The Drawing Lesson: The First in the Trilogy of Remembrance - Softcover

Martin, Mary E.

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1450229360 ISBN 13: 9781450229364

Verlag: iUniverse, 2010

Inhaltsangabe

Magical light creates stunning visions in Alexander Wainwright's landscape paintings. His most recent painting, The Hay Wagon, is a marvelous, moonlit scene, with an old-fashioned hay wagon dominating the foreground, with a beautiful, unearthly glow. Yet, at the pinnacle of his career, he is about to lose his muse. Not everyone appreciates his work. Rinaldo, a conceptual artist, mocks Alexander's bourgeois love of beauty, believing Alexander's success proves that the universe is chaotic and absurd. Determined to undermine, humiliate and ultimately destroy his rival, he defaces Alex's painting. Alexander brushes off the attack, but soon he has a frightening vision of misshapen, human-like creatures. These trolls start appearing in his art, and he is beset by questions. Who are these ugly beings? Has he lost both his light and his art? The creatures lead Alexander to journey from London to Venice and from Toronto to New York as he seeks to understand their meaning. He meets many people, each with a story to tell. Meanwhile, Rinaldo waits in New York City, intent on settling a score in The Drawing Lesson.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

After thirty years of law practice, Mary E. Martin embarked on her writing career. Inspired by her experiences in the law, she wrote the highly acclaimed Osgoode Trilogy about a lawyer named Harry Jenkins. Turning to her greatest passion, art, she then began The Trilogy of Remembrance, featuring a visionary landscape artist, Alexander Wainwright. The Wondrous Apothecary is a natural and exciting addition to that trilogy. She lives in Toronto with her husband. They have three children and three grandchildren.

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The Drawing Lesson

The First in the Trilogy of RemembranceBy Mary E. Martin

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2010 Mary E. Martin
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-2936-4

Chapter One

At the Tate Modern Gallery, women swirling about in their elegant cocktail dresses and men in their tails congregated before Alexander's most recent painting, The Hay Wagon. Each one of them was arrested by his vision: a huge moon hung low in the sky, illuminating the scene with an unearthly glow. A hay wagon stood before a barn door, which hung on its hinges. Beyond that, an old horse shambled about in the meadow.

"Look at the way the light shimmers," whispered one woman, pointing upward with her face aglow. "It's like seeing the beyond."

"It almost seems alive and pulsing with life," breathed another. Other guests were silenced, unable to articulate the complexity of emotion that Alexander's painting evoked.

Along with the luminaries of the art world, my wife, Renee, and I had gathered to raise a glass to the five finalists for the Turner Prize in contemporary art. The high glass ceilings of the immense Turbine Room had darkened in the twilight, and the flickering lights along the riverbank created a dream-like, festive atmosphere.

Renee tugged on my sleeve. "Don't you think there's something quite odd about Alex's painting?"

"What do you mean?"

"Look! There's the faintest shadow just to the left of the wagon, and there's another one near the barn door."

I peered closely at the painting. "Yes, I do see what you mean. Strange! They look like shadows cast by very oddly shaped-almost stunted-people, but there's no one in sight." Puzzled, I shrugged and stepped back.

From across the rotunda, I heard someone calling my name. Geoffrey Yorkton, holding two champagne glasses aloft, shouldered his way from the bar and descended upon me.

"James!" he nearly shouted in my ear. "ArtNews just hit the stands. Alex's Hay Wagon is on the cover." Geoffrey was the editor-in-chief of that glossy art magazine.

"Yes. I've seen it and read the article. Why was the interviewer so hostile?"

Geoffrey's eyebrows shot up. "You do know Maxwell's a conceptual art man. He's pulling for Rinaldo."

"Then why have him do the interview?"

Yorkton grinned. "Controversy always sells magazines, Jamie. That's my job!" He patted my arm and winked. "Besides, the buzz is good for Alex." Then drawing me aside, he spoke more seriously. "I know Alex is the front-runner, but if he gets too cocksure, the committee won't like it. And the entire conceptual art crowd is furious that he's even in the running for their prize."

"Why? The prize is for contemporary-not conceptual-art. "

Yorkton just winked and was off into the crowd. Briefly, I glanced heavenward and went to find Alex.

