Negative Space by Mike Robinson (classic literature list .txt) 📗

of younger staff with whom Ritter often felt at odds. He consoled himself that he was in his prime, whatever that might mean.

A colleague named Chris Pemberton approached his desk, carrying a sheet of Xeroxed paper.

“Norm,” said Pemberton. “How’s it going?”

“Hey, Chris, not bad.”

“You’re going to have your little bundle soon, right? How’s Angie?”

“She’s doing fine.”

“When’s she due again?”

“About a month from now.”

“Wow. Get your sleep in while you can.”

“Right.”

“The Higgins spread looks great, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

Ritter’s profile of Max Higgins, just published, had already begun generating fair buzz. Senior editor Dennis Knowles had decided to feature it prominently on that month’s cover.

Pemberton placed the sheet in front of Ritter. It was an article, featuring a black and white photograph of a middle-aged face: creased, deadpan, darkened by the coal-black shadows of the Xerox. Why did artists never smile? They too cool for that? Too burdened with genius?

“Who is he?” Ritter said.

“Name’s Clifford Feldman. He’s becoming kind of a thing in the Seattle art scene. Going to have a show just up north in Twilight Falls, at the Peters Museum.”

“Feldman?”

“Yep.”

“That actually does sound familiar.” Ritter skimmed the article, the headline of which read Top of his Head, Top of his Game. “He the one that does what he calls ‘dream pieces’?”

“Basically. It’s more like ‘instinct’ pieces. According to him, his first major piece was inspired by a dream. Since then he’s set out to ignore anything overly conscious when doing his artwork. Says he wants the mindset of an animal when he paints.”

“Hmm.”

“Apparently he’s stirred a bit of a movement. Calls it Neo-Naturalism.”

One piece featured in the article showed a humanoid, several lines beyond a stick figure and running amid charcoal renditions of what looked like wild boars.

“It’s like cave art,” Ritter said. “Or something.”

“Exactly,” said Pemberton. “That’s sort of the point.”

“What’s up with this guy? Are you doing a story on him?”

“Well, I was actually wondering if you’d be interested. The show up north runs until next week.” Pemberton started biting his nails, muffling his voice with his fingers. “I figured since you’re good with the offbeat artists you might like to check it out for us.”

“Good with the offbeat artists?” Ritter snorted. “What does that mean?”

“Well, I mean, you covered that guy who put big canvases at the bottoms of buildings or cliffs for people committing suicide to land on—”

“Ted Wilshire, yeah, don’t remind me.”

“Ted Wilshire, right, you covered him until he was arrested. Now you just came out with this Max Higgins character....”

“He’s not too offbeat, actually.”

“Really?” Pemberton furrowed his brow. “He paints missing people into his work, right?”

“But the way he approaches it...it’s not creepy or morbid. You’d have to see it for yourself. It almost feels like he’s trying to find something. An answer, a cure. Not really sure.”

“His pieces are strange,” Pemberton said. “I don’t really know how to classify them. You called them surrealistic in your article, didn’t you?”

“No, he doesn’t want a label on his stuff. And it’s funny—first you think he’s surreal, and it is, but then as you see more of it, or look more closely at a single piece, it seems to shift. Very strange. It goes from surreal, to abstract, then maybe hops over to impressionistic. He fills a lot of cracks.”

Pemberton nodded. “So what do you think of this Feldman? Knowles was the one who recommended you take a look at it.”

“Oh yeah? Not Eric the grad student? Whatever his last name is.”

Pemberton snorted. “Where’ve you been? Eric Fries got fired.”

“Huh? When? Why?”

“Something like two days ago. Came into work high as a kite. You didn’t hear about that?”

Ritter shook his head as a young woman approached his desk, moving up from behind Pemberton. She wore a large gray sweatshirt, her pants ink-black. The dark attire clashed with her pale skin and blonde, almost fluorescent hair. Quite young, Ritter thought. Possibly even a late teenager. Pretty, though.

She addressed Pemberton. “Are you Norman Ritter?”

Pemberton swung a thumb toward Ritter, then moved off with a straight-faced salute.

Ritter studied the woman. “What can I do for you?”

“Sorry to bother....”

“It’s okay.”

“You wrote that article about Max Higgins, right? The one that just came out?”

“Guilty as charged.” Funny she was here about the Higgins article, as somehow the girl’s demeanor reminded him of the artist. He couldn’t pinpoint the similarity, but supposed it had something to do with her anxious eyes, and the cautious way every word climbed her throat.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“I was wondering if you could help me find him.”

“Who are you? What’s your name?”

“I’m his sister.”

“He never said anything about a sister.”

“He wouldn’t know he had one.” She shifted her weight. “Can you tell me if this is his address?”

The girl unfolded a small piece of notepad paper and handed it to him. The handwriting was sloppy, but he could make out most of it.

“No. He lives downtown.” Ritter eyed her. “And no offense, but I don’t know anything about you. What’s your name? Aren’t there any other people closer to him that you can go to?”

“No, no,” she said, flustered. “Look, I figure you’re not going to help me.” She fished through her pockets, brought out a business card and handed it to him. There was an illustrated silhouette of a curvaceous woman holding a whip, with The Schoolhouse written above the address.

The Finest BDSM Club in Los Angeles, it read.

“Give that to him,” said the young woman. “He can find me there. Please.”

“And you’re sure this is the Max Higgins you’re looking for?” Ritter said. He held up a copy of his spread. “The artist? The hot sauce sucker?”

The girl looked bewildered, but pointed to Higgins’ picture. She nodded.

“Yes, that’s him.”

***

IV

The moment he thought he heard the knock on his door, Max had been thinking how God had nothing on him, or any artist for that matter. God made life, life that was left to chart its own course once it left His hands. That was the beauty of the divine process. But life made art,