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Painted from Memory
By Dean Michael Zadak iUniverse LLC
Copyright © 2013 Dean Michael Zadak
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-9753-8
CHAPTER 1
Outer Banks, North Carolina
The tip of Mickey's brush slid across the brick-red glob of paint he had inadvertently mixed with a pinch of cadmium red, a touch of burnt umber, and Payne's gray. At times he felt like a mad scientist mixing the oil paints into an explosion of color. It was a blissful exercise and one that he was in total control of, unlike so many other things in his life. But today the colors wouldn't come together. When his girlfriend approached the doorway to his studio, he momentarily lost his concentration and plunged his brush onto the palette, picking up too much gray and only gliding over the ocher. Too stubborn to start over, he scraped a teardrop-size mark away from the mess and pondered which color would resuscitate the sunrise gold he was looking for. Fearing the morning's argument about his lack of commitment would be rekindled, he couldn't bring himself to look up at her.
Apparently, upon awaking that morning, Jennifer Olson had felt like the sand in the hourglass was running low for her, like the prime of her life was passing. What was it going to take for Mickey to make a commitment? As in so many discussions before, she had been determined to take him through the history of their relationship, as brief as that history was. Conjuring up historical emotion, Jennifer had provided a blow-by-blow, day-by-day account of their life together, piling one demand on top of another. Far too many sentences started with "And one more thing ..." This morning, Mickey had had nothing to say. It wasn't that he couldn't respond; he had just said it all before. This time he had remained blank, staring out through the sliding door at the ocean. This was the first time he had chosen silence as a response, which only infuriated her more, making her talk faster and louder. She had paced about the bedroom, taking turns pointing at him, at the beach, and at the house; everything was going to hear about it. He had continued to gaze at the ocean, straining to see what might lie beyond the horizon.
"Seems like more paint winds up on your shirt than ever finds the canvas," Jennifer said as she took one step inside the studio, apparently having chosen to move on from the morning's rant. "Paint can't be cheap. And why do you need so many of them?"
Comments like that had increased in regularity but no longer bothered him. He heard the remarks; he just didn't listen to them. And he certainly wasn't the least bit worried about the cost. Now thirty-nine years old, Michael "Mickey" Anderson had found success in his early thirties. His works could be found in a variety of four-star hotels and beach houses up and down the East Coast and throughout the Gulf Coast. In the last five years his artwork had garnered national acclaim and growing international interest, with original pieces fetching over $50,000.
Overseas notoriety had seemed to happen overnight when a Dubai sheikh and diplomat, visiting the Washington, DC, area, had bought almost two years' worth of work to decorate his new Dubai Palm Island hotel. The sheikh had spotted one of Mickey's more tranquil beach scenes in the lobby of the New Carlton Hotel just outside Georgetown. Helping out was an attractive female guest, who had shadowed the sheikh the night before at an embassy gala. She was more than happy to introduce him to a local gallery owner, who easily tracked Mickey down. As usual, the sheikh was on his way to getting everything he wanted. He'd soon have Mickey's paintings on permanent display, but before that, he planned to enjoy the company of a lovely woman during his stay in the nation's capital. However, once the conversation started with the gallery owner, the woman disappeared. He never saw her again. After seeing just a few paintings, the sheikh purchased over fifty original works and a number of prints; as a result, a millionaire artist was born.
Since grade school, Mickey had loved to paint. While his buddies were trying to hit a baseball, Mickey was busy blending and applying oil paints to a blank canvas to create something magical. He poured all his energies into every piece and would be just as exhausted when he finished as his friends were after nine innings. His paintings came alive. Folks often said they could feel the spray of the ocean on their face while they got lost in his seascapes. What he loved to paint most was life on the beach. There was so much of it. People brought a dimension to the beach that he felt his work required, but Mickey never included detailed facial features in his artwork, for two reasons. The first, which only a few people knew, was that he simply wasn't very good at painting facial features. He had tried portraits many times, but they never turned out quite right, at least to his satisfaction. Second—and this was always his public response—he wanted to leave "who is that?" up to the viewer. Maybe they see would themselves, maybe they would see someone else, or maybe, just maybe, they would see someone they could be. Either way, he explained to people, the story begins, continues, or ends. "That's what my work is all about," he told people, "telling a story."
Some days he'd scour the beach for hours until he found a story that only could be told in colors, not words. Once he was convinced that the beach was bringing out the best in someone, the painting began. Often families were the best subjects. The finished product wasn't necessarily what he saw as much as what he felt.
Of all the gifts he possessed, painting was the only one he nurtured. "Do one thing, and do it well" was his mantra. And since he did only one thing well, he suffered for his choice of a girlfriend. He should have ignored her when they met at the art fair.
