The Colorman by Erika Wood Page A

asked.
    â€œI’m sure it just comes with the place,” Rain said.
    â€œThat’s right,” Gwen said, heading up the stairs at her usual quick clip.
    It was the first door on the fifth floor. The flight above was just a small landing and a door onto the rooftop. Gwen worked her way through the array of keys and pushed in the door to the freshly painted space. It smelled of spackle and latex and looked like a miniature of a Hitchcock set. One of those north-facing, slanted walls of paned windows with a narrow balcony outside it. The view of the airshaft was nothing to speak of, but the wall of windows itself was breathtaking. The interior space was tiny. About ten by twelve feet. There was running water, a small counter over a cabinet, and a bar-sized refrigerator.
    â€œGwen!” Rain breathed as she walked into it.
    Karl followed silently.
    â€œGwen, it’s so beautiful!” Rain exclaimed.
    Gwen walked over to the easel that Rain hadn’t even noticed yet. It reached right up almost to the top of the ten-foot ceiling. Well oiled and substantial, it had a metal rack arching overhead with three spotlights fixed on it. A high tripod with a board atop it and an adjustable padded stool stood with it. “It’s used,” Gwen said, smiling. “That’s good luck.”
    â€œOh, my…” Rain stammered, struck speechless as she examined the complicated workings of the easel, taking in the impossible perfection of this little space. A tall set of shelves stood by the door on a short expanse of wal , but the other two wal s were left bare. Another bank of spotlights dropped down on wires from the ceiling in front of the easel, which could be swiveled in any direction. Rain tried the light switches. “Gwen!” Rain said again.
    Karl shook his head.
    Gwen opened the little refrigerator and retrieved a half bottle of Veuve Cliquot from it. The little fridge was stacked tight with water bottles, this thoroughness being a Gwen trademark. Two plastic champagne flutes stood on the counter. “You two can share one,” Gwen said, working the wires on the top.
    Karl let out a little laugh. He sat on the stool, swiveling back and forth. “Don’t you think she should be sure this was what she wants first?”
    â€œI have no idea what you mean, Karl,” Gwen said dryly as she handed Rain a glass of champagne.
    â€œI mean, she quit art school to work for you and suddenly a studio? Studios don’t make the work, artists do.”
    â€œKarl…” Rain said.
    â€œNo, Karl,” Gwen said. “Artists who are more than just conceptualists, and even sometimes those, need space in which to work. They are, after all, dealing with the corporeal. Objects take up space.”
    Rain interrupted them. “It’s more than I ever dreamed of, Gwen. Thank you so much!”
    Gwen didn’t look at Rain and said, “You do good work in here,” with a pleased smile on her face.
    â€œIs there a bathroom?” Karl asked.
    â€œIn the hall,” Gwen replied.
    â€œI just hope it doesn’t jinx her,” Karl said.
    â€œThe bathroom?” Rain asked.
    â€œThe big, intimidating studio,” Karl said, mock innocently. “It’s like the prize before the work has begun.”
    â€œThese are tools…” Gwen began, in a tired voice.
    â€œI’ll be fine, Karl,” Rain interrupted her. “You’ll see.”
    Much to Karl’s pressed-mouth surprise, Rain worked long hours in her studio. In a strange way that she didn’t like to acknowledge to herself, Karl’s disapproval fueled her focus and perseverance. It provided something her father’s uncritical and constant approval didn’t; motivation and a desire to prove herself. Really, she thought she was trying to prove herself to her father who so unwaveringly approved of everything about her, that she almost felt selfish in her push to achieve