me so. You also need to learn to trust Aisha. Remember, she got you what it would take you five years to earn on your own. In one check." Ron said.
"Maybe that's why I hate to call and tell her I have nothing," Miguel said.
"They're your work family. You need to make yourself a part of that team."

On the drive to the studio, Ron pondered the possibility that Miguel was regressing back to being a one-man show.
Miguel had once told to Ron that, as a child, he had been left to figure things out on his own once his family had arrived in America.
His parents lacked any grounding in American culture or traditions, and as a result, Miguel's learning curve to becoming an American had been long, slow, and painful.

When he started school, he barely knew any English, and the first thing he had to teach himself was how to fight. Without his grandparents, uncles, aunts, or cousins to ask advice of, assimilation always seemed to be a game of catch-up, with his parents focused mainly on their jobs while clinging to old-world traditions at home. But Ron wasn't letting Miguel off the hook.
At the studio, Ron could see that he was stressed out.
"Only five days, I'll need at least ten or fifteen by then," Migule had a hapless look on his face.
"Maybe you are ready to retire and let your wife support you." He goaded.
Ron's suggestion shocked him back to reality.
"Let's work on the others," Miguel said.
"Are they dry?" Ron asked.
"Dry enough," Miguel put one on the worktable.
By the end of the day, Miguel had painted the little pastiches that occupied the cracks and nooks of the studies, showing definite progress, and he was almost back to his old self.
"I think these would be interesting in a larger size," Ron remarked.
"The large panes of primary color bother me, too neat, I'm going to give them a little patina tomorrow, a look of faded glory, if that makes any sense.
"I think you're on the right track, Ron said.
"Maybe, but it doesn't feel like self-expression, it feels more mercenary, like I'm completely lost and just fishing for what someone's willing to pay for," Miguel said.
"A problem as old as art, the artist hates the project, has no respect for the patron, and will probably never even meet the intended audience," Ron chuckled.
"Yeah, and at the same time, the audience only wants your greatest hits. It's a fool's errand in many ways." Miguel said.
"Don't overthink it. Let sales and marketing for their job. One day you will be known as 'Miguelangelo, the Flameboyant' and you can join you compatriots who have had their personas as an artist distilled down to a single marketable trait—Dali's mustache, Van Gogh's ear, Warhol's wig, Frida's unibrow, Churchill's cigar—allowed them to sell millions in T-shirts, books, coffee mugs, and tote bags, enriching the museums."
"My point exactly," Miguel countered before switching to a more pressing topic. "What if I decide I don't want to show her what I'm working on yet?"
"I would surmise she's expecting a studio tour," Ron suggested.
"Do you think I should ask her what to paint?" Miguel asked.
Ron frowned at the suggestion.

The next day, Miguel had another brainstorm.
Something he had always wanted to try, and now he had the space to do it.
Like most of his best ideas, it was ridiculous. For the hell of it, and for the sake of having something to show Aishas, he stretched a three-by-eight-foot canvas across his wall easel. Using a giant squeegee, he dragged twenty layers of paint over the canvas. Borderline insanity, he thought. But the bigger problem, he quickly realized, was the time necessary for the paint to dry. For oil paint this thick to dry, much less cure could take decades. And they would also smell forever without a giant oven or something to dry them in.
One day later, he arrived at the studio in the morning to find that the layers of paint, about an inch thick, had simply peeled off the painting and landed on the floor, a monumental failure. To Miguel, it looked as if failure was stalking him around every corner.

Questionnaire on the story

To be continued

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