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I Scream

By Deb Brammer

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No artist could ask for higher praise. Jordan stole glances at his fiancée admiring her image in the frame, the portrait he had painted. When many minutes ticked by and her feet were still planted before the painting, however, it became flat-out embarrassing.
Finally one parent raised an envious eyebrow in their direction. No wonder. The teacher’s painting shouldn’t be stealing all the attention at a student exhibition.
Jordan slipped up behind his fiancée and set his hands on her shoulders. “Time to move on, Zophie.”
Her eyes continued to soak up the love that had guided each brush stroke. “It’s almost a miracle. You make me look beautiful.”
He glanced around the room to make sure no one was close. “That’s how I see you.”
When he’d first met Zophie back in Boise, he’d been more attracted to her roommate, Alison, the perfect model with flowing strawberry blond hair. The longer he knew Zophie, however, the more he loved her over-sized smile and raven hair. “But you’ve been staring at this one long enough. Don’t you think?”
She turned to face him, to adore him with her dancing brown eyes. “Why? Your painting is the best one in the whole exhibition.”
“Thanks, sunshine, but this is the students’ night to shine. After a whole school year of work, they deserve it. Tell you what. When we get married you can stare at this painting every day. Okay?”
Felipe, his star student, appeared at his elbow and leaned close. “Guess who just walked in the front door. CJ Fogelquist.”
“You’re joking,” Jordan said. “The number one art critic in the Twin Cities? What’s he doing at Maple Tree Art Center at a student exhibition?”
Felipe shrugged.
Zophie nudged her fiancée. “Go talk to him.”
“Should I?” Jordan asked Felipe who, though he was only a few years younger than Jordan, had systematically studied the Minneapolis art community since he was twelve. “I could welcome him to the exhibition or introduce myself as one of the teachers.”
Felipe glanced at the door. CJ had yet to make his appearance in this room. “I don’t know. I don’t think he likes to be noticed. He probably wants to study the art on his own, get a fresh look without any pre-conceived notions.”
Of course. After earning an art degree and hanging out with top Western artists, he should have a better sense of protocol than his student. So why were there knots in his stomach? “Of course. He’ll want to give an unbiased review. We’ll give him some space.”
Trying to act natural, Jordan approached Connor’s family and praised the nine-year-old’s dinosaur. What could a good review by CJ Fogelquist do for his career? Certainly more than all the posts on his art blog he’d been slaving to write lately.
Felipe crept close to the doorway and leaned back enough to peek into the next room. “Here he comes!” he whispered.
Jordan spotted the face with the tortoiseshell glasses from the art column and grabbed Zophie’s hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
The three scooted into the next room like naughty school children.
Zophie halted. “Wait a minute. Want to tell me why we’re whispering and sneaking around?”
“Felipe and I have our best paintings in that room. We’re … giving CJ space.”
She shook her head. “You call yourself a professional artist and you have to run from the room when a critic walks in?”
Jordan shrugged. “He’s CJ Fogelquist.”
“I think you mentioned that,” she said.
“If he wants me to act professional,” Jordan said, “he should give me a little notice.”
Felipe used urgent hand signals to motion Jordan closer.
Jordan ambled past the doorway, glancing into the room the critic had entered. Each wall displayed a mixture of canvases. Jordan had prided himself on integrating the art so the work of beginning students was displayed with the same respect and place of honor as that of advanced students. But he could have found better storage for the unsightly art supplies. Why hadn’t he stuffed the rolls of newsprint into a closet and straightened the piles of boxes?
Fogelquist scanned the paintings on one wall and stopped at Jordan’s. Maybe he would notice a technique he’d borrowed from Mary Cassatt. The fine detail in Zophie’s lovely face blended into less detailed strokes until the ripples at the edge of the lake and the worn wooden pier blurred into almost an impressionist style.
The critic paused before the painting long enough to lift an eyebrow and read the label, “Joy Ripples” by Jordan Axtell. Farther down, Felipe’s merited a “hmmm.” Then he was gone. The critic had summed up the room full of paintings in less than five minutes. If he could dismiss the best paintings at the center with so little fanfare, he was looking for the exit. Oh well. His mere appearance was a cheap thrill—fun while it lasted.
