public, critics…”
The artist looked frustrated. “Maddie, what do you know about the creative process?” It could have been said with rancour, but Sommers’ gentle demeanour softened the implicit criticism.
“Not much, I admit.”
Sommers took a quick swallow of whisky. I could tell by the unsteadiness of his hand that he’d had a few. “When I create,” he said, “I put everything into the process. It’s what I am. It’s the only thing that makes existence meaningful. I dig deep into myself, what I feel and think, and out it comes—and the catharsis, the sense of accomplishment, is blissful… just so long as I know in my heart that I’ve been true to myself.”
“Are you trying to say—”
“Of course I am,” he said with infinite weariness. “I’ve been turning out lies for a couple of years now. If I quantify personal satisfaction by the quality of the work I produce, then I honestly don’t know why I go on.”
Maddie shook her head, shocked. “Go on creating your art?”
He stared at her, and I was suddenly uncomfortable. “Go on living,” he said.
A silence sealed over his words, a lengthening awkwardness not one of us knew how to break.
Then Sommers said. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get all maudlin.” “But Matt,” Maddie said, “your work is far, far better than most artists working today.”
“That doesn’t make it good. I can do far better.”
Maddie reached out, her pale hand hovering over his. But she remembered herself, and quickly withdrew. “I think you’re being needlessly harsh—” she began.
“If you think I’m lying to you, Maddie, then go on—touch me. Go on, take my hand. You’ll see then, won’t you?” There was bitterness in his voice, a challenge in his eyes.
Maddie winced and looked away.
I just stared at them both, mystified. I wondered if the alcohol had affected me, and I had missed something vital that would have made the exchange comprehensible.
Sommers whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Maddie stood up quickly and strode to the curving cover of the dome, staring up at the Ring.
“Dammit!” Sommers swore under his breath.
He banged down his empty glass and lurched from his seat. For a second I thought he was about to cross to Maddie, apologise. Instead he headed for the spiral staircase and stumbled down, gripping the central rail and almost sliding down and around.
When he was gone, I said to Hawk, “What the hell was all that about?”
Hawk shrugged. “You know artists…”
“No, I mean about Maddie touching him?”
“Ask Maddie when she’s in a better mood, David.” To Maddie he called, “Okay, Mad? Look, come and finish your drink. Matt’ll get over it. He’s going through a lean period. Next time you see him, he’ll be all smiles and optimism.”
Maddie turned and stared at us bleakly. “You really think so?”
“Sure,” Hawk said, far from convincingly.
Maddie returned to the table and took up her mug. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen him this low. You heard what he said about going on living.”
“He was exaggerating for effect. He was drunk, for chrissake.”
She looked at Hawk. “But you don’t know him as well as I do.You don’t know what happened before he came to Chalcedony.” She stopped there, as if she had said too much.
Hawk said, “What was that, Maddie?”
She shook her head, but ignored the question. She took a long swallow of gin. “Christ, I’m drunk. What a mess, what a bloody awful mess it all is! I’m going home!” And she stood unsteadily and weaved her way between the tables.
We hurried after her, down the stairs and out into the clement, scented night.
We walked along the sea-front, around the bay.
“I’ll give you a lift, Maddie,” Hawk said.
She murmured a thank you.
I said, “I’m having a house-warming in a few days. Or should that be a ship-warming? Why don’t you both come along for dinner?”
Maddie looked at me. “Would you invite Matt, too?”
“Of
The artist looked frustrated. “Maddie, what do you know about the creative process?” It could have been said with rancour, but Sommers’ gentle demeanour softened the implicit criticism.
“Not much, I admit.”
Sommers took a quick swallow of whisky. I could tell by the unsteadiness of his hand that he’d had a few. “When I create,” he said, “I put everything into the process. It’s what I am. It’s the only thing that makes existence meaningful. I dig deep into myself, what I feel and think, and out it comes—and the catharsis, the sense of accomplishment, is blissful… just so long as I know in my heart that I’ve been true to myself.”
“Are you trying to say—”
“Of course I am,” he said with infinite weariness. “I’ve been turning out lies for a couple of years now. If I quantify personal satisfaction by the quality of the work I produce, then I honestly don’t know why I go on.”
Maddie shook her head, shocked. “Go on creating your art?”
He stared at her, and I was suddenly uncomfortable. “Go on living,” he said.
A silence sealed over his words, a lengthening awkwardness not one of us knew how to break.
Then Sommers said. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get all maudlin.” “But Matt,” Maddie said, “your work is far, far better than most artists working today.”
“That doesn’t make it good. I can do far better.”
Maddie reached out, her pale hand hovering over his. But she remembered herself, and quickly withdrew. “I think you’re being needlessly harsh—” she began.
“If you think I’m lying to you, Maddie, then go on—touch me. Go on, take my hand. You’ll see then, won’t you?” There was bitterness in his voice, a challenge in his eyes.
Maddie winced and looked away.
I just stared at them both, mystified. I wondered if the alcohol had affected me, and I had missed something vital that would have made the exchange comprehensible.
Sommers whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Maddie stood up quickly and strode to the curving cover of the dome, staring up at the Ring.
“Dammit!” Sommers swore under his breath.
He banged down his empty glass and lurched from his seat. For a second I thought he was about to cross to Maddie, apologise. Instead he headed for the spiral staircase and stumbled down, gripping the central rail and almost sliding down and around.
When he was gone, I said to Hawk, “What the hell was all that about?”
Hawk shrugged. “You know artists…”
“No, I mean about Maddie touching him?”
“Ask Maddie when she’s in a better mood, David.” To Maddie he called, “Okay, Mad? Look, come and finish your drink. Matt’ll get over it. He’s going through a lean period. Next time you see him, he’ll be all smiles and optimism.”
Maddie turned and stared at us bleakly. “You really think so?”
“Sure,” Hawk said, far from convincingly.
Maddie returned to the table and took up her mug. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen him this low. You heard what he said about going on living.”
“He was exaggerating for effect. He was drunk, for chrissake.”
She looked at Hawk. “But you don’t know him as well as I do.You don’t know what happened before he came to Chalcedony.” She stopped there, as if she had said too much.
Hawk said, “What was that, Maddie?”
She shook her head, but ignored the question. She took a long swallow of gin. “Christ, I’m drunk. What a mess, what a bloody awful mess it all is! I’m going home!” And she stood unsteadily and weaved her way between the tables.
We hurried after her, down the stairs and out into the clement, scented night.
We walked along the sea-front, around the bay.
“I’ll give you a lift, Maddie,” Hawk said.
She murmured a thank you.
I said, “I’m having a house-warming in a few days. Or should that be a ship-warming? Why don’t you both come along for dinner?”
Maddie looked at me. “Would you invite Matt, too?”
“Of
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