Openings: a novel

Chapter One

Tonight’s gallery opening is a celebration of contrasts. At the center of the Markoff Gallery are the five featured artists, all abstract painters. At the other end, Damian Lucero, with his ultra-realistic paintings, sits alone and gazes at the wood-grained floor. Alice Markoff, wearing her Fear No Art T-shirt, greets

visitors with hugs and wine.

The gallery is located in Albuquerque’s South Broadway area, bordering downtown. The high ceiling has elaborate floral scrolls on its peeling surface, symbols more related to the building’s Victorian heritage than its contemporary theme. Damian looks at the ceiling and, instead of roses, sees only combat casualties and stacked bodies. The gallery walls, in stark white, remind him of a military hospital in Iraq. He shudders, sighs, and returns to the comfort of the

textured floor.

The evening is part of the city’s monthly First Friday event, named ArtsCrawl, when all the galleries have openings. The fanciers of more traditional art patronize the galleries in the Old Town area. They dismiss the Markoff artists’ works as outrageous oddities, not art to hang in their homes or offices. Many look at abstract art and ask, What’s that supposed to be? Alice answers, Whatever you might imagine it to be, or However it makes you feel." Damian thinks the art galleries in Old Town or even on Santa Fe’s Canyon Road, would be better at representing his realistic painting style, but he feels loyal to Alice. Upon his return from Iraq and discharge from the Marines, he rented one of her apartments, she and her husband helped him furnish it, and they both played supportive roles in Damian’s transition to civilian life, including enthusiastic praise of his new paintings. When Alice invited Damian to be one of the artists in her next show, he appreciated the compliment, but wondered if his paintings would be out of place in her gallery.

It’s true, Alice said, your paintings would seem to be the opposite of the abstracts and minimalism I show in my gallery, but they’re much more accessible to the average person. They fit very well in my gallery as contemporary neo-realism. I bet you’ll get buyers.

Damian’s paintings are large, about five feet high by six feet wide. They

depict average Americans at family picnics, birthday parties, and shopping malls. There are playful children, devoted parents, elderly people conversing. He

considers these to be the symbols of wholesome American family values. Isn’t that why I fought in Iraq, to preserve and protect our way of life?

His technique is draftsman-like, as meticulously realistic as news magazine photographs. His initials, DL, are in the lower right corner of his paintings. My signature wouldn’t mean anything to anybody, he tells Alice.

At five-thirty, when the show officially opened, all the artists were present, smiling expectantly near their paintings. By six, the gallery had filled quickly, and by six-thirty, everyone arguing, boasting, joking, the party was at its noisiest and, after the first few hasty glances, barely paying attention to the art. The crowd is of largely artsy campus characters, fashionably scruffy and haughtily judgmental. They meet exclusively with the other artists and ignore Damian and his paintings.

Damian sensed the crowd’s rejection early. He overheard some patrons say his art was too conventional, banal, superficial.

One called it, Totally derivative, a virtual death sentence in fine art circles. He also felt uncomfortable being the only Hispanic there.

There was a loud crash, the shattering of glass. A crystal wine decanter had fallen to the floor. Damian clenched his fists and shuddered. Perspiration flowed down his forehead. Afraid he might fall, he grabbed Alice’s arm. She placed a hand on his shoulder and whispered, Easy, guy, easy.

He took several deep breaths and swallowed hard. Sorry, Alice, I’m really fucked up. She remained beside him. He wiped his face, took more deep breaths, and shook his head. Although he remained near his paintings, he started looking for a way to escape.

When assured that Damian was back in control, Alice excused herself. She had entertaining and selling to do.

Great, Damian thought, I’m a Marine, a hero of a war that everyone’s against. A proud warrior scared of loud noises. Scared about an art gallery reception. What would my buddies think of Corporal Lucero now?

By the end of the first hour, Damian saw little interest and no likely sales. He sighed and remembered the magazine article about the difference between sighs and simple exhales. Sighs, it explained, are exhales accompanied by sounds like groans. (Alice had called them oy’s}, while ah’s are sounds of satisfaction. I’d better have more ah’s and fewer oy’s, he thought and sighed again. He grew more disheartened and slipped out the alley door. I sure as hell don’t belong here, he mumbled.

