EMPE Chapter One (Pages 1-3)

Empe
Chapter One

“Why is she using her own blood to paint?”, the teenage girl asked, her young eyes absorbing the macabre nature of this work.

“It’s a metaphor.”, Peter Gallagher explained, “She is literally putting her very life into her work. Also, her work is killing her, and she could stop at any time, but then again, she can’t. Nothing else gives her the same release.”

“It’s creepy.”

“I agree.” Peter confirmed. He felt that very way when he painted it.

“Mister Gallagher, it is time sir.”, a museum volunteer, a steward spoke up, as management called them, as if giving them a more refined name mattered.

“Thank you.” Peter said.

“Are you the man who did these?”, the girl was surprised, but why shouldn’t she be, after all his picture wasn’t up anywhere to proclaim his identity.

“I am.” Peter said leaving with the steward.

“I like them.” She called out after him, but got no reply. Turning to another painting, she began taking that one in as well, sometimes squinting to see if that would help.

Halfway across the Roosevelt Museum Peter Gallagher took his place behind the podium and looked out into the crowd. The intense lighting made it difficult to see more than outlines and silhouettes in the audience. Still, he gave his speech as if talking to a friend over coffee.

“Thank you all for coming to this gala.” Peter said modestly. “Today’s pieces are the culmination of three years of intense work, and I have been informed all originals have been purchases, so I thank you again for your generosity.” Thunderous applause filled the room. It echoed around the cavernous room with careless abandon. “As always the largest part of those donations go to a good cause, the Infinity Project, my favorite charity, so that very soon, all children will not have to wonder if they will have food that day...”

Again the applause erupted, even more forcefully than before, and Peter knew he had them all enthralled. Public speaking came easy to him, and people generally loved him, well, they loved the idea of contributing to these causes. It made them feel better about themselves, without having to do any real labor. He continued eloquently for the full twenty minutes, then bowed out of the room, leaving before he had overstayed his welcome. Besides that, there was some Champaign out there calling his name.

Peter paced the showcase once last time, before leaving. These ten pieces would hang for a week long run, then they would be lowered, crated, and shipped to their new owners. He would likely never see them again, yet he would never forget what each one of them looked like. With Gallagher’s name on them, it was sure fire thing they would sell. That had more to do with his fame, than the prices, which were obscene even to Peter. When people bought a Gallagher, they reveled in what Artistry magazine called “devilish, unique, and sublime”. Because while all of his works were unmistakable Gallaghers, they all had distinct styles and construction. He took never dipping from the same inkwell to extremes.

“Peter?”, a feeble voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Hello, madam Tierney.” He said with a fake smile plastered instantly across his face.

“Hello.” she smiled back, No one in the world, not even Peter himself, had as many original Peter Gallaghers handing on their walls as Ida Tierney.

“I told you to call me Ida.”, she chastised in the most grandmotherly, good-natured way.

“Ida.”, Peter conceded. “How may I help you?”

“I bought three of your paintings this week.”, her fragile voice sounded as if it were such a burden, as if speaking was more of a monumental effort than it was practically worth.

“I noticed.”, Peter said, “You have always been so generous.”

“I still want you to paint my portrait.”, she asked.

“Misses Tierney, we have been over this.”, Peter resumed his formalism, “I don’t do that sort of work.”

“I will pay anything.”, and she was as much as anyone able to carry through on that word.

“It isn’t a matter of money.”, Peter explained. “We have been over this, before.”

“You’ll give in eventually.” Ida said in still the most pleasing way.

“Good bye Misses Tierney.”

“Good bye.”

* * *
At three in the morning, Peter began fumbling with his condo keys.

At three ten, he finally managed to unlock the door.

Staggering to the main window, he leaned his body weight on the window mullion and looked out over New York City. Being fifty stories up, he didn’t hear the noises that typified the ‘big apple’, instead he was assaulted by the black blanked dotted with blinking lights. The man made tapestry of stars cascaded as far as he could see outward, but sadly so few appeared above.

Certain now he was not going to vomit, nor pass out, Gallagher moved to his studio, and pulled out a fresh canvas. It was time to get to work.

