Chiaroscuro Chapter 1 Part 2
Chapter 1 Part 2 has arrived and tension is building.
Dearest Cultured Reader,
Guess who? It's the Chiaroscuro author, back to dish out the juiciest scandals and hidden truths behind the canvas of the art world. Get ready for a palette of intrigue and drama as Chapter 1, Part 2 unveils the secrets, scandals, and triumphs of Emery Steele's world. Stay tuned, darlings, because behind every masterpiece lies a story just waiting to be told.
If you have yet to join the Chiaroscuro weekly series, you can redeem your free 7-day trial below. I’d love your support on this literary deep dive into the arts, and I believe you’d love it too!
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Chapter 1 Part 2
‘Emery Steele, is it?’ A deep voice queried from somewhere in the throng of the building crowd.
She watched as Quentin stood stiff. His eyes widened, he moved his glass to his lips, took a swig and then gently nodded his head, beckoning her to turn around.
‘Hi, I’m Cliff,’ a short, balding man flashed his perfectly straight, white teeth at her. ‘Cliff Hersain.’
‘Hi, nice to meet you.’ She spat out. Her heart quickened pace and her legs began to wobble. She swore she could feel the sweat build under her strapless bra, and then trickle down her spine. She glanced over at Rupert whose face had scrunched like a piece of paper. She waited, wondering if the two men would acknowledge each other, but the piece of paper stayed scrunched and then Cliff’s hand was thrust towards her. She let him take her palm, somewhat squash it in his fat, red fingers and then release it back to her.
‘Your paintings are bold, beautiful works. The layers of paint and those thick brushstrokes. Such dynamism. Such a thing of beauty. You’ve got an eye for detail, Miss Steele. I can see echoes of Krasner, Pollock, and even Frankenthaler. Tell me, what’s the inspiration behind your painting?’
‘Inspiration. What a mundane question,’ Rupert mumbled from behind them.
‘Oh, Rupert – I didn’t see you there,’ Cliff remarked, one eyebrow raised; his blue eyes glinting with cheek.
The two men glared at each other for what felt like an age but could only have been a few seconds.
‘Tell me, old boy, do you really see Krasner in there? What have you been smoking?’ Rupert grunted.
‘Yes, if you look closely, there’s a repetition,’ Cliff pointed to the painting and moved his hand in the air to trace a thick brushstroke. ‘And see that line there, it looks as if it ends with a splatter of paint. Much like Pollock.’
‘Hmmm. Yes, I see what you’re saying. But can you see that pattern you’re alluding to? It’s almost as if it’s language. Or symbolism. Fantastic.’
‘The brushstrokes, to me have a Frankenthaler treatment. You can still see parts of the raw linen poking through, just wanting to be noticed for their rawness in juxtaposition with the thick layers of paint.’
Emery turned to Quentin, ‘What the hell is happening? I thought they hated each other.’
‘They have known each other for decades. Bitter rivals, yes, but art always brings them back together.’
‘I see,’ she said. Still watching the two men discussing her work. This industry was confusing, to say the least.
‘They are bloody maniacs,’ he whispered. ‘You never know if they’ll be friends or enemies.’
The two men turned towards Emery, and Cliff grinned at her and then spoke. ‘Why don’t we ask the artist of these works – tell us about your work, Emery.’
Faced with a wall of eyes, Emery’s mind opened up like a starless sky. She tried to pull the words she’d practised from her psyche, but there was nothing in there.
‘Well, I have lots of inspiration,’ she faltered before the words bloomed in her mind like a flower. ‘Nature, the female form –’ Thank heavens.
‘Ah yes, the female form. I can see it now,’ Cliff remarked.
Of course he could. It was impossible not to.
His eyes averted from the painting and ran up her legs, lingering for a moment, before they washed over the pink chiffon and then up to her chest – lingering again, and then meeting her eyes. She took a gulp of her warm champagne and met his eyes. She was sure she had his attention now.
‘I believe they have a place in the market,’ he said, raising his eyebrows at her. ‘I’d like to set up a time to meet –’ He leered at her, and she caught a whiff of wine on his breath.
Her heart quickened pace and her legs began to wobble. She could feel the sweat trickle down her back. This was it – her moment of validation, the culmination of years of hard work and unwavering dedication.
‘Sure. Thank you. That would be amazing,’ she stammered, sensing a surge of adrenaline pulsate across her chest and flutter through her stomach.
He swiftly pulled a small white card from his pocket and thrust it at her. ‘Call the Gallery on Tuesday to set up a time. I’ll be sure to tell Marissa to expect your call.’
She nodded overzealously at him, and images gushed like rain in her mind; sell-out shows and people knowing her name. She took the white business card and Cliff gave her another once over with his eyes before he turned on his heel and walked towards Bart Kingsley – one of the most successful and powerful contemporary Australian artists. Emery had never seen Bart in the flesh before. He was much more handsome than he looked on social media. The two men embraced with gusto before the crowd loomed around them like hyenas and swallowed them up.
Rupert looked up at her work and then back at Emery before appearing to freeze in mid-air. He moved his hand to his face and rubbed at his stubble with his forefinger and thumb.
‘Emery – if things go south with our friend, Cliff – get Quentin to get you in to see me.’ Rupert sauntered off to the next booth and out of earshot.
South. What did he mean, if things go south? A chill ran up her spine at the thought, but she pushed it away and squeezed the business card that was lodged in her palm. Making sure it was still there and that Cliff Hersain had truly just given her his business card and she wasn’t just dreaming.
‘Oh my Gosh, Emery!’ Quentin inched towards her, eyes widened, raising his empty glass into the air.
‘I know! I can’t believe that just happened. I might have a gallery representing me – and not just any gallery. Hersain Gallery,’ she squealed.
‘I’m so proud of you Em! I knew you could do it. Your work is fabulous and deserves to be seen by everyone. We must celebrate after the show.’
‘Cliff Hersain! Oh my god. Is this really happening?’ Her stomach twisted. She could almost taste success.
‘Your mother would be so proud,’ a familiar voice beckoned, and she turned to see her father jostling through the crowd towards her. His tweed flat cap matched his pants and was set off with a black t-shirt. His eyes sparkled and he pulled her in for a hug.
‘Dad! I thought you had to work,’ she said. The smell of something woody emanated from him. Her father had made an effort to be here. Her body softened at the thought.
‘I did, sweetheart, but I left early. Stuff it! I couldn’t not be here. It’s your graduation!’ Her father, Eric, pulled away from her and looked up at her paintings, smiling as his eyes searched the two canvases. ‘You’re a brilliant painter, just like she was.’ Eric’s eyes began to well and Emery knew if her father cried, she would too, so she pulled him in for another hug.
‘Guess what, Mr Steele? Emery’s already been scouted by a top gallery!’
‘What?’ Her father turned to her; eyes wide. ‘Really? Who?’
‘Hersain Gallery. And my boss, Rupert Street is also interested. Emery’s going to be a success.’
Her father seemed to falter. His wide smile slowly ran down his face like melted butter and he blinked slowly as if processing something in his thoughts.
‘Hersain…as in Cliff Hersain?’ He said, his eyebrows furrowed.
‘Yeah Dad, why? Do you know him or something?’ Emery jested; assured her father knew little of the Sydney art scene.
‘Your mother knew him.’
Chapter 2 Part 1 arrives next week. Prepare yourselves, it’s going to be intense.
© Joey Hespe, 2024.
*Disclaimer: The characters and events depicted in this story are fictional and do not intend to represent any single person or company.