The Last Hedge by Carey Green Read Free Book Online Page B

night, and a solitary man alone. The gallery had closed hours ago, and Dylan stood in the gallery office in a white T-shirt and jeans, unable to paint and unable to discern a reason why. Two easels stood before him, one of his unfinished painting called “Woman”, the other featuring a canvass that was completely blank. A half-finished bottle of pinot noir sat on the desk. John Coltrane was on the stereo.
    He had been pacing back and forth, and the unfinished painting troubled him as much as the blank canvass. He had started the painting while he was still dating Samantha, and he often wondered if that was why he had been unable to finish it. Lately, he had trouble even starting to paint. No sooner would he have an idea, then be stricken with doubt and self-criticism before he began. Procrastination had become his greatest friend, and he wondered if they would ever part.
    He sat down on the desk and placed his head in his hands, and wondered if his life would ever feel normal again. He had thought that the gallery might connect him with something, some community, some feeling, some place in the world. And now it was a disaster. His parents were dead. His friends were married and in the suburbs. He would have to find a way to start again, and his prospects did not seem appealing. He had few friends in the trading world. He was too quirky and artistic, and the art world had never given him a second glance. At thirty-five, he felt washed up. He picked up his paintbrush and went back to the canvass. He barely heard the door when Samantha entered.
    “Uh, Hello. What are you doing? Sleeping?”
    “Literally. What brings you here this time of night?”
    “I forgot my purse. Looks like you’re trying to paint.”
    “’Trying’ being the operative word.”
    Samantha picked up her Gucci bag that was sitting on the desk. She was wearing tight black leather pants and a pink leather jacket. Her heels were three inches off the ground.
    “Aren’t you going to be hot in that leather?”
    “Hot temperature-wise, or hot looking …”
    “You have a point. Where you off to?
    “I am off to a party in Dumbo.”
    “I hope its not one you found on Craigslist.”
    “Ha. Ha. No, bright young artistic types. Why don’t you join me?”
    “Me? Are you kidding? Absolutely not. Besides, wouldn’t your boyfriend mind?”
    “We’re dating, not contractually bound.”
    “That’s not what you said when we were together.”
    “But we’re not together. And you act like you’re sixty-five lately. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate, but come out with me and have some fun.” For a second, Dylan considered it. Then he shook his head “no.”
    “I promised myself that I would paint.”
    “I remember when you used to paint my body. Those are the days that I miss.”
    “Yes,” Dylan said with a smile. “Those were the days.”
    Samantha placed her bag on the desk, and strolled across the room. She stopped one foot short of the easel, took in the painting that she knew was of her: Dylan Cash’s “Woman.” She liked the painting though she had no great affection for it. She had seen other paintings of his, this and was not his best work. It was a curiosity to her that he continued working on it.
    “Doesn’t look like you’ve done much tonight.”
    “I can’t get started these days. I just, freeze…”
    “You think too much. You spend too much time in your head.”
    “You’re right. I spend too much time in my head. Maybe I should rent it out for a week.”
    Samantha took another long glance at the painting. Almost as an afterthought, she said, “Why don’t you just throw the thing out? Maybe that would help you. start something new and forget about this thing.”
    “And what would that prove?”
    “It would prove nothing, but at least you wouldn’t torment yourself about it.”
    “That’s what artists do. They torment themselves.”
    “Yes,” Samantha said. “That’s what artists do.”
    As she walked across