The Prodigal
Fourteen
“SO, WHERE ARE WE GOING?” I asked as we piled into the car. I was thankful that Erika had agreed to let us take our driver rather than her VW minibus. That thing had to be forty years old.
“I have to tell you a little family history or you won’t understand,” Erika said. “Opa immigrated to the U.S. in the early fifties to work in the printing industry. He met a graphic artist at the company—a big, beautiful, blonde Swedish girl who became my grandmother. Their daughter, Ilsa, was a rebellious child of the late sixties. She protested and marched, and was even found chained to a tree in a national forest where they were going to log. That’s where she met Stew, my father. He’s a short dark half-Cherokee. A few years later, I came along and turned out short like my father, but blonde like my mother. I was obsessed with printing from the first time I saw a press. I’ve been apprenticed to Opa for six years now. As long as he’ll keep me, I’ll stay with him. One day I want to take over his shop as a master printer.”
“Wow, Erika. Will you continue to do all my printmaking?” I asked. She looked at me with her mouth open.
“You’d trust me to do that?”
“You’ve got ink in your veins and no one else in the country will come close to what you and your grandfather do. Right Kate?”
“I’ve already asked her to do mine,” Kate laughed. “What did you think all the girl-talk was about? How good a lover you are?”
“Well, that did come up,” Erika said. “Don’t worry. The reports were favorable.” Now I was blushing.
“Um… all this is interesting, but how does it bear on what we’re doing today and where we are going?”
“Oh yeah,” Erika continued. “I’m one-quarter Cherokee and that officially makes me a Native American. Mom and Dad weren’t going to let me escape to the city without doing everything they could to instill respect for my Native American roots. We’re going to a powwow.”
There was nothing I could have chosen for a special day with Kate that was better than being immersed in the culture, drumming, and dancing of a Cherokee powwow. The tribal grounds were about a hundred miles north of Columbus. If we’d been smart, we would have packed our bags and gone straight from the powwow to Atlanta to catch our flight the next day, but our tickets were written from Columbus and neither Kate nor I had any idea how much fun we’d have or for how long we would be caught up in the event.
We met Erika’s mother and father, Ilsa and Stewart Redhawk. Turns out that even though Erika uses her grandfather’s last name at work, her real name is Erika Strauss Redhawk. What a trip! Erika and her mother were the only blonde dancers at the powwow. They were well-known among the others, though. I got lost in the rhythms of the drumming for a couple of hours while I sketched the environment and the dancers. This was a world akin to meeting Kate’s family for the first time. I finally understood why I’d been told to wear jeans and a button-down shirt. Jeans were the uniform, but all the guys there were dressed up on top, many in western wear and some in various renditions of native costume. Of course, those who danced were dressed in completely traditional costumes, including Erika. Kate seemed to fit right in, dressed in one of her gypsy outfits.
When I saw them together, Erika had an arm around Kate and was showing her some of the dance steps. The two were laughing and having a great time. I snapped a picture just to be sure I had a reference, and busily sketched what I was seeing. I was seeing more than one girl teaching another to dance. I was seeing two people connecting. Little touches, quick embraces, and a kiss on the cheek when a step was learned. I was watching Kate capture another in her charm.
Both ladies were flushed when they made their way back to me and started looking at the drawings I’d done. When they got to the one of the two of them dancing, I got a huge kiss from Kate. Erika giggled. Kate looked at her and tilted her head toward me. That was apparently Erika’s cue because I was crushed beneath the blonde’s soft lips. We were panting when she let go and broke up in giggles.
There were a few booths selling everything from beads to flatbread and barbecued pork. We had plenty to eat and Kate and Erika led me to the trading post to outfit me in a new hat. I had never pictured myself in a cowboy hat, but this one was dark brown straw with a shapeable brim and a leather headband with a feather medallion on the front. When I put it on, both girls nodded their approval.
