Charles De Lint - Memory and Dream

IV

Albina Sprech—the, as she put it, “proud owner and sole employee” of The Green Man Gallery—was much older than Izzy had imagined she would be. Because Jilly had referred to her as such a good friend of hers, Izzy had been expecting someone in her mid—to late twenties, but when she thought about it, she really shouldn’t have been surprised. July’s friendships crossed all borders: age, race, sex, social standing, and lack thereof.

Albina was in her fifties, a small, compact woman with greying hair that had lost none of its luster.

Her facial features, the pronounced cheekbones and high brow, combined with the pale blue eyes that didn’t seem to miss a thing, reminded Izzy of a Siamese cat. She had a feline grace when she moved, as well, a lazy elegance that, like a housecat’s, couldn’t quite belie the wild spirit lying just under the veneer of her cultivated demeanor. She was dressed casually in a wool sweater and slacks, her only jewelry a pair of small gold hoop earrings and a gold broach shaped like an artist’s palette. Izzy hoped she’d age half as well herself.

“Jilly certainly didn’t overstate your talent,” Albina said after studying the paintings that Izzy and Alan had brought into the gallery. “Although I must admit that I am somewhat surprised at the maturity that’s already so evident in your work. Quite a remarkable achievement for an artist of your years.”

“I, urn, thank you,” Izzy mumbled, her cheeks burning.

“We don’t see enough of this style anymore,” Albina went on. “At least not from the younger artist.

Realistic, certainly, yet undeniably painterly. It—I hope you won’t mind me saying this—but these paintings of yours remind me a great deal of Vincent Rushkin’s work. Your palette, your use of light, your handling of textures.”

“I study under Rushkin,” Izzy said.

Albina gave her a considering look, eyebrows arching. “Oh, really. Isn’t that odd. I’ve heard so little of the man in the past decade or so, I thought he’d passed away, or at least retired.”

“He still paints every day; he just doesn’t show anymore.”

“And,” Albina said, her eyes taking on a faraway look, “does his work still retain its power?”

“Very much so. If anything, he keeps getting better.”

“You’re very lucky to be working with him. Whenever I look at The Movement of Wings, I can’t help but shiver. I have a reproduction of it hanging in my dining room at home.” She looked up and smiled at Izzy. “I think his work was what drew me into this field in the first place.”

Izzy returned the gallery owner’s smile. She’d had a postcard of The Movement of Wings on the wall of her bedroom back on the island and lost herself a thousand times in Rushkin’s cloud of pigeons, circling about the War Memorial in Fitzhenry Park.

“I know exactly what you mean,” she said.

“Well, then.” Albina shook her head as though to clear it. “This puts an entirely different light on matters.”

“How so?”

“Frankly, while I was quite taken with your work, I felt it was perhaps a little too derivative of Rushkin’s style to take for the gallery. You know how the word can get around, how spiteful people can be. At this stage in your career, the last thing you need is to be thought of as simply an imitator. A critique like that can stay with you throughout your entire career. But there is, of course, a long tradition in our field, of a student’s work reflecting aspects of her mentors’.

And I can see, particularly from your use of perspective, that you have already begun to gain a sense of your own style.”

“I’m trying,” Izzy said.

“Of course you are. And while these things should never be rushed, I can see where you will be having your own shows in the not too distant future.” Lead-ing the way back to her desk, Albina added,

“Now we’ll have to fill out a few forms. We take a forty-percent commission and our checks go out once a month. That’s not a hard and fast rule, however. If something of yours has sold and you’re desperate for some cash, I’m sure we’ll be able to work something out. But please. Don’t be calling me every day to see how your paintings are moving ....”

V

All right!” Alan cried once they were out on the pavement in front of the gallery. “You did it!”

Izzy accepted his hug, but she was finding it a little hard to muster as much enthusiasm herself

“What’s the matter, Izzy? I thought you’d be thrilled.”

“I am, I guess.”

“But ... ?”

Izzy gave him a halfhearted smile. “It’s just that I feel the only reason she took my stuff on was because of Rushkin. It’s like my paintings only have validity because they were done in his studio, under his eye.”

Alan shook his head. “Whoa. Wait a minute now.”

“No. You heard what she said. She thought my stuff was too derivative for her gallery until I told her I was studying under Rushkin.”

“Well, so what?” Alan asked. “Don’t knock it, Izzy. Whatever works, you know? Do you have any idea how hard it is to get your work hung in a good gallery?”

“I know. But still ...”

“And besides. In the long run, people are going to buy the pieces because of what you put into them, because of your talent, not because they’ve got a whiff of Rushkin about them.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I know so. Kathy’s not your only fan.”

“No,” Izzy said. “Just my biggest.”

They both had to smile, thinking of the way Kathy championed the work of her friends, particularly Izzy’s.

“I can’t argue with that,” Alan said.

He unlocked the VW’s passenger door for Izzy, then went around to the driver’s side to get in.

“Wait’ll I tell her,” Izzy said, her excitement returning as she thought of how Kathy would react. She slipped into her seat and banged the door shut. “She is just going to die.”

“Now, that’s better. For a minute there I thought you’d lost all sense of perspective.”

“Oh, but didn’t you hear what Albina had to say back there?” Izzy said cheerfully. “My perspective’s particularly my own.”

“I thought she said peculiarly.”

Izzy punched him in the arm.

“Hey,” Alan told her. “Careful of how you treat the driver.”

Izzy stuck out her tongue at him and then sank happily back into her seat for the drive back to the university. Things were still going to be tight when it came to luxuries, but at least she knew she could now afford to get that apartment with Kathy on Waterhouse Street, and that was what was really important. All she’d have to do was sell one of those paintings at the gallery and she’d have her next month’s rent, plus a little to put aside.

Things were definitely looking up.

VI

But the excitement of Albina’s agreeing to hang her work in The Green Man was brought down a second time when Izzy returned to her dorm and looked at the sketch she’d done of Rushkin last year.

Alan had been right. What she held in her hands was a bad caricature of the artist, not a realistically rendered portrait. How could she have gotten so far off base?

Rushkin was homely, but her sketch made him look positively grotesque: a gargoyle in tramp’s clothing. And while it was true that he was short, he wasn’t a dwarf. He slouched a great deal, but he didn’t have a hunched back. His wardrobe was out-of-date, the clothes well-worn, but he wasn’t the tatter-demalion her drawing made him out to be. She’d drawn a raggedy troll, not a Mari.

She cast her mind back to that first sight of him she’d had, feeding the pigeons on the steps of St.