Jordan pointed to the exit. He and Zophie eased out of the room just as Fogelquist entered it. They slipped down the hallway and circled around until they could view the critic from a doorway.
Minutes later Felipe ambled close to them. The spring in his step hinted at how challenging it was for him to act natural. He kept his voice low. “He stopped. He’s staring at one painting.”
“Which one?” Jordan said.
Felipe shook his head. “You won’t believe it.”
Jordan forced himself into a semi-quick saunter toward the classroom nearest the back exit. Stepping into the room he found the critic totally absorbed with a painting. Felipe was right. He didn’t believe it. Several other guests had edged closer to the critic and they didn’t believe it either. They might not know who the man was, but he posed before the painting as one who had authority.
Jordan stooped down to greet Megan’s kids. “Your mom is really becoming a good landscape painter. You must be very proud of her.”
The curly-haired blondie stared up at him. “She’s a very good artist. She teaches us to finger paint.”
Megan thanked him for teaching her, but kept stealing glances at the critic.
Jordan moved away and started pacing the room, suddenly conscious of the messy paintbrush bins in the corner and the uneven stacks of colored paper on the top of the cabinet. He bent down, picked up a piece of trash, and stuffed it into his pocket.
Knots of students and families traded whispers, an audience waiting for the curtain to rise on a grand orchestra.
Fogelquist, the conductor, continued to inspect the painting. He reached close to the painting and scanned his fingers from top to bottom. Then he stepped back and eyed it from the right and the left. He frowned, folded his arms, rested his chin on one hand.
That was it. Jordan could stand it no longer. He stepped close to Fogelquist and voices hushed to listen. “It’s an interesting painting, isn’t it?”
“I love it.” Fogelquist gestured toward the canvas with the sweep of an arm, as the conductor acknowledging his orchestra. “This is one of the finest examples of contemporary art I’ve seen in my time in the Twin Cities.”
Jordan choked a little, then recovered. “Yes, it is nice.” He’d told the art student who painted it the same thing, but he’d never expected to repeat it to a professional art critic.
“The colors are perfect,” the critic said.
Actually, Jordan’s main instruction about color was to mix all the colors on the palette and refuse to use any paint straight from the tube.
The critic’s fingers traced the painting from top to bottom. “The subject flows perfectly throughout the painting, top to bottom, side to side.”
Well, that was true.
The fingers moved back up again. “There’s an unpretentious innocence to it.”
What else would you expect, under the circumstances?
Fogelquist adjusted his glasses. “But it’s the symbolism that really raises this painting above all its peers.”
Symbolism? Eight simple cats by an apartment building? What’s symbolic about that? Of course, Jordan had never professed to understand contemporary art, much less like it.
The critic’s voice oozed mysticism. “The night glows red with danger, but all are safe inside because the guardians of the night stand watch.”
“Guardians of the night?” Jordan had to break in. “All I see are cats.”
Annoyance edged the look the critic shot at Jordan. “Cats, yes. A stroke of genius. Cats are night creatures. Mysterious and independent, they watch, ready to pounce.” He gestured toward the painting. “Note the cat by the door. His stance forms another door between his legs and his tail is raised and bristly, alert to danger. This piece shouts, ‘peace in troubled times.’ My walls are full, but I know a collector who would gladly pay ten thousand dollars for this. Is it for sale?”
This time Jordan did choke. Ten thousand dollars? None of his best paintings, sculptures, or bronzes had come close to that price tag. He coughed several times and forced himself to recover. “Dry throat. You think you can sell this for ten thousand dollars?”
“No question about it. If the collector I have in mind doesn’t want it, I’m sure I could sell it elsewhere. Who’s the artist, anyway?”
Jordan turned toward Felipe who stood, resting his hand on the shoulder of six-year-old Destiny. The girl had pulled Felipe’s shirt tail into a rope and wound it around her finger.
Jordan stepped close to the pair and squatted down to Destiny’s eye level.
“Destiny, this nice man would like to meet you.”

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