Page 56 of Live Love Steal
As the voices got louder outside, we brainstormed an idea under his direction.
Once he was satisfied with the look, he asked, “Can you really make money at art?”
That deserved an honest answer. Because the spark was there and I didn’t want to snuff it out like Sharon had.
“Yes, but sometimes, no. The trick is finding niches where you can do what you love art-wise and be flexible about what else you can do. There’s no rule that you can’t work at a job and do art on the side, or that you can’t find ways to bring art into your job. Like this.” I pulled up the earliest mockup I sketched for the campaign. “See, I used to do things like this before I took the new position. And because of that, it was easy for me to explain my vision to the person actually doing the art. That made it possible to get at least two different ideas worked up during the short time span my boss wanted. Now the client gets to see a broader sample of what we can do, stylistically.”
The one I’d pulled up was edgy and bright, playing on optimism and in that making the eventual viewer think it will be a brighter future. I explained that to Noah, then showed him the other one. “This one is a standard play on opposite personalities, but it is a little more formal in layout, so it aligns with the nature of their business. Which one do you like?”
“I like the bright one.”
He picked mine.
“Why?”
“It makes me happy.”
“And that’s what the company could want the customer to be. If they can be happy when they think of our client, they’ll want to spend money with them, and that will mean our ad helped that happen.”
“That’s cool.”
“Art is all about emotion. Exceptional art shows emotion without telling you what you’re supposed to feel. And the more complex the emotion, the more complex the art becomes, because it tries to show you everything all at once, but in the way that it all felt inside for the artist when they created the work.”
“Dad’s art is that way.”
“Oh yes, your dad’s is definitely the exceptional kind.” It bled emotion.
“Some of it’s angry.”
“Unfortunately, true. And that’s okay. Your dad hasn’t had an easy life, and he’s able to put that experience into what he does, but it doesn’t define everything he is.”
Noah was quiet as he thought about that. The hallway was quiet, too. I wondered whether they’d reached an impasse or an agreement, or… gotten both of their asses arrested.
“Your picture isn’t angry,” Noah said.
My picture? I stared at the screen. It was on the second pitch. Then it clicked. Noah meant the mural in Sketch’s bedroom. Since there was no door, Noah had to have seen it at least once or twice. “That isn’t me.”
“It looks like you.”
I wondered if that was what had sparked Sharon’s jealousy. The mural he’d painted didn’t look a thing like her. But Noah had a point; it did look like me on a superficial level.
“But I hadn’t met your dad yet. He painted that a long time before we met.” Was that only this morning? It seemed a lot longer ago.
“I think he dreamed of you. And now that he’s met you, his life will change.”
I hoped that change wasn’t for the worse.
The curtain moved. Sketch came in, shoulders slumped, and his attention elsewhere. “Go home, Iz.”
“Won’t you need a ride?”
“I’ll call one of the specks.” His tone was resigned, almost defeated. Sharon had kicked his proverbial puppy hard.
“But—”
He shot me a look that clearly meant I was out of line. “Go home.”
“Where’s Sharon?” She hadn’t come back with him.
