House of the Blue Sea by Teresa van Bryce

way into the hearts of the people who can benefit from it. You don’t get a say in how people will be affected or not.”
    “Wise words from a woman who keeps her art in the cellar.” He smirked.
    Sandra knew she’d been caught. “For starters, I don’t keep my work in a cellar ...”
    Juan Manuel arrived with two bright yellow plates piled with food and a basket of tortillas. “ Dos especialidades de pescado fresco .”
    When he’d gone Sandra continued. “I used to work in galleries, as a curator. I watched people’s reactions to art and I watched the artists’ responses. A few artists, a handful, felt they’d made their statement and were satisfied. They didn’t seem to care if their pieces sold or were even appreciated. This one artist, Byron James, painted these magnificent landscapes. They were so vivid and alive with colour you wanted to step right into them. He sold out every single show, won a bunch of awards, but he’d never show up to receive the recognition, unless someone brought him to the gallery at gunpoint. He just kept painting. Until I can be that removed from what people think of my work it will stay in my cellar . I don’t want to paint for someone else; it needs to be my gift, not something I expect praise and payment for.”
    “That’s a high bar you’ve set.”
    “I get that from my father, in a roundabout way. Everything he did in life was to impress someone or garner some kind of attention. I don’t think it made him happy.” Sandra dug into her plate of fish and refried beans. The fish flaked apart with the lightest touch of her fork.
    “Was he an artist?”
    “No.” She paused to chew the mouthful of fish, her tongue sorting out the various seasonings used in the grilling. “An archaeologist. A successful one—published, respected. He was an incredibly clever man, but arrogant. It’s because of him I was a curator instead of a painter. Once he realized my interest lay in art, curator was the only career choice that suited him. It was never very important what suited me. But anyway, we were talking about you. Another question ...”
    “I think I’d prefer to hear more about your relationship with your father.” Mark placed a forkful of the Yellowtail in his mouth.
    “I’m sure you would. But you don’t get off that easy.” Sandra dabbed her napkin to her mouth, preparing for the next question. “So, what was so different about this part you didn’t get? Different from the other roles you’ve played.”
    “It wasn’t a romance for starters, a complete rarity in my career. When have you heard about an actor in a romantic comedy winning an Oscar for best actor?”
    Sandra smiled. “Jack Nicholson, As Good As It Gets .”
    “Well done,” Mark nodded as he chewed, “but try a second.”
    She thought for a moment. “Richard Dreyfuss, The Goodbye Girl .”
    “I’m impressed. Remind me to choose you as a partner if we’re ever faced with a game of Trivial Pursuit.”
    “But I get your point, there haven’t been many. Was that the difference with this movie then, potential for awards?”
    “Partially, and credibility with the right people.”
    “The right people?”
    “The people that make award-winning movies, I suppose.”
    “So it’s all about the awards?”
    “No, not really ... they’re just a way of measuring what’s ... valuable.”
    “And so we’re back to what adds value to people’s lives.”
    “It would seem so, unfortunately. You’ve tricked me!” Mark pointed his fork at Sandra.
    She was starting to enjoy the conversation. When she could forget he was famous and that he might bristle at a wrong turn of phrase, he was fun to talk to. “I believe you stepped into this trap all by yourself. So, would you say that all Academy-or-other-award-winning movies add value to people’s lives, in the way that you want to add value?”
    “No, probably not, but there’s more potential for it.”
    “Okay,” Sandra thought for a moment, “so if