Page 56 of One Year Ago in Spain
Matías hesitated for just a split second. Then he asked, “Would you be interested in coming to my studio to see my work?”
“Oh no, I couldn’t intrude. You’re busy; I don’t want to get in your way.”
“You wouldn’t! I have to pack up my paintings anyway, so if you want to look at them while I’m doing that, it’s not really any extra time.”
“Are you sure?” Claire asked, already standing up and putting her phone into her purse.
“Absolutely. In fact, my studio is just across the street.”
“No way,” Claire said. “What an amazing coincidence.”
—
Matías unlocked thedoor—or hethoughthe did—and just walked through.
But the real—solid—door was still closed in front of Claire.
“Welcome to my studio,” she heard him say from inside.
Shit!She fumbled for the key in her pocket.
Claire unlocked the door and slipped in while Matías was saying, “I’m sorry it’s a mess in here. I’m not the neatest person, and it’s worse now because I’m about to move across the ocean.” Claire had just propped the heavy metal door open—so she wouldn’t have the same problem upon leaving—when he turned to look at her.
“Well, what do you think?”
Her eyes widened. The studioshesaw was nearly empty, since Matías had packed everything a year ago. But whathesaw was probably something akin to what Claire had expected to see when she came here with Armando—tubes of paint and palette knives and brushes scattered across the taborets, rulers stained with paint, and rags and tarps and discarded drawings and color studies all over the floor.
She hadn’t thought through the gap in their timelines when she’d accepted his invitation to come see his work.
“That bad?” Matías asked.
“No, it’s just…” Claire riffled through her brain for how to respond. Luckily, being a lawyer, she had some practice in vague, noncommittal answers. “I’m hyperorganized to a fault. I like being reminded that there are other personality types out there.”
“That was a very nice way to say ‘You’re a slob, Matías.’ ”
“No, it’s not what I—”
He laughed, and it lit up his entire face like he was emanating pure sunshine. Claire swore the temperature in the studio rose by a few degrees.
Of course, being in proximity to Matías also had that effect on her in general.
“Anyway,” he said, “you’re here to look at paintings.” He dropped his invisible bag of cookies on the end of the closest taboret, then gestured at an empty space in the middle of theroom. “This is the one I’ve been working on since I received the invitation to go to New York. It’s nearly finished. Just a few more small touches.”
Based on the height of where he was pointing, Claire assumed he was looking at a painting on an easel, although there was no easel there at present that she could see.
Butwhatwas the painting of?
“It’s breathtaking,” she said, hedging. “What else are you thinking of adding?”
“I think there needs to be a bit more light reflected off the girl as she looks into the puddle. The cliché approach would be to put the sparkle in her eyes as she’s looking at herself as a bumblebee. But I want to highlight the wonder in herface. Like in that Sorolla portrait from last night, with the woman in black in the drab room.”
Claire teared up as she looked at the space where Matías’s New York skyline and sunflower painting was supposed to be. It had been the first work of his she’d ever seen, in the window of the Rose Gallery. I wantthat,she had thought. That kind of surprising joy in the midst of normal life.
Matías turned to her. “Claire, are you all right? You’re crying.”
She tried to smile, while swiping the tears away. “It’s stunning, Matías. Truly. A surreal delight.”
He knit his brows together for a second. “Did you just say ‘a surreal delight’? That’s what I was going to name my exhibition.”
