Page 59 of Her Dark Lies
I go through the Ami Eister story again, step by step, moment by moment.
“You never mentioned the painting by name to her?”
“No. No way. I just assumed...I’ve been so distracted lately, with the wedding and all the work I’m doing, I figured maybe I slipped. In an interview, or something.”
“I think we’ve established you didn’t slip. There were cameras in your studio, too. Whoever this women is, I think it’s safe to say she and Shane had a plan for you, and for Jack.”
“Can you identify her?”
“I can. Facial recognition technology is very advanced. Our security system didn’t capture her when she visited your studio, but there are other cameras in the area. We’ll find her on one of those and get an ID as quickly as possible.”
“What was wrong with the security system in the studio? How could it miss her?”
“An excellent question. It seems someone’s been interfering with our protection of you and Jackson. I intend to find out who.”
35
Unforgettable
I wonder, if, in another life, Claire and I might have been friends.
In the beginning, I found her incessantly fascinating because of Jack’s obsession with her, yes. But if I’d met her on the street, or at a party, on my own terms, would she and I have chatted? Complimented each other’s outfits? Gone for coffee? Would I have connected with her the way I do now?
The way she observes the world around her and puts it into her art, the way the colors swirl and images emerge, not portraits, nothing so specific, just the barely controlled chaos of the modern aesthetic, how even a full canvas of icy white slashes with a sole dot of black in the center—an eye to the universe—can evoke the impulsivity of human nature to leave their mark, to prove they exist in this vacuum we call life... She does an excellent job of that. It’s in her mission statement on her website, this ethos of commonality she planned to explore through her work.
I know you would have a hard time seeing the sublime in a black dot on a white background, but trust me, seeing it in person is overwhelming.Allesandrahangs in the lobby of Comptons’ Manhattan offices.
It is brilliant.
And from what I’d heard,Jolinawas a masterpiece beyond anything Claire had ever done.
The only reason I went to the studio at all was to witnessJolinafor myself. That’s all. It wasn’t to see Claire face-to-face. It wasn’t.
Her musings about the composition, how she couldn’t capture the scale of it without making the canvas a monstrosity, what she was planning, the vision she saw in her head, how it might have taken years but something, something, had been driving her. It was frightening, her attachment to the piece, but she was so excited, I could see it in her face when she talked to Jackson about it...yes, I had to see this for myself. The cameras installed in the studio should have worked perfectly, but because of the size of the piece, Claire had been forced to turn the damn thing around, so all I could see was the canvas tacked to the skeleton of two-by-fours that held it stable, and every once in a while, the halo of blond curls as she danced around the edges.
I needed to see it. I desperately needed to see it. I wanted to touch it, to run a finger along the drying edge, to leave behind my own mark. It would be covered by a frame eventually, only to be discovered decades later, a stranger’s thumbprint, who could it be? (Me, me, me.)
To see her, paintbrush in hand, with her creation.
To smell her.
To touch her.
To have one moment together to remember her by when she was gone.
We all want to be remembered for something. We have children, we paint, we write, we fight, we conquer. We leave behind marks on the fabric of humanity, and while some are content to stay in the background, some of us want to make those marks as vivid and overwhelming as possible.
We don’t just want to be remembered. We want to be unforgettable.
She was so surprised by my visit. I sometimes forget how young she is, how easily manipulated. All I had to do was say I was an art dealer from New York, I had an offer from a client, could I see the work? She blushed and fumbled and tried to hide her excitement, but I could see it there, suffusing her skin, turning her from accomplished artist to insecure little girl, and the words rose from her mind in an almost outrageous clamor.
What if she doesn’t like it what if she goes to the client and says it’s trash what if I’m not good enough what if my work is a joke what if this is a setup what if she wants to buy it anyway?
What if, what if, what if.
With every internal question she grew smaller and quieter and more aloof.
But as I said, she is young. It didn’t take much persuading to open her up again. How impressed I was byAllesandra. How unique is Claire’s esthetic. How no one’s seen anything like this since the sixties, how this new style will influence a generation.
