head to the freeway. It’s going to be a long drive to Malibu, and God knows how Mr. “Doesn’t Like to be Interrupted” will feel when I crash his work session.
Six-thirty on a Thursday night is a very bad time to drive to Malibu—drive being a relative term. The 101 is a parking lot and I’m having fantasies of doing a
Thelma and Louise
and gunning it through the empty emergency lane. I turn on the stereo and crank it up to take my mind off things. “Move Along” by The All-American Rejects plays, and I sing at the top of my lungs, taking strength from the words.
Despite my singing, the apprehension lingers. It’s eight when I finally pull up to Max’s house, and I’m tempted to turn around and leave. For a moment, I seriously consider the possibility. He doesn’t know yet what the issue is with Mr. Matthews. Yes, I left a bunch of messages, but I could make something else up. He’d never know.
But what if this situation with MOMA ever got back to him? He’d never forgive me, knowing there was a chance to salvage his chance to be in that show. I slowly climb out of my car and face his house.
I notice a structure to the far left of the garden with large windows. The door’s wide open, light streams out the windows and aggressive hard rock music blasts into the garden. I assume this to be his studio and move toward it, the dread of telling him about my interference testing my nerves.
I get to the open doorway and peer around the corner. The building has high ceilings with wooden beams crossing the room. The atmosphere is the complete opposite of Jess’s clutter-filled fantasia studio. There’s a calmness to the interior that belies the hard-edged music pounding against the white-washed walls.
I see movement out of the corner of my eye and spy Max working on a large canvas leaning on the wall opposite the door. He has his back to me and holds a brush in his right hand and a silver can with paint running down the sides in the other. But these are just extraneous details.
What I’m really fixated on is the man himself. He’s a vision with messy hair and bare feet, while wearing faded jeans and a white T-shirt splattered with paint…and oozing the most intoxicating energy I’ve ever felt.
I freeze in place. His gestures as he works are wide and sweeping, the brush dipped in the can and then stroked across the canvas. He does it again and again, so sure of each movement, each stroke a decision that takes the art in a specific direction.
I’m not sure what I would’ve imagined, but it’s captivating to watch this man at work in his creative element.
He’s working with a brilliant orange, but he’s already painted areas of verdant green, warm white and deep sienna. At one point, he drops the brush and uses his hands to move the paint around and make gestures on the canvas. When he’s done stroking and blending, he wipes his hands on a rag.
I’m aroused watching him. I want to be the canvas his hands are moving over, stroking and blending—his work of art.
Finally I gather my nerve and call his name. But with the loud music, my voice is but a whisper and he shows no sign of having heard me. I try again, louder this time. Nothing. Finally, on my third try, I yell his name loud enough, and he turns around.
As soon as our eyes meet, I step forward, but his eyes instantly fill with rage and it terrifies me.
“Stop!” he yells.
I freeze with fear.
“What in the hell do you think you’re doing? ” he roars. He slams his hand on a remote and the music suddenly shuts off. The silence is deafening.
I step forward once more, “I’m sorry to interrupt you, Max, I just have some—”
“FUCKING STOP! NO ONE COMES IN MY STUDIO! NO ONE!”
I’m shocked; his anger is a wall of fire. I step back from the burn until I’m just outside the doorframe. “I came over t-to…i-if I could just expla—”
“Why did you need to come here? Couldn’t you have just left me a message without
Six-thirty on a Thursday night is a very bad time to drive to Malibu—drive being a relative term. The 101 is a parking lot and I’m having fantasies of doing a
Thelma and Louise
and gunning it through the empty emergency lane. I turn on the stereo and crank it up to take my mind off things. “Move Along” by The All-American Rejects plays, and I sing at the top of my lungs, taking strength from the words.
Despite my singing, the apprehension lingers. It’s eight when I finally pull up to Max’s house, and I’m tempted to turn around and leave. For a moment, I seriously consider the possibility. He doesn’t know yet what the issue is with Mr. Matthews. Yes, I left a bunch of messages, but I could make something else up. He’d never know.
But what if this situation with MOMA ever got back to him? He’d never forgive me, knowing there was a chance to salvage his chance to be in that show. I slowly climb out of my car and face his house.
I notice a structure to the far left of the garden with large windows. The door’s wide open, light streams out the windows and aggressive hard rock music blasts into the garden. I assume this to be his studio and move toward it, the dread of telling him about my interference testing my nerves.
I get to the open doorway and peer around the corner. The building has high ceilings with wooden beams crossing the room. The atmosphere is the complete opposite of Jess’s clutter-filled fantasia studio. There’s a calmness to the interior that belies the hard-edged music pounding against the white-washed walls.
I see movement out of the corner of my eye and spy Max working on a large canvas leaning on the wall opposite the door. He has his back to me and holds a brush in his right hand and a silver can with paint running down the sides in the other. But these are just extraneous details.
What I’m really fixated on is the man himself. He’s a vision with messy hair and bare feet, while wearing faded jeans and a white T-shirt splattered with paint…and oozing the most intoxicating energy I’ve ever felt.
I freeze in place. His gestures as he works are wide and sweeping, the brush dipped in the can and then stroked across the canvas. He does it again and again, so sure of each movement, each stroke a decision that takes the art in a specific direction.
I’m not sure what I would’ve imagined, but it’s captivating to watch this man at work in his creative element.
He’s working with a brilliant orange, but he’s already painted areas of verdant green, warm white and deep sienna. At one point, he drops the brush and uses his hands to move the paint around and make gestures on the canvas. When he’s done stroking and blending, he wipes his hands on a rag.
I’m aroused watching him. I want to be the canvas his hands are moving over, stroking and blending—his work of art.
Finally I gather my nerve and call his name. But with the loud music, my voice is but a whisper and he shows no sign of having heard me. I try again, louder this time. Nothing. Finally, on my third try, I yell his name loud enough, and he turns around.
As soon as our eyes meet, I step forward, but his eyes instantly fill with rage and it terrifies me.
“Stop!” he yells.
I freeze with fear.
“What in the hell do you think you’re doing? ” he roars. He slams his hand on a remote and the music suddenly shuts off. The silence is deafening.
I step forward once more, “I’m sorry to interrupt you, Max, I just have some—”
“FUCKING STOP! NO ONE COMES IN MY STUDIO! NO ONE!”
I’m shocked; his anger is a wall of fire. I step back from the burn until I’m just outside the doorframe. “I came over t-to…i-if I could just expla—”
“Why did you need to come here? Couldn’t you have just left me a message without
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