As the sun went down, the fires were lit and the dancing took on what I called a spiritual aspect. I sat on a log bench with Kate on my lap and Erika snuggled up tight against us. I had an arm around each of them, and the two held hands in front of us. Every once in a while, I’d feel a pair of lips brush against my cheek or neck. Occasionally, they leaned in to whisper to each other and share a soft kiss, careful not to attract attention to us. It was ten when we made our way back to the car and our driver took us back to Columbus—the three of us wrapped around each other and sleeping in the backseat.
Kate and I didn’t sleep anymore after we got back to the hotel at midnight. Erika had the driver drop her off at home, but didn’t leave us until she’d given each of us a deep kiss, accompanied by a little light petting. When we got to the hotel, Kate and I made love practically before the door closed behind us. We whispered to each other, rising to a peak and subsiding, only to rise again. More than once, Erika’s name was included in our whispers. It had the desired effect on each of us. We were still making love when our wake-up call came in the morning.
There were only two weeks of school left when we got back to Seattle Sunday night and then a week of finals. Kate and I had a lot of catching up to do before we left for our respective showings. My show was set to open in three weeks in New York. Kate’s was set for the same Friday night in San Francisco. As soon as my show was installed, Clarice would leave New York for Kate’s show. It was going to be a wild rush and I couldn’t help but wonder how this would work in the future. I had a sad feeling in the back of my gut when I thought that Kate and I might never be able to attend each other’s openings. I’d have to talk with Clarice about how we were scheduled.
Doc was enthusiastic about our return and had us conduct two classes to describe our experiences in lieu of a final in printmaking. We’d brought some samples back with us so we could do show and tell. We’d each rescued a set of rejects for one of our prints. When they were pinned up on a wall in Doc’s studio, we could go through the colors as they’d been pulled and show what it was that caused the rejection at that stage. We also circled the flaws right on the prints so that they couldn’t be salvaged and sold. Gerhardt had insisted that we do that before we took the prints from the shop.
We’d only signed the printer’s proofs and artist’s proofs of our exhibition work while we were in Georgia. That meant a huge crate of unsigned prints arrived at our studio on Wednesday. Before they got there, we had to build a work table big enough to spread out on and keep our prints stacked and in order. On Saturday, Doc and Clarice came to the studio to supervise the signing and handle the prints. I suppose it’s counter-intuitive, but signing fine art prints is done with a plain old pencil. Of course, no one uses a stick of wood anymore. We used mechanical pencils with 0.7mm HB lead for our signing.
We all wore cotton gloves and when each batch of prints was opened, the stack was placed on the table in front of us in the order they were printed. Doc and Clarice counted each stack to verify that there were seventy-five unsigned prints. They’d hand us one print from the stack and count out loud, though quietly. I’d write the number in the lower left corner, just below the print area, and then sign in the lower right corner. By Saturday night, Kate and I had each signed our names close to a thousand times. The prints were all sorted and stacked. For now, all the artist’s proofs and edition number 1 of 75 were crated and sent to the vault. Our anonymous investor would receive his full set of prints after we got the rest of them from Georgia. The selection of prints we were sending to our first shows was limited. The galleries would receive only what we chose to call Suite Number One—the first five paintings. They also received a limited number of them. Each gallery received two complete suites numbered 6 and 7 of 75. These could only be sold as a complete set. They received five additional sets, randomly selected from numbers 16-75. These twenty-five prints could not be sold as a matched set, but only individually. An additional six prints selected from the other suites would also be shown. We’d managed to get several giclée prints of our earlier work signed before we left for Georgia in editions of 200 that were to be offered at just $100 each. Half a dozen of those prints would be exhibited.
The galleries had been shipped twelve of our original paintings, and in the case of my opening also received the huge central painting of Bacchanalia. That painting was to be offered at $100,000.
“No one is going to pay a hundred grand for one of my paintings!” I said. “Even the benefit painting of the mural only went for fifty. Why is this one being priced so high?”
