Zachary Karabashliev - 18% Gray

The militaristic brown texture of her next painting cracked, however, and a piece of the blue California sky shined through. In the following few works, the sky gradually pushed the graphite toward the periphery of the canvas. This series ended abruptly with a white, thickly layered rectangle in oils. After that came two nine-foot squares in black and white, which some saw as an aerial view of burned forests, while others likened to bird feathers. Totems in dark green and dark red followed. Then a series of self portraits — almost black paintings — suggesting female bodies or depicting female torsos in dark rectangles.

In the beginning, Jane Goldstein almost cut her out of the circle of artists she promoted, but, gradually, she became accustomed to Stella’s randomness and eccentricity.

At times, Stella’s interest in painting would cease, and she would spend days reading Anna Karenina , writing in her journals, or doodling in the margins. I’d find her miniature proto-projects scratched onto the back of bills, car insurance forms, or the calendar next to the phone, scribbled down while she was talking to somebody. Sometimes she would spend days searching for the meaning of a single word, like identity, for example. She would dig out everything that could define it — passports, drivers licenses, all sorts of diplomas, marriage licenses, birth certificates, credit cards, library cards, and just about every form of identification — and would arrange all these in a certain order that made sense to her.

Other times, she would concentrate her entire attention on a single number. Or a symbol. Or a letter. During these periods, she didn’t go to her studio and we spent more time together. Then the appetite for work would take over again, and she’d disappear into her creations.

The labels describing her work varied from neo-abstract expressionism, through late postmodern minimalism, to meditative realism. Those — isms, of course, had nothing to do with her.

After summer break, Stella quit her job and dedicated all of her time and energy to painting.

The curator of S gallery in L.A. invited her to join a project with two video artists. For it, she created an installation made of 274 white sheets — the idea came from a dream of clothes hung on a line to dry. The curator of the Museum of Contemporary Art in Seattle included her in an exhibition with her series entitled On Kinkade , which consisted of twelve paintings rendered over Thomas Kinkade reproductions, which Stella had salvaged from a dumpster behind an office building. She kept their melodramatic titles— The End of a Perfect Day, Home Is Where the Heart Is, The Light of Calmness, Last Autumn Morning and then covered them with a thick layer of charcoal and paint.

More and more circled dates started to appear in her calendar.

Things were happening for her. “If something has to happen, it will,” she’d say. “If it doesn’t, then it wasn’t supposed to.”

Then came the job offer from the Los Angeles Art Institute. Before she accepted, however, she asked for two weeks to think things over. She bought a plane ticket to New York with an open return.

Her last year with me was a year of things-come-true. The biggest thing, however, was yet to come.

*

I enter Columbus at dusk. I park in the familiar driveway, get out of the car, and am just about to ring the doorbell as Ken opens the door and hugs me.

“Zack!” He pulls away a little, then hugs me again. “Come on in. How was the drive? Here, here. . I’m sorry about the mess, but I had to call a plumber to fix the pipe that broke off behind that thing.” I don’t see any mess except one old cabinet that’s been slightly moved. In Ken’s world, perhaps, this is a major event. “Let me close the door, so the cats stay out.” I sit down just as I used to — on one of the bar stools. “Do you have any luggage?” he asks as he opens the refrigerator.

“I have a bag in the trunk of my car. I’ll get it in a minute.” I stretch my shoulders, stiff from the long drive.

“How about a beer first?” He lifts a brow.

“Oh, you’re drinking these days?” I’m surprised.

“Only on special occasions. And only beer.” A couple of glasses appear on the bar. Two green bottles go bottoms up.

“I’m flattered.” We raise our glasses for a toast. There are very few things, I do believe, better than the first sip of good beer. I close my eyes to stretch the moment as long as I can.

“So, tell me, what’s going on with you?” Ken smiles.

I have no idea where to start or end my story. “You go first. How are you?”

“OK. I’m OK.” Ken looks at the edge of the counter for a moment.

“How are things with Linda?” I finish what’s left in my glass.

“Fine.” Ken gets up and brings two more beers. “She’s the best thing that ever happened to me, Zack.”

“Then why don’t you live together already?” I ask the question that is likely on everybody’s mind. “What are you waiting for?” Since Stella left, I’ve obviously forgotten some of my manners. Ken tops us off again. We look at each other over the foam in our glasses. He sighs and tears his eyes away. I drink.

“We almost did.”

“So?”

“I fucked up.”

“What do you mean, you fucked up?” I take a look around. It’s been a while since I’ve been here. God, everything looks so. . bachelory. I bet that nothing has changed since Ken bought the place. It has been left untouched for years and is poorly lit. I feel the urge to jump off my stool and pull down the old curtains, peel off the appalling wallpaper, cut the ugly sofas to pieces, and knock out most of the walls.

“She was going to move in with me here, right? So, before she. . well, the night before that. .” Ken stops and swallows hard. “I got really drunk the night before.” He looks at me with the blue eyes of an alcoholic. “I drank till I got shit-faced. Alone. Here. And I felt so lonely — I almost went out of my mind. And I couldn’t stand another second without her. So I decided to convince her to move in earlier.” He pauses. “Can you imagine? I get drunk alone, here, at this very counter. So, I’m talking to my cats and one of them — that one, the black one, she is the devil , I swear — makes me go and bring home my fiancée. I swear. The black one made me do it.” I glance at the cat on the other side of the glass door. The animal opens its mouth, meowing soundlessly, throwing green looks at us. It really is demonic. I figure that if I had to spend months and years in this brown, gloomy house, I, too, would start listening to what cats had to say to me. “So, I get in my car and drive to her apartment in the middle of the night. I ring the doorbell. She answers the door — who knows what she was thinking. I stagger, reach out and try to kiss her and take her home with me, but I lose my balance and land on the floor, facedown. You get the picture?” I nod. “Months passed before we revived the relationship. I don’t think it’s the same, you know. The trust is not there anymore somehow, but on the whole. .”

“Listen, man!” I clear my throat, imitating deep thought. I know one thing about Ken for sure. In his head, Stella — whom he’s never seen — and I are the perfect couple. Everybody thought that. Until two weeks ago. At this moment, though, Ken doesn’t know that we are not the perfect couple. Hell, he doesn’t even know that we are not a couple at all. The only thing that’s left of us is me, whatever is left of me. But at this moment, Ken doesn’t know any of that. He still believes in me, in us. “You have no reason, whatsoever, to be ashamed of what you’ve done.” I cut directly to the point. “You shouldn’t think too much.” Now, I have to continue with a personal example. “For example, at Stella’s birthday party — the first one we celebrated together — I got so drunk that I shat myself!” I take a sip of my beer. “I mean, literally. Don’t even ask.” Ken bursts out laughing. “That’s right. In my pants. It’s not funny. . Well, it is funny now, I mean, but it wasn’t funny then. I shat myself. Right in my pants. So please stop talking about screw ups. You are cool, so if somebody doesn’t appreciate you, it’s their loss.” Several beers later, we’re more relaxed and cheerful. We drink ten bottles each, so we need to pee every half-hour. I stop caring about the brown interior, as well as some other things. Here we are — two losers in Ken’s brown house, drinking beer, keeping the cats out.