By nine, Alice was ready to call it a night. The opening had been a success in the size of the crowd, but there was only one sale, a three hundred dollar abstract print on a three-month payment plan. That won’t pay my bills, she said. There weren’t but a few prospects, either. She picked up the plates and cups, carried the empty bottles to the kitchen, and reached for a broom.

When she got home, there was a voice message from Damian. Hi, Alice. Sorry I left early. There was no interest in my paintings, and I get nervous in crowds. Talk to you later.

Alice called him. You don’t need to worry about leaving early, Damian. The crowd was gone soon after you left. But there was one very good prospect who especially liked your work and planned to come back soon.

Wow, that’s cool! Maybe it’ll be a sale?

Too early to tell, Damian. It didn’t happen tonight, anyway. Don’t worry, I’ll sure keep after him.

Thanks, Alice, he sighed. Hope it works out. Guess I’ll turn in.

Alice put the phone down. Isn’t that like Damian? Didn’t even ask about the prospect. And that sigh, always there, poor guy.

Chapter Two

The next morning, back in her gallery, Alice grumbled, Lookers are fine, but what I need are buyers.

A large, well-dressed man entered. Hi, Alice said, I noticed you were here last night, looking at that one painting. She followed him. It’s quite beautiful, isn’t it? Have any questions?

I don’t know much about art, he said, but I‘m fascinated by this one. Tell me about the artist.

He was here for the opening, but left early. He’s a local artist, a young Marine back from the Iraq campaign. This is his first show.

Really? He looked puzzled. He’s quite good, isn’t he?

I invited him to exhibit here, she said. Yes, he is extremely talented. Of course, his style of painting, which s ultra-realistic, is quite different from the abstract works I feature in my gallery. I know him personally -- a remarkable kid.

Why doesn’t he sign his paintings? He pointed to the DL initials in the lower right corner of the painting.

He’s very modest. He considers himself an unknown, so his signature wouldn’t make any difference, he says. I’ve tried to build up his confidence, but he’s stubborn.

That’s sad. I hope you keep trying.

"The themes of his paintings, the typical working families shopping at

Wal-Mart, or celebrating their kids’ birthdays at Chuck-E-Cheez, or enjoying a backyard barbecue, are what he says he fought for as a Marine in Iraq. You know, the American way of life."

I like his paintings, and I wouldn’t mind helping him out. I’m proud of our troops and our veterans. He touched his American flag lapel pin.

Alice wondered if Damian’s paintings might have found their niche. "He

certainly deserves our thanks," she said, looking up expectantly.

Ms. Markoff, you have an interesting gallery. He started toward the door.

Thank you, Mr. ... uh?

Ed Landry. They call me ‘Big Ed.’ I’m in the trucking business here in town.

Yes, of course, Landry trucks. Call me Alice. They shook hands. ‘Big Ed’ was over six feet tall and must have weighed about three hundred pounds. Big, warm guy, she noted. Good vibes. Alice suddenly caught herself. Landry, did he say? She remembered something about the Landry family and a problem Damian Lucero had with them. She had a vague memory of news stories several years ago about a Valley High School cheating scandal involving a Landry son and Damian. How was it resolved? Maybe Ed would be less enthusiastic if he knew the artist was Damian?

Ed returned to look at the painting. You know, he said, I don’t usually go to art galleries. I came last night because of my niece, an art student at the university.

Yeah, I get a lot of art students here, Alice said.

She wanted me to look at a classmate’s work, hoping I might buy one. To tell you the truth, and I hope I don’t hurt your feelings, I don’t go for modern art. Ed looked at her, his eyebrows raised.

I understand. True, my gallery features modern art, but to some people that just means primitive or outlandish. I get comments like Heck, my kid can do that." Alice shrugged and laughed.

Last night, I had a business meeting downtown, Ed said, so I thought I could drop in for a few minutes afterward. I’m glad I did. These pictures obviously took a lot of hard work, so incredibly realistic. I admire that.

