Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Despite her suspicions and her resistance to anything being this good, it struck her that what he’d created was pretty amazing. “I read somewhere that you also sell the work for them.”
He shook his head. “I don’t sell it for them. The work sells itself. Because they’re good. And getting better all the time.” A note of fervor entered his voice, as if he were a minister preaching a sermon. “But I help them find gallery space and mount shows. I’ve also started a video platform where they can show their work in virtual galleries. They can also create videos to talk about their process, how they create, why they create, why they chose their art form, where they get their inspiration. That helps sell their work too. People love knowing how a particular piece came into being.”
If she’d had a place like this when she was sixteen, what could she have accomplished so much earlier?
If he was on the up-and-up.
He jogged back down the steps, turning to her as she followed more slowly. “Let me introduce you around.”
The artists here were of all ages, all ethnicities, all genders. She’d probably find they came from all walks of life if she learned their history.
She especially enjoyed meeting Vic Carter, who made art out of reclaimed plastic, sculpting dolphins, whales, and other sea creatures endangered by all the garbage people threw in the oceans. His work was both brilliant and eco-conscious.
Artists worked in metal and clay and stained glass and paint. In these amazing studios, each artist had everything necessary to create their work.
Stopping at a studio shared by a man and a woman, Clay flourished a hand. “Bonnie Hale, this is Saskia Oliver.”
In her late forties, her dark hair sprinkled with silver and cascading down her back, Bonnie wore overalls crusted with the materials of her work. She gave Saskia’s hand a no-nonsense shake.
Clay turned to the man. “Otto Klein.” His gray hair attested to his being somewhere in his fifties.
As she stepped farther into Bonnie and Otto’s studio, she marveled at a partial mosaic on a lightbox. Pasted to the large shelf above it was a photograph of a bird of paradise, which they had emulated in glass pieces on the lightbox.
“This is amazing mosaic work,” she enthused.
“Thank you,” Bonnie said, Otto nodding his thanks. “We aren’t illustrators, so we use photographs to guide our work.”
Otto added in accented English, “We also use stained-glass patterns.”
Pattern books lined the shelves beside cubbies for racks of glass. Remnants filled tubs arranged by color. Toolboxes contained everything from wheeled nippers to glass cutters to glass breakers, along with dental tools and tweezers. Below that were buckets of adhesive, and grout in various colors.
Bonnie followed Saskia’s gaze. “Even though we use patterns, the artistry comes out in our use of color and how we put the patterns together.”
“It’s beautiful and artistic work.” She fluttered a hand from the photo to the glass bird of paradise on the lightbox. “You’ve taken a picture and turned it into a masterpiece.”
Otto added gruffly, “We could never have stepped out of using other people’s patterns and turning to photographs and other means of making our mosaics were it not for Clay.”
Bonnie put a hand to her heart. “I worked on my kitchen table. Every day, I had to put it all away.” She laughed. “I was always finding bits of glass on the floor. My husband left me when he found a glass sliver in the stew.”
“I hope that story isn’t true,” Saskia said with a smile. “That could be dangerous.”
Bonnie laughed. “Not far off. Let’s just say he didn’t care for my obsession with mosaics.” Then she added, “Clay found us a place where we could spread out and set our creativity free.”
“Clay is not an artist himself,” Otto said, “but he gets us.” He slapped a big hand to his chest.
“He speaks our language,” Bonnie concurred.
Had Clay done a really good snow job on all these people? Because everyone she’d met spoke of him as if he were their selfless miracle worker.
Or maybe they were all doing a snow job on her.
But she shoved her reservations aside. San Holo wanted this fabulous commission. And the woman who had touched Clay last night was desperate to touch him again.
Their conversation ended abruptly when a young man, a teenager, flung himself into the studio, stopping his forward trajectory only by grabbing the edges of the two partition walls acting as a doorway.
All he said was, “Clay,” his voice almost strident.
His dark blond hair fell just past the neck of his paint-splattered shirt. Tall and angular, his hands big, his feet encased in oversized tennis shoes, he was almost like a puppy who hadn’t yet grown into his huge paws. His hazel eyes bored into Saskia for a long moment.