The wisps were there, the tendrils of images, trying to emerge from his mind. He had but to concentrate, and let them flood over him completely. He breathed only through his nose, imaging as always the blank canvas before him. Clutched tightly in one hand, he held a charcoal pencil, the other felt the canvas itself. The imperfection of the surface sang to him, in stark contrast to ‘reality’ now he was alive. Suddenly, with perfect clarity, an image came to mind.

With broad strokes at first, his eyes shut for the whole process, Peter scrawled one harsh line after another over the fabric. The randomness of the lines soon transformed, coalesced into a readily discernable image.

* * *
Saul Banks was nearly finished reading the paper. Outside the coffee shop the street bustled as usual, the citizens of the world’s greatest city frantically moving about like blood through veins. Stone realized he was the observer, and did not object. His life was about objectifying, labeling, sorting through the muck to find the treasure.

“I must be late.” Peter said sliding into his chair across from Saul.

Brenda poured him some coffee. “The usual?”

“The usual.” Peter smiled back at Brenda.

“Is it because you actually got some sleep?”, Saul asked. “Or because you were working?”

“Which would you prefer?”, Peter asked.

“Since you are still wearing your sunglasses, I’m going to guess it was because you were working.”

“Don’t ride me today.” Peter said, “I made a new one. It’s brilliant.”

“They’re all brilliant.” Saul smiled. “But if you die of exhaustion, I’ll have to spend all your money for you, and we wouldn’t want that.”

Peter laughed. Saul could always make him relax. The two had been friends for years, and partners in business even longer. Saul’s talent was spotting it in others, and Saul could ‘push’ you to do your best, and instead of hating him for it, you felt indebted. Twenty percent indebted to be perfectly honest. “No we wouldn’t want that.”
At that moment his plate of jelly and toast was set before him.

“When are you going to start eating like a grown-up?”, Saul asked, his own plate stained with sausage grease and a few flakes of eggs, was taken away.

“When I grow up.”, Peter took a long sip of his coffee.

“Ida called. Twice She called me looking for you.” Saul’s smile went from genuine, to I-am-not-amused. “I had to speak with her for a half hour before I could hang up, and then for a full hour after she talked to you.”

“We’ve had this conversation before.” Peter said, his voice firm.

“She is rich.”, Saul replied, “Not just rich. Uber-rich! Ultra rich! Capital R, I, C, H. RICH!”

“Money is not the only reason to do something.”, Peter tried to explain to his friend once more. “It’s a means to an end.”

“And what end did you have in mind?”, Saul said.

That was how their conversation typically went, and as usual, Peter just went quiet and stirred in some more sugar into his coffee. Saul, as usual, frustrated, gave up. “As much as I like you, man, I just don’t get you.”

“Where would it stop?”, Peter asked. “Someone’s kid next? Someone’s pet?”

“Where did you get all this artistic integrity?”, Saul wondered. “You draw the darkest side of life you can conjure, and you do it well, don’t get me wrong. Just what is the big deal?”

Peter said nothing, chewing violently on his toast.

“You think you’re big time, don’t you?”, Saul realized. “You want to be Van Gogh, or Rembrandt, or something like that, isn’t it? Oh, perfect. Now I’ve got you figured out. Wow, I knew you had some pride, but this is ...” Saul searched for the word, “unfathomable.”

Peter was ready to tell Saul off, but instead refrained from lashing out. This time he confessed. “Saul, I couldn’t do it if I wanted to, I don’t have the talent.”

“Don’t have the talent?”, Saul repeated in disbelief. “What in the WORLD does that mean?”

“It means when I see what I am painting, it doesn’t come from my eyes.” Peter paused. “It come from, here. My heart.”

“You aren’t making much sense. When did you sleep last?”, Saul asked.

“Don’t get started on that.”, Peter didn’t want to go into this either. When did talking with Saul become so fraught with land minds of topics to avoid?

“WHEN?” Saul was not going to be swayed.

“This morning.” Peter said, “I got thirty, forty minutes.”

“Oh, wow. A record.” Saul frowned. “Have you looked for a doctor yet?”

“I, uh.” Peter stammered. “No.”

“I’ll do it for you. What’s an agent for anyway? At this level of the game, your name does all my work for me, anyhow.” Saul dropped a twenty on the table. “I have to go. I am going to make you an appointment, and you will keep it.”

“Alright, alright.” Peter would do anything to change this conversation’s topic. “You don’t with this?” He pointed to the paper.

“Knock yourself out.” Saul said, and walked away.