please. It’s billable hours, Bry, that’s all it comes down to. The hours.”—his father scratched at the loose skin under his neck—“What’s in Miami? The dying and the dead.”
Still, Parkhurst offered Brian enough that Avis could afford to start her at-home business. PI&B were her first clients: she supplied the Austrian chef at their executive dining hall with linzer tortes, lebkuchen, strudel, Black Forest cakes. Gradually other corporations and local businesses began to request her goods for retreats, conferences, and boardroom lunches. At the same time, Brian found he enjoyed working for a big developer. They hired brilliant architects and contractors; their buildings became part of the sharp, pale skyline. Brian believed he and Avis were helping to build an actual city—food and shelter—inside and outside. Unlike New York or Boston, Miami was a place you could go to and really create something new. Best of all, its boom-or-bust energy, a penchant for dreaming: a dream of a city in a dream of a state.
Avis hired assistants; they hosted dinner parties, bought a 34-foot Sea Ray, a twelfth-floor getaway on Marco Island. There were season tickets, box tickets: they joined the board of the Fairchild Garden; contributed to the Deering Estate.
Avis and Brian had lived in Miami for about ten years when the father of one of Stanley’s classmates invited Brian to an art opening. Brian wondered if there was something prohibitive in the nature of practicing law—he found it difficult and frequently stressful to connect with other men—at least to the point of real friendship. But there was something easy and agreeable about Albert. A publicity rep for the Miami Symphony, he was the sort of cultivated person Brian had tried to emulate as a student. Albert talked about opera and dance and “performance.” He saw hidden meanings in films and books—what he called the “layers” in things; he brought up the uses of symbolism in theater and music.
The opening was in one of the neighborhoods on the northwest outskirts of downtown—territory Brian had never ventured into before. The local denizens kept muscular, flat-headed dogs tied to ropes in the yards and each house was ringed by a chain-link fence. Albert parked on the street and they walked by a group of men with bandannas tied on their heads. One yelled at Brian, “Yo, suit ! What up, homes?” The “gallery” turned out to be a private home—the owner, a Haitian-American collector—had bought and connected several little cottages, making a rambling, warren-like space, every wall covered with canvases. Brian had expected to be bored, but he was electrified by the work: seven- and ten-foot-high canvases of nudes—their faces torn at and broken with slashes of paint, their eyes like open wounds. They stopped in front of one canvas—an image of a woman with a rippling chest and blotted black eyes.
“What do you think about that?” Albert asked.
Brian was startled, disoriented by how deeply the work affected him. There didn’t seem to be any meaningful way for him to put words to what he was experiencing.
Albert stood next to him, nodding. “Strong, isn’t it? The image has depth and dimensions. Makes you feel there’s an actual presence here. Maybe even like she’s angry with us.”
“I suppose so—that’s it,” Brian said.
“I think that challenging work—it kind of takes your words away.” Albert nudged his glasses with a knuckle. “Not everyone really lets the experience in—I mean, like you are now. People love to try to talk over everything.” Albert engaged a woman in a sinuous dress in bantering conversation and rattled off the names of prominent Haitian and Cuban artists: Brian had heard of none. Apparently the artist whose work they were viewing was from a town called Gonaïves, on the northern coast of Haiti. “Of course there’s plenty for this artist to be angry about,” Albert said. “Before he became famous, he
Still, Parkhurst offered Brian enough that Avis could afford to start her at-home business. PI&B were her first clients: she supplied the Austrian chef at their executive dining hall with linzer tortes, lebkuchen, strudel, Black Forest cakes. Gradually other corporations and local businesses began to request her goods for retreats, conferences, and boardroom lunches. At the same time, Brian found he enjoyed working for a big developer. They hired brilliant architects and contractors; their buildings became part of the sharp, pale skyline. Brian believed he and Avis were helping to build an actual city—food and shelter—inside and outside. Unlike New York or Boston, Miami was a place you could go to and really create something new. Best of all, its boom-or-bust energy, a penchant for dreaming: a dream of a city in a dream of a state.
Avis hired assistants; they hosted dinner parties, bought a 34-foot Sea Ray, a twelfth-floor getaway on Marco Island. There were season tickets, box tickets: they joined the board of the Fairchild Garden; contributed to the Deering Estate.
Avis and Brian had lived in Miami for about ten years when the father of one of Stanley’s classmates invited Brian to an art opening. Brian wondered if there was something prohibitive in the nature of practicing law—he found it difficult and frequently stressful to connect with other men—at least to the point of real friendship. But there was something easy and agreeable about Albert. A publicity rep for the Miami Symphony, he was the sort of cultivated person Brian had tried to emulate as a student. Albert talked about opera and dance and “performance.” He saw hidden meanings in films and books—what he called the “layers” in things; he brought up the uses of symbolism in theater and music.
The opening was in one of the neighborhoods on the northwest outskirts of downtown—territory Brian had never ventured into before. The local denizens kept muscular, flat-headed dogs tied to ropes in the yards and each house was ringed by a chain-link fence. Albert parked on the street and they walked by a group of men with bandannas tied on their heads. One yelled at Brian, “Yo, suit ! What up, homes?” The “gallery” turned out to be a private home—the owner, a Haitian-American collector—had bought and connected several little cottages, making a rambling, warren-like space, every wall covered with canvases. Brian had expected to be bored, but he was electrified by the work: seven- and ten-foot-high canvases of nudes—their faces torn at and broken with slashes of paint, their eyes like open wounds. They stopped in front of one canvas—an image of a woman with a rippling chest and blotted black eyes.
“What do you think about that?” Albert asked.
Brian was startled, disoriented by how deeply the work affected him. There didn’t seem to be any meaningful way for him to put words to what he was experiencing.
Albert stood next to him, nodding. “Strong, isn’t it? The image has depth and dimensions. Makes you feel there’s an actual presence here. Maybe even like she’s angry with us.”
“I suppose so—that’s it,” Brian said.
“I think that challenging work—it kind of takes your words away.” Albert nudged his glasses with a knuckle. “Not everyone really lets the experience in—I mean, like you are now. People love to try to talk over everything.” Albert engaged a woman in a sinuous dress in bantering conversation and rattled off the names of prominent Haitian and Cuban artists: Brian had heard of none. Apparently the artist whose work they were viewing was from a town called Gonaïves, on the northern coast of Haiti. “Of course there’s plenty for this artist to be angry about,” Albert said. “Before he became famous, he
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