The Reston Town Center Art Fair, in northern Virginia, delivered elbow-to-elbow crowds, especially over the weekend. Even without the event, the combination of trendy restaurants and high-end shopping attracted hordes of weekend wanderers. In his third year of attendance, they set him up in a booth near the water fountain in the middle of the Town Center as a means of drawing patrons in to explore other artists. The sun was ricocheting off the store windows that lined Market Street, which ran down the heart of the Town Center. Shadows pierced the landscape everywhere, in a way only an artist would notice, particularly one sketching out ideas on blank newsprint. With the power of a solar eclipse, an attractive blonde blocked out the only ray of sunlight that reached Mickey's tent. Exuding an air of fashion and grace, she strolled along the edge of the entrance and pointed to paintings as she spoke to a young but obviously affluent couple. She spewed rehearsed lines such as "This would make your love seat pop!" and "This will bring out the pastels in your curtains," so Mickey quickly pegged her as an interior designer, which was good for business. Maybe there was more to her, though.
She was wearing a short, sleek summer skirt that invited anyone to trace her body, from the top of her smooth shoulders down to her perfectly manicured hands and then to her slender hips and long, tan legs, ending at her delicately painted toes. Seeing Mickey study her, the woman raised her sunglasses and revealed turquoise-blue eyes that matched her necklace and bracelet perfectly. She was expertly put together. And the man and artist in him agreed: "Let's meet her."
The first few months were extraordinary, but the newness of the relationship couldn't be sustained. Jennifer, like the hard-driving businesswoman she was, pressed for more. And for Mickey, the curse of studying people as clients or art subjects revealed too many traits in her he couldn't tolerate. If only she saw the emotion, the story, and the soul of his paintings rather than simply a collage of colors, things might be different.
* * *
"Put down the brush for a while and get some fresh air. Inhaling mineral spirits all day is going to make you crazy. It's making me crazy." Jennifer seldom asked him to do anything anymore; she demanded.
Mickey didn't listen. He got up and slid his muscular 6'1" frame through the partially opened screen door and walked onto the deck to get a little fresh air. His grip on the railing revealed the muscle tone in his arms, and his bronzed skin seemed to glow in the shade of the deck. He noticed Jenn look over at him. Despite her anger and disappointment that he wouldn't commit to her, she never lost her attraction to him. As she had suggested many times recently, he was in need of a haircut, as most of his thick brown hair stuck out in all directions from under his ball cap. In his OBX tank top, it was clear that he had no hair on his chest. Jenn also insisted that he maintain his "manscape" and shave it, as well as other places. She liked him neat. After a few odd stares at the gym, Mickey had gotten used to it, and soon other men were following suit. In addition to his studio, the gym and his art gallery in town were the only places he could truly escape to and expend nervous, creative energy that was always in endless supply.
"Yes, please join us," someone said.
Mickey turned and saw Nina, who apparently had come up to the studio to see what was keeping Jenn. Mickey wasn't buying it. He knew Nina didn't care one way or another. Her empathy for Jenn's desire for marriage and a family was beginning to wear on him.
Nina and her husband, Randy, neighbors from Jenn's home in Herndon, Virginia, were frequent guests—"You must come down for a long weekend," Jenn often insisted. Her hope was that hanging out with a happily married couple would give Mickey the right idea. He knew what she was up to, but like choosing to paint a sunrise or sunset, he wouldn't be swayed. He found that having Nina and Randy at the house actually made it easier to avoid the "what about our future together?" discussion.
"Don't bother," Jenn said. "When he gets that look in his eyes, there's no talking to him." Jennifer turned away quickly and walked directly into the wall. Furious and embarrassed, she grumbled, "I liked our old house better. But no, he had to redo his parent's house ..." And on she went.
Walking back inside, Mickey looked at her and thought, "Our" old house? What the hell are you talking about?
The only redeeming quality of Mickey's old house was that it was less than a quarter-mile from his parents. Three short years ago, both of his parents had been in failing health. Neither of them could negotiate stairs well, let alone maintain the place. He needed to be close to them, but it was never close enough. The solution was simple: he bought his folks' house and renovated it. They wanted him to manage the entire redesign process, insisting that he make it his home. All they wanted was Mickey living with them under the same roof; it made them feel safe and secure. He had no emotional attachment to his place, and the sale infuriated Jennifer, so it was a win-win. The fact that Jennifer had decorated his house so beautifully led to a quick sale, though Mickey could never bring himself to thank her. Not without compassion, he let her decorate the "new" house as long as she kept his parents' personality on display. "Oh, and my studio is off-limits," he'd said.
