Page 30 of Love Is an Art
But “a painter” is weirdly specific. “Have you dated another type of artist?”
“I dated a writer when I was in B-school.”
Interesting. My friend Bella, who is a writer, works as much as I do. In fact, she’s away right now at a writing retreat.
My assigned easel is off in the corner behind a screen separating the participant painting section from the rest of the room. A smock hangs next to it. I put that on and then suggest that I pick out colors. We walk over to the table where plastic bottles and half-rolled, metal tubes of paint lay scattered about.
“Have you done something like this before?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “I have to admit, I’m a little nervous. It usually takes me a long time to perfect a picture—not to mention to even know where to begin. Are you sure you don’t want to paint? Maybe you will find it less torturous as an adult.”
He shakes his head. “I’ll leave it to the experts.”
“It’s definitely something best left to experts. Why do you like math?” I grab a plastic palette. The woman in front of me is methodically picking out her colors.
“Black and white answers.”
“No gray zones?” I ask.
“I leave the gray zones to my lawyers,” he says.
Will he consider my telling him I’m an artist because I’m trying to hook Scammer Guy a typical lawyer gray zone?
“Do you deal with lawyers a lot?” I ask.
“More than I’d like.”
My being a lawyer may be a tough sell. Most bankers aren’t keen to deal with lawyers, but they appreciate what we bring to the table. Was his ex-girlfriend an attorney? And if so, how could that factor into their breakup? Unless she sued him afterward for a share of possessions or something, but that seems extreme.
The colors on the table are not quite the same hues as the ones at home. I should’ve brought my own set. That would’ve looked so professional. I choose my palette, and we walk back to my easel.
And there looms the blank canvas. Now I know why Miranda sometimes hesitates to start.
All right, let’s do this.I lightly brush my first outlines of the tops of the buildings as instructed in the YouTube video. Miranda did reassure me that mistakes in oil paint can be fixed. This is acrylic paint, but let’s hope that still holds true.
“What do you like about math?” I should distract him from my painting.
“You can usually figure out the answer.”
“That’s what I like about—” I catch myself before I say law. “But when it’s not black and white, the gray can be where the challenge is … where it’s up to your skills of persuasion.”
“Are we still talking about art? Are there rules in art?”
“Of course.” I explain about the rule of thirds. “Do you ever break your rules?”
“How do you know I have rules?”
“You like sports and math.” I glance at him. “Both have pretty defined rules.”
Zeke tilts his head. “Perceptive. I hadn’t thought of it like that. I thought I was more of a risk-taker—until recently. If you don’t consider yourself risk-averse, do you consider yourself a rule-breaker?”
“No. More willing to take risks within the confines of the rules.”
He is standing very close to me, and my pheromones seem to be kicking into high gear. I’m very conscious of being right next to an attractive guy. My heart seems to be beating twice as fast.
I shake my head and try to create that feel of an evening full of possibility with the deep purples and blues.
The brushwork looks like lines of paint. It doesn’t carry any emotional feeling. One “ultramarine” stroke is particularly thick. I try to smooth it out. My “sky” is a large rectangle with a stepped edge for the buildings.
