“They didn’t pay you for it?” he asked.
“Most couldn’t. They were homeless or maybe just hitting the streets. Some were getting clean from drugs and others were fresh out of prison.”
“Sounds a bit dangerous,” he said.
“I had faith in them. They all had this beauty they wanted to eject into the world, but the darkness had a way of swallowing them whole. I kept their paintings in the hopes that I could display them one day. Sell them to people. Inject the beauty they wanted to share with the world into the lives of others so the legacies they left behind weren’t so bleak.”
His gaze was fixed on me, and I started wondering if I’d said too much. I could sense every movement of his eyes along my body, and I wanted to know what he was thinking. Did he think my idea sounded crazy? I didn’t know why I was so drawn to his opinion, but the more he continued to stare at me the more anxious I became.
“Wanna see some of their paintings?” I asked breathlessly.
“Sure,” he said.
I walked him through the building, watching his head darting around. He was clocking things, probably running numbers through his mind. We pushed out the back door and went over to the storage area where I pulled it open and grabbed the first painting I could grab.
My heart leaped into my throat when I realized it was one of John’s.
Please don’t turn it over. Please don’t turn it over.
He ran his fingertips over the painting in front of him. It was a cabin John had painted. A detailed log cabin with trees growing up around it and the wind kicking up the leaves from the ground. There was a car, something akin to a Jeep, sitting off to the side, and I could tell Bryan was losing himself in it.
“This is really good,” he said. “Was this done by one of your therapy students?”
“It was,” I said. “He had so much beauty to give. I can’t bring myself to leave these behind. An art gallery seemed like a good idea since it’s always been a dream of mine anyway.”
“I love art. Always have.”
“I got the hint from the tattoo you claim to have drawn and colored yourself,” I said.
“I mean I didn’t tattoo it myself, but I did design it myself.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s still art,” I said as I plucked the painting from his fingertips.
“I drew a lot as a kid. The ocean. The waves. Deserted buildings that peppered the coast. Now it’s just blueprints and construction plans.”
“Sounds absolutely thrilling,” I said, giggling. “Do you draw much anymore?”
“Not for pleasure,” he said. “All for business now.”
“Yep. Careers have a way of doing that to people.” Anna immediately came to mind while he talked. The life and passion had been drained from her because of establishing a so-called sensible career. Jobs seemed to do that to people, suck their goals and passions and wants from their lives.
“That’s what I want to do, you know,” I said.
“What?” he asked.
“Breathe life back into those who have had it sucked out of them. I want to touch people with art and show them that having passions and aspirations beyond a paycheck aren’t only good but are required to live a balanced like. Expressing the soul through art is like feeling an experience. It brings a beauty to darkness that this world so desperately needs, and that’s what I want to be.”
“Like a beacon at sea guiding the sailors home,” he said.
“Exactly.”
“How about this?” he asked. “I’ve been looking at the place while you were talking. I’m assuming you’ve gotten some estimates from other contractors around town?”
“Yes, but I haven’t called anyone back yet.”
“Don’t. Let me get you a free estimate for what it’ll take to get this place looking like how you want it to look. Most contractors will just fix the body and then leave the interior design to someone else. I’ll bring you both,” he said.
“Really? You’d be willing to do that?”