The Colorman Read Online Free PDF

required Self-Addressed-Stamped Envelope, Rain would open it and push the whole sad packet right back in, sliding a card in after it with Gwen’s polite pass and heartfelt encouragement regarding their efforts. It fascinated Rain to see the range of work out there at which so many people were earnestly plugging away. Much of it was just plain bad. Some of it was alright, though her standards slid downwards as long days of this task dragged on. But, most sadly of all, sometimes she came across work that was actually very good, which was of course rejected, anyway.
    The part of her that just loved the visual was made hopeful by finding interesting work out there. She delighted that a human mind and hand had conspired to create something refreshing and thoughtful. But there was that little part of her that was nervous when she came across work she liked. Such a tangle of feeling. Hopeful yet left behind. Hadn’t she missed something? Wasn’t she making that classic neophyte mistake of misinterpreting her own beginner discoveries as interesting for other people to see? The burst of pleasure she found in good paintings was always followed closely by those dark fears. Fears she willed against blooming into jealousy or paranoia.
    Practicing serious effort in art meant excluding things. The moment brush or stick or finger or knife hits canvas or wood or masonite or stone or object, exclusions have been made. Materials, scale, subject, style—these are all mostly determined from the first mark. But these exclusions are not always comfortable. It is the decision made, the selective leavings behind—that is the dirty work which we admire in artists.
    â€œWhere are you, Rain?” Karl smiled uncharacteristically.
    â€œSorry,” Rain said, coming back.
    â€œYou know Penelope is here jurying at Pollack Krasner.”
    â€œIs that right?” Rain asked. “How do you like it?”
    â€œQuite disappointing, I should say,” she replied archly.
    Karl interrupted, “Rain knows all about that, don’t you Rain? She handles the slush pile around here.”
    â€œOh, my God,” Penelope effused. “It’s simply amazing to me the shit we have to slog through in there. It’s like none of them has any idea what’s going on in the art world. Honestly, I have no idea how these people can believe that their chalky-looking portraits of nudes with their Cezanne brushstrokes and their Matisse colors are just going to jolt us out of our seats,” she laughed. “It is despicable. Or the glowing candy-land treacle storybook scenes… I’m not joking.” Her words piled out one on top of the other.
    Rain waited until Penelope had concluded her offering. Rain was unsurprised that none of them had said a word about her work. It just wasn’t done. The most you might get was hearty congratulations, never comments about the work to your face.
    â€œYeah,” Rain said non-committally. “I don’t know; I guess I find it heartening.”
    â€œHeartening?” Penelope’s accent was elevating as she got more animated. “It’s absolutely depressing!” she moaned, allowing herself a good look up and down at Rain in her thrift store dress. “Rather pathetic, I should think.”
    Rain smiled at her. “I guess I see it as a good thing—people making art at all. I don’t think about it from a business point of view, I guess. Gwen just isn’t going to take on anything new, so it’s not even a matter of that. I just see it as something people are doing and getting pleasure from.”
    â€œYes, well…they might keep it to themselves,” Penelope quipped cheekily.
    â€œWe better get going,” Peter said. First thing out of his mouth. American, evidently.
    â€œIt was a pleasure,” Penelope said to Rain, as though she’d been thanked. Rain was left a little rattled.
    Rain watched her kiss Karl on both cheeks.