attention span. We used to have interns like that back at T and C.”
“I’m no one’s idea of an intern, apparently,” Christiana said, fishing the van’s keys out of the pocket of her capris. “And that includes Morrie. I think he keeps me around for the scenery as much as for the work. I don’t really mind. Still.”
“So why do you do it?” Shane said, following her around to the driver’s side door. “I mean, if you don’t mind my asking.”
Christiana opened the door and looked back at him. She lifted her left shoulder in a quick shrug. “I like art. I can’t make it, but I like working with it. I used to be a legal assistant, and was studying for the bar. I woke up one day and realized something important. I realized I hated law. Worse, I hated lawyers. I was only studying to be one because that’s what my parents were, and that’s what they always expected me to be, too. And I thought, I don’t even
like
my parents. They’re some of the unhappiest people I know. Why would I want to do what they do? So I quit university, moved out of the apartment my parents had rented for me, and decided to get into art representation. Everyone’s got to start somewhere, right?”
Shane nodded somberly. “Impressive.”
“You think so?”
“I think it takes a lot of willpower to break out of the orbit of other people’s expectations,” he answered, and then added quickly, “Not that I’ve learned that from experience or anything.”
“Ah,” Christiana nodded, climbing into the driver’s seat. “Well, if you say so. See you around, Mr. Bellamy.”
Shane backed away as she started the van. “Call me Shane,” he said over the sound of the engine. “Everybody else does.”
She nodded through the open window, tipped a salute, and began to back up. She performed a neat three-point turn and gunned the van’s engine, propelling it down the broken driveway. Sunlight glinted off its rear windows and then it was gone, hidden behind the encroaching trees.
Christiana
, Shane thought, bemused.
What a nice name
. He headed back into the house, and had to return a minute later, once he remembered that his coffee was still sitting on the porch railing. It was still warm enough to drink.
The computer was still humming softly to itself, although the screen saver had popped on; the Microsoft logo appeared and disappeared on the screen, changing position each time like some kind of a corporate Whack-a-mole. Shane approached the desk and shook the mouse back and forth on its pad, waking the computer. The Microsoft logo vanished and a field of type appeared; the biography of Gustav Ferdinand Wilhelm.
Shane considered finishing the article, and then decided to save it for later. He had plans for today. On a whim, however, he scrolled down to the bottom of the page. There were thumbnail samples of the artist’s work there, mostly portraits. Shane recognized some of them. There was Theodore Roosevelt with his dog, seated on a long, sunlit veranda. Below that was an absurdly young Queen Mary, standing behind her husband, King George the fifth, who was seated, smiling cryptically.
The paintings were indeed quite good, and very unlike any other portraits Shane had ever seen, especially from that era. They seemed light, whimsical, and even somewhat irreverent, but always in a way that implied the permission of the subjects, as if they were allowing the artist to show a more private and human side of them, a side that was most often hidden by the pomp and circumstance of their offices.
Looking at them, Shane felt a strange sense of relief. He wondered about it for a moment, and then realized where it came from. Part of him had expected Wilhelm’s works to appear hauntingly familiar; to be bold and daring with color, somehow both representational and abstract at the same time. In short, he’d half expected Wilhelm’s works to look like the painting upstairs, the unusual portrait of Wilhelm’s dead manor house, as
“I’m no one’s idea of an intern, apparently,” Christiana said, fishing the van’s keys out of the pocket of her capris. “And that includes Morrie. I think he keeps me around for the scenery as much as for the work. I don’t really mind. Still.”
“So why do you do it?” Shane said, following her around to the driver’s side door. “I mean, if you don’t mind my asking.”
Christiana opened the door and looked back at him. She lifted her left shoulder in a quick shrug. “I like art. I can’t make it, but I like working with it. I used to be a legal assistant, and was studying for the bar. I woke up one day and realized something important. I realized I hated law. Worse, I hated lawyers. I was only studying to be one because that’s what my parents were, and that’s what they always expected me to be, too. And I thought, I don’t even
like
my parents. They’re some of the unhappiest people I know. Why would I want to do what they do? So I quit university, moved out of the apartment my parents had rented for me, and decided to get into art representation. Everyone’s got to start somewhere, right?”
Shane nodded somberly. “Impressive.”
“You think so?”
“I think it takes a lot of willpower to break out of the orbit of other people’s expectations,” he answered, and then added quickly, “Not that I’ve learned that from experience or anything.”
“Ah,” Christiana nodded, climbing into the driver’s seat. “Well, if you say so. See you around, Mr. Bellamy.”
Shane backed away as she started the van. “Call me Shane,” he said over the sound of the engine. “Everybody else does.”
She nodded through the open window, tipped a salute, and began to back up. She performed a neat three-point turn and gunned the van’s engine, propelling it down the broken driveway. Sunlight glinted off its rear windows and then it was gone, hidden behind the encroaching trees.
Christiana
, Shane thought, bemused.
What a nice name
. He headed back into the house, and had to return a minute later, once he remembered that his coffee was still sitting on the porch railing. It was still warm enough to drink.
The computer was still humming softly to itself, although the screen saver had popped on; the Microsoft logo appeared and disappeared on the screen, changing position each time like some kind of a corporate Whack-a-mole. Shane approached the desk and shook the mouse back and forth on its pad, waking the computer. The Microsoft logo vanished and a field of type appeared; the biography of Gustav Ferdinand Wilhelm.
Shane considered finishing the article, and then decided to save it for later. He had plans for today. On a whim, however, he scrolled down to the bottom of the page. There were thumbnail samples of the artist’s work there, mostly portraits. Shane recognized some of them. There was Theodore Roosevelt with his dog, seated on a long, sunlit veranda. Below that was an absurdly young Queen Mary, standing behind her husband, King George the fifth, who was seated, smiling cryptically.
The paintings were indeed quite good, and very unlike any other portraits Shane had ever seen, especially from that era. They seemed light, whimsical, and even somewhat irreverent, but always in a way that implied the permission of the subjects, as if they were allowing the artist to show a more private and human side of them, a side that was most often hidden by the pomp and circumstance of their offices.
Looking at them, Shane felt a strange sense of relief. He wondered about it for a moment, and then realized where it came from. Part of him had expected Wilhelm’s works to appear hauntingly familiar; to be bold and daring with color, somehow both representational and abstract at the same time. In short, he’d half expected Wilhelm’s works to look like the painting upstairs, the unusual portrait of Wilhelm’s dead manor house, as
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