“That’s the point,” Clarice said. “You are showing only twelve oils from the suite. They are priced at a healthy premium, too, but well within the range of serious art buyers. You’ll sell a few. If you are lucky, maybe half. We don’t want the big piece to be sold yet. You’ll have several more exhibitions in which you’ll show it surrounded by the more accessible smaller pieces. Eventually, someone will see the value of the master work and pony-up the full amount. By then, though, you will have earned several thousand dollars on the prints and even more on the smaller works. You’ll have built up a stock of new paintings that we can continue to release in multiple galleries. Part of the purpose of releasing fine art prints is so we don’t wipe out your stock of paintings for the next showing. After your New York and San Francisco openings, we’re going to have galleries calling and asking for an individual piece from the catalog and a selection of prints. The serious collectors of the art world will start paying attention as well.”
“Wow.” Kate and I spoke at the same time. Our eyes were a little glazed over with all the information. We were artists. We painted pictures. We knew absolutely nothing about the business of the art world. Thank God we had Clarice. And now we each had a good selection of paintings and prints in the vault.
Under Dr. Bychkova’s guidance, I had also created a story that went with Bacchanalia. My final in his class was to present it as a slide show with narration. It was the best final I had. It was natural to tell the story of the party that suddenly went awry when everyone’s clothes fell off. It was a funny story and wouldn’t win any writing awards, but it followed the same path as my focal points.
We finished the semester. All our professors were collaborating to make sure we were clear to leave on Wednesday.
Tuesday night found the whole family packed and ready to go. Melody was coming to New York with me. Lissa and Wendy were headed to San Francisco with Kate. Clarice was already in New York supervising the installation and as soon as we were there and briefed, I’d take over that end and Clarice would fly to San Francisco to support Kate. At the same time, Bob Bowers, our local art critic and supporter, was in San Francisco to supervise the installation of Kate’s artwork until she got there. While Clarice was flying to SFO, she’d pass Bob in the air headed for JFK. One way or another, Kate and I would be supported by at least one family member and a professional in the art world. I was coming to appreciate my large family more and more.
“You two will have such fun in San Francisco,” I said as I lay between Wendy and Kate. “I’m so glad you can travel together this time.”
“I’m too excited to sleep,” Kate whined, mimicking a five-year-old on a popular television ad.
“Who says you’re going to get to sleep?” I asked. “It’s the last night I have with my Tiger and my Kitten until we get to Nebraska.”
That’s when everything went to hell.
Kate got out of bed and knelt on the floor, knees apart, hands clasped behind her back.
“Kate! What the fuck? What are you doing?”
“I’m taking my position as your slave. You called us your Tiger and your Kitten. I’m just doing what you want.”
“You are not doing anything I want. Shit! How the hell could you imagine that?” I was out of bed and pacing around the room. I could see Wendy cowering under the covers. Kate finally stood up and faced me. She was red in the face and looked as angry as I was.
“It’s what you want from Wendy. Why wouldn’t you want the same from me? I’ve read all about dominant and submissive. I love you, too. I’ll do whatever you want.”
“I don’t want that from Wendy,” I said. “You of all people should know that. What I have with Wendy is what she wants—what she needs. I love you both and I do my best to be what both of you need and want. But you are not a submissive person, Kate. I’ve never asked that of you. I will never ask it of you. And if that means I can’t call you Kitten, I’ll never say it again. I’m sorry.” I was shaking. I wanted to just sit down and bawl, but I was too angry to let tears come to my eyes. Jesus Fucking Christ. How could Kate of all people do this? She was standing there looking at me defiantly. I watched the realization cross her face and her eyes dropped away from mine.
“I’m sorry, Tony. I didn’t mean to offend you. I just thought…”
“It wasn’t an offense to me, Kate. Look.” I pointed her to the bed. “You mocked Wendy. She’s the one you hurt.” Kate gasped. Wendy was crying. I turned and walked out the door.
END PART I
Comments
Please feel free to send comments to the author at devon@devonlayne.com.
