Read Work of Art ~ the Collection for Free Online

monotone pallet lacked the sensual use of color that’s Caswell’s trademark. The paradox with his choice of obvious imagery conflicted with the heart of his art, stripped-down simplicity, a kind of intangible atmosphere and an appearance that deceives, yet still tells the truth.”
    Jonathan arches a brow, and as he pushes back his glasses, I see a spark in his eyes.
    I gesture to the painting in front of us. “In contrast, the work here tonight . . . the juxtaposition of the video monitor’s harsh documentary statement contrasting the lush abstract landscape of the canvas is strict realism that gives way to loose drama.”
    “And . . .” Jonathan prompts me after my dramatic pause.
    “I love it.” I give him a big smile.
    “Indeed.” The edges of his mouth turn up as he nods, and I relax a few degrees, hoping I haven’t made a complete ass out of myself. I want to please him. Jonathan’s undoubtedly extremely smart and clever. He wouldn’t be in the position he is otherwise. We wander from painting to painting as he shares what he thinks works and doesn’t.
    Jonathan pulls me into the third room of the gallery and links his arm with mine. It feels as if I’ve been claimed, and it stirs something inside of me. I focus on being a mix of charming and sophisticated, someone worthy of working for Art+trA.
    Everything seems great until I feel like someone’s watching us, and I look up and see Max stare at me, then at Jonathan, then back to me. He doesn’t even smile, and I notice that there are about five art groupies surrounding him. He’s holding court with a collection of art babes as if he’s the master of their harem. One hands him a shot glass and he downs the contents without hesitation. It doesn’t appear to be his first drink of the night.
    Max’s angry look is strangely attractive. He’s standing tall with tight black jeans and a black turtleneck sweater.
    My violent attraction to him revs up and it pisses me off. Why does he have to be so damn good-looking? I turn back to Jonathan and smile as I study his intense blue eyes.
    He follows my gaze and shakes his head. “Ah, Max. Up to his old tricks—the partying, the women, the attention. I’ve seen this all before with other young artists. Soon they lose their focus and the other stuff becomes more important than their art. It’s the kiss of death in this business,” he says with a condescending tone.
    “Indeed,” I mutter.
    “I always thought there was more to Max. That’s why I haven’t given up on him yet. I’ve been working on a joint project with Taylor and Tiden Press to publish a coffee-table book about his work, but I’m not one hundred percent sure we should. If he doesn’t get a grip, he could be obsolete in a couple of years.”
    Max moves toward us, as if he knew we were talking about him.
    “So, Jonathan, I see you’ve met Ava. She’s the belle of the ball tonight,” he slurs.
    I look up, alarmed.
    Jonathan edges closer to me. “Yes, Max, Ms. Jacobs and I are having a delightful time getting acquainted and discussing your work.”
    “So what’s your conclusion? Is it the best fucking art you’ve ever seen? And don’t tell Jean-Michel Basquiat he inspired me ’cause he can kiss my ass too.”
    Jonathan gives him a disapproving look. “Hardly. Besides, Basquiat’s been dead for over twenty years, but I can certainly use that memorable quote when we interview you for the magazine.”
    “Won’t have time to do interviews. I’ll be too busy entertaining my numerous fans,” Max says loudly and sloppily waves to the girls in the corner.
    My heart falls and I feel sorry for Max as he digs himself in a deep hole. Jonathan is too important a bridge to burn.
    I pull Jonathan aside and whisper, “I’m so sorry for his behavior, Jonathan. Jess warned me earlier that Max got some very bad personal news today. He’s a mess. I’m going to have Joe get him out of here. Can I contact you when I’m back in L.A.?”
    “Are