His style of painting certainly has a very honorable tradition. Remember Norman Rockwell? Alice asked.

I sure do. That’s the kind of art I understand, Ed said and scratched his cheek. Plus cartoons. I don’t feel like a misfit around it, as I do around modern art.

Alice laughed. Modernists have been treated like misfits, at least earlier. There’s good art for everybody now, both exciting and serene, comforting and challenging.

I don’t care if art’s exciting. I want it to be calming, like background music, Ed said.

Alice gulped. Or wallpaper? She restrained herself. Art was life, and life to her had to be exhilarating.

This artist’s work, she continued, though it’s realistic, is still considered to be contemporary. But instead of the typical objects, like cityscapes and motorcycles and bottles that contemporary artists favor, he paints real people.

You mentioned Norman Rockwell. My father used to show me the Saturday Evening Post, where I think Rockwell’s pictures were on the cover, Ed added.

That’s right, Alice said. You have a good memory. Others in that natural style were Thomas Hart Benton, Edward Hopper, and Grant Wood. Alice caught herself: What am I doing, an art history seminar? Or isn’t education just an

essential part of sales?

I remember them, vaguely.

During the Depression, Alice said, artists were given government grants to do murals on post offices and other public buildings. There’s one downtown.

Yes, I’ve seen it. I like it. I guess I’m pretty traditional. I don’t believe in taking liberties, especially with traditional values. I guess that goes for art, too.

Alice reminded herself that getting into a political discussion wouldn’t make good business sense. She remembered that Stalin and Hitler, as well as every other dictator she could think of, insisted on realism in art. Socialist Realism considered modern art degenerate. Authoritarian ideology rejects ambiguity.

Ed sensed the direction the discussion might be taking and grimaced. My niece teases me, thinks I‘m a diehard conservative. I doubt that I am. I don’t need to please my niece, or anyone for that matter, except my customers. Most are quite conservative folks themselves. He paused and slowly shook his head. Art isn’t really a relevant topic in my business, he added. "Except maybe truck

decals."

I’ve seen your trucks around town, and I’ve heard good things about your business, Alice said.

I guess I’ve done pretty well over the years. I’m enjoying life as much as I can now. My two older sons are carrying most of the load i, that’s not the first time my business intuition failed men my business.

He paused. Getting back to these paintings, is that a reasonable price these days, eight fifty for an oil painting?

They’re actually acrylic paintings on canvas, Alice said. Similar to oils, except the paint dries faster. They’re definitely a steal, considering their large size, as well as the excellent technique. The price includes the elegant frame, which he makes himself. The frame alone is worth about a hundred and fifty dollars.

Really?

Would you like to have that painting you were admiring? Alice drew a pen out of her pocket and hoped she was not getting too pushy.

Let me think about it. I suppose it’ll still be here for awhile?

It’s possible, I guess, Alice turned her head, took a deep breath, and rolled her eyes, as she put her pen back in her pocket. She turned back toward Ed and smiled.

Ed looked at his watch, shook Alice’s hand, and started out the door. Good talking with you. Have a great weekend.

Alice swallowed hard. Hmm, that was abrupt. I was sure he was ready to buy. Hah.

Chapter Three

Alice had met Damian three months earlier, shortly after his discharge from the Marines. An Iraq combat veteran with a severe case of post-traumatic stress disorder, he suffered all the classical symptoms: difficulty sleeping, nightmares, depression, terrifying flashbacks, general jitteriness, and oversensitivity to sudden, loud noises. He had become too jumpy to function safely on either guard duty or patrol. His medical discharge came after three years of service, much of it in combat.

Damian’s outlook was generally guarded and cynical, especially about authority. He greeted news from Washington or Iraq with, You can’t believe everything you read, and added, Or everything you hear and see, either.

What’s left, Damian? Alice kidded, "Only what you smell? You can’t trust that

either in our deodorized society, can you?"

I guess that leaves touch, he said with a shrug, "which is okay with me,