Every Saturday, we’ll be posting a new illustration by David Lester. The Mecca Normal guitarist is visually documenting people, places and events from his band’s 28-year run, with text by vocalist Jean Smith.
“I have to go, but I’ll be back later,” Martin said.
Nadine took this to mean that he wanted get the hell away from her and her outlandish idea about him having a solo show. He wanted distance. Martin himself appeared to want to sail off into the sunset.
“Go where?” she asked, afraid that she’d offended him.
“I have a meeting at the art gallery,” he said, heading for the coat rack.
“The art gallery?”
Martin Lewis was getting away from her, like a salmon twisting against the bottom, trying to get the hook out. One thing you don’t want to do is to give a fish too much line. You give it enough to let it tire itself out, but not enough to get to the bottom to work out the hook.
“The Vancouver Art Gallery,” Martin said.
Nadine had invented his trajectory from the misguided artist who had broken her rules, transforming him into the newly discovered political painter and quite possibly an idiot savant. Having the power to accept or reject him, she’d done both. When Nadine realized that he didn’t understand the exceptional quality of his own work, she took the opportunity to help him and for this, she thought she’d be repaid. Martin should be appreciating her right now, not putting on his rain jacket. The value she placed on his work functioned like a claim on him. She expected him to respond within the dynamic she created. This did not include him walking out of the Black Dot Museum of Political Art to go to a meeting at the Vancouver Art Gallery. She was offering him something and he was ignoring it. He was ignoring her. Who she was and what she could do for him. Martin was rejecting her. She wanted Martin Lewis to acknowledge that she had discovered him. In her mind the headline ran, Nadine MacHilltop Discovers New Painter.
“Fine,” she said, folding her arms. The deal was basically off. As far as she was concerned Martin Lewis had just gotten himself out of a solo show at the Black Dot Museum of Political Art.
Nuances of power, expectations and rejection were pulsating between them. Nadine needed to step back and review what the hell had happened, what had gone wrong. She wanted to go into the back room and curl up on the cot. Martin wanted to be outside, in the rain, striding in the direction of his meeting at the art gallery.
“Can I leave it here?”
“What?”
“The painting.”
Clearly Martin couldn’t carry a painting around with him. Obviously he would have to leave it, thought Nadine. There was no other logical option. Nadine nodded her consent and Martin rushed out of the museum.