The crowd began to part and murmurs rippled through the gallery. There stood Alex, tall and handsome in formal attire, thoughtfully caressing his neat goatee. Sauntering in, he stood in the center of the room. Within a moment, someone presented him with a glass of champagne, and people gathered around.

From behind, a hand fluttered on Alex's shoulder. He turned to see the scarred, pinched face of Rinaldo gleaming up at him. Rinaldo never seemed to blink, and his laser-like gaze sought to pin Alex, his latest victim, like a butterfly under glass.

Alexander set his champagne down on a passing tray. "Ah! There you are, Rinaldo!" Alex held out his hand, which the little man ignored.

Waiters lit tall candles in the corners of the room. Light danced upon the fluted columns and made the stone floor gleam, giving the room the appearance of an ancient, medieval castle.

Smirking, Rinaldo stuffed his fists into his crimson cummerbund and bowed deeply to the smattering of dignitaries now drifting closer. "I am honored to be shortlisted with an artist of such renown. But Alex, haven't you thought of expanding your work beyond the representation of bucolic scenes?"

Alexander frowned and turned away. Grasping Alex's sleeve, Rinaldo continued in lilting tones, "It must be a heavy burden for one artist." He shook his head and sighed deeply. "To maintain such certainty of vision in a world of constant change." Then his eyes glittered with mirth. "Perhaps we should collaborate someday!"

A few nervous titters arose from the group now congregating about them. Wainwright swung around. "Your art installation greatly intrigues me. The ditch or trench-whatever you call it-in the main hall perfectly captures the state of art in the present day."

The little man twirled his moustache between his fingers. "And what state is that, sir?"

"Irreparable division!" Alexander was referring to the bulging, heaving crack constructed by Rinaldo and laid over-top the length of the Turbine Room floor. A barbwire fence ran down the center of his creation, with implements of war heaped on either side. Alexander retrieved another glass of champagne from a waiter. "You've outdone yourself, this time, Rinaldo." Struggling to suppress a small smile, he continued, "Your work fairly teams with complex, intellectual concepts."

"I must say, your painting is very pretty."

Anger flashed in Alex's eyes. He snorted. "It is a sincere effort to create the warmth of the human spirit. Agreed, it is not clever enough for your cerebral contortions."

By now, most of the committee had gathered about the men. The chairman, Gus Grosvenor, sought to intervene. "Gentleman, please, lively controversy about art is wonderful, but this is a party. Please ..." Neither artist paid the man any heed.

Like a cat upon a mouse, Rinaldo pounced. "Your art was revolutionary two centuries ago. But how is it relevant today? We see an old cart, some bales of hay, and a dilapidated barn in the background. In a distant field, we see an old, broken-down horse." He nibbled his lip reflectively and then gave a dismissive wave. "Does such a scene even exist in this twenty-first century-anywhere on this earth-except in the sentimental, bourgeois imagination?"

Standing apart from the group, Alexander leaned against a wall and stared at The Hay Wagon. I witnessed a fleeting expression on his face that I had never seen before. He was not in retreat, but his pale blue eyes seemed to contain a certain hesitancy-even doubt-the depths of which I could not judge. I frowned, wondering if I had seen the tiniest splintering in the faade of a great artist.

With a fawning smile, Rinaldo turned to a young, female docent and said, "Tell me, my dear, what do you see?"

The docent, who was very pretty herself said, "It has a certain quality, sir, rarely seen in landscapes. It has the numinous light suffusing it, as if God were everywhere in the landscape and the world."

"That's it exactly!" someone in the crowd said. Others murmured their agreement.

Rinaldo's lip curled. "God or just a trick of light, young lady?"

Gus Grosvenor stepped forward and, drawing Rinaldo aside, whispered in his ear. "This is a social event to be enjoyed by all. The committee frowns on such grandstanding. The final vote is this Tuesday." He glanced significantly at the little man. "I'm sure you get my drift, sir."

The artist clicked his heels together sharply and bowed. "Certainly, my good man! The last thing we want is controversy at a party."

Wainwright's voice boomed from the far side of the rotunda. "Ladies and gentlemen, let's go back to the main hall and view my friend's...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: iUniverse
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2010
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 1450229360
• ISBN 13: 9781450229364
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 336
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
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