Those Who Disappeared by Kevin Wignall

Author:Kevin Wignall [Wignall, Kevin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2021-03-14T16:00:00+00:00

Eighteen

Foster was once again immersed in the new painting, but this time there was no doubt in his mind—this was a glacial landscape he was working on. He was feeling his way into it and across the canvas, feeling the hidden crevasses, feeling the cold, the isolation.

He continued to work the landscape, always aware of what he was not painting—the small, lonely figure at its center. He’d fought against the idea for a while, thinking it clichéd to respond to the discovery of his father’s body by painting something so obviously representative. Worse than clichéd, was it exploitative, a brazen play for sympathy?

He thought of the Comic Sans writer—still picturing some anonymous failed artist rather than Polly or even her husband—and how they’d predicted in one of the notes that he would use and exploit the discovery of his father’s body. It was an easy accusation to make, an impossible one to refute.

And yet he had to paint it, even knowing full well that the critics would laud it and the naysayers would join together in a Comic Sans chorus. So there would be a figure, in time, but for now he wanted only to paint the landscape itself, the ice.

He’d been working on and off for the last twenty-four hours. He hadn’t been to see Sigrid yet, despite wanting to find the time. He hadn’t eaten or slept properly. He hadn’t thought any more about his father’s journal or the person missing from the photograph of the Piranesi Society. He’d only painted.

It was just after eleven in the morning when the studio door opened and Werner, Foster’s Berlin gallerist, came in. Foster stopped what he was doing, stepped back, then turned to face him.

Whereas Claudia was a no-nonsense powerhouse, the kind of person who could clear her throat and reduce a room to silence, Werner had the demeanor of an academic specializing in an obscure subject. He always wore a tweed jacket and tortoiseshell glasses. But it was a deceptive look, lulling people into underestimating him, because when it came to business, Werner was just as tough as Claudia.

“Morning, Werner.”

Werner acknowledged the greeting, but said, “Why are you painting at this time of day?”

“Came back from New York, day before yesterday.”

“Of course.” He pointed at the glacial wastes of the canvas Foster was working on. “I like that. I like it very much. How many figures are you thinking of?”

“Originally, three, almost filling the canvas. Now I can think only of one small figure, lost right in the middle of it. And I know that might be seen as a predictable response, so it’s possible this one’ll get nixed before the show.”

Werner shook his head. “Since when did you care what other people think? Your instincts are always good, so if you want to paint a solo figure, you do that.” He turned to look at some of the other canvases. “Are all of these finished? They all look finished to me.”

Foster pointed and said, “Those three on that wall, I guess I’m done with.

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