The home was beautiful. Jennifer had kept the comfort and charm of the old house, which pleased his parents, while blending in trendy southern accents throughout. Even Mickey was in awe of what she had created. What really floored him was her incorporation of old family photos. She framed and hung his parents' wedding photos in their room, a room she called the "honeymoon suite"—another hint that went noticed but not acknowledged. Since the photos were old, many were stuck together. So rather than ruin them, Jennifer created a 24" x 54" photo collage that hung above the bed. Most were black-and-white photos. Sadly, three of the color photos of the bride and groom were partially stuck under another photo or two, and the faces were obscured. It was a shame because to the best of anyone's knowledge, no other color photo of his mom and dad's wedding existed. No one paid much attention to it, but things like that never settle well with an artist. Something always bothered Mickey about those photos, but he could never put his finger on it. He suggested that they seek out a professional photographer who could separate the pictures and perhaps even recondition them. Jennifer would have none of it. She'd had the artwork sealed, and besides, she said, "the colors in the photo match the colors in the bedspread beautifully."
Mickey didn't fight it. Jenn had done a wonderful job. And rediscovering the memories brought pleasure to his parents. A year ago, his parents enjoyed what they called the best summer of their lives. At the end of it, they died three weeks apart.
Since then the décor hadn't changed much, except the pictures from his youth were now taking refuge in his studio. His parents had saved all his grade-school class photos. In between paint strokes, he tried to rebuild the pictures in his mind and recall each kid's name. He figured he had about 40 percent right. Only his two best friends, Tom Matveyzk and Pat Tiller, showed up in all of the photos. When looking at them, he always began and ended on the seventh-grade photo. There he was standing next to Sylvia Wayne. She was the girl who had made paying attention in class impossible, the girl he had found excuses to be next to, and the first girl he had ever kissed—and then kissed again. When he finally pried his eyes free from the picture, the same thought always entered his mind: I wonder what she's up to now.
Mickey's gaze bounced from the pictures on the shelf to the beach and then back at the unfinished painting on the easel. Inspiration was in short supply this afternoon. No matter how many times he looked at the carnival of colors on the palette and back at the canvas, he couldn't load the brush with the right color. He looked at the paintings hanging around his studio; some were completed, but others were in need of more contemplation and paint. One hanging next to the grade school photos caught his eye. It was of a young couple walking away, hand in hand, on the beach. Though he had looked at the painting numerous times, today he saw something that made him shiver. He looked over at the seventh-grade photo, habitually noticing Sylvia first, and then had just returned his gaze to the painting when another empty call from Jennifer to join them broke his concentration.
Like a cartoon character, Mickey rubbed his eyes, hoping clarity and order would return. "Yeah. Sure. Uh, I'll be down there in a minute ... I'm gonna grab a beer," he tried to shout, but his voice never got above a loud whisper. His mouth hung open as he stared back at the painting on the easel. He wasn't sure, but something looked different. Had he painted her and then simply forgotten?
The figure of a woman was in the right-hand corner of the 24" x 36" beachscape, jogging along the shoreline. Though the details were few, there was a definite sense of urgency in her stride. It was the same woman he had portrayed walking hand in hand with the man in the painting that hung on the wall, and as he looked around the studio, he noticed that she was also in four other paintings. He hadn't planned to include her in this new painting. For the moment, the "what" and "why" he was painting was totally lost.
"How did I not see this before?" he said to himself, staring at the class photo. "Maybe the mineral spirits are getting to me."
CHAPTER 2
In the town of Corolla, less than ten miles from the beach, Nancy Krupka wandered around the back of her bakery, which served as the office from which she could run the entire Krupka's Bakery operation. Though all the kitchen equipment that her parents had used when they owned and operated the bakery was still there, it was now idle. Today, all the baking was done at a central kitchen so that every store could be economically supplied. The double ovens, single mixing station, and stainless steel counters reminded her of a simpler time. Sometimes she thought that going back to that time would solve all her problems. Still, she knew that if that were somehow possible, it wouldn't bring her everything she desired. What she wanted was on display on nearly every wall of her office, her home, and many of her storefronts. It was all there in Mickey Anderson's artwork. Though he painted mostly landscapes and seascapes, his paintings of a family on the beach were the ones Nancy cherished most.
For as long as she could remember, Nancy had wanted more than the life Mickey captured on canvas; she wanted that life with him. If she could have it her way, they'd spend their life living out every scene in his paintings. Some paintings were of an adult couple enjoying the beach, another depicted one child, and still others had two and then three children. Though the faces were never distinguishable, she dreamt that the couple was her and Mickey with their children.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Painted from Memory by Dean Michael Zadak. Copyright © 2013 Dean Michael Zadak. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse LLC.
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