« State of the Rob 02032009 | Main | From the Desk Of...02/05/2009 »
February 03, 2009
Batesville Installment Thirty One
Frank Saffo’s finally got his workspace set up the way he likes it. He has his desk and easel set up facing the floor-length windows in his new condo to let him view downtown Kansas City while working. He’s considering doing a series of paintings based off of the view, maybe down the line after he has finished up his current series of pulp magazine inspired pieces. He has two more to finish up for his next show.
To warm up though, he does a few sketches in his journal of the view. Frank has started using a water brush for these studies and he likes how it works. The stem is a reservoir holding water that comes down to the brush tip with a little pressure. Frank just moistens the tip with a squeeze, dips it into a watercolor, and he’s good to go. To use a different color, he squeezes more water down and soaks it into a paper towel. He likes to lay some blotchy colors down, let it dry, then come back over with ink to define the shapes. He’s started posting these Kansas City sketches on a website collective of people doing the same sort of urban sketches in cities worldwide to great success. He likes to impart a little bit of his wisdom in life with the posts.
Frank focuses on this rather than on the private detective sitting behind him asking about the girl who used to live in his new home.
“Well?” impatiently asks the detective.
“Hm? Oh, no I just got the place through the office downstairs.” He starts with some yellows for the areas where the sunrise is hitting the buildings and their surrounding structures. Light to dark, light to dark. “I needed a place and one of my old neighbors recommended this building for the view.” Now for some light browns.
“So you had no contact with Emily Hollinger?”
“Who? Oh, the young lady who lived here. No, no contact.” Reds, letting them bleed into the browns, getting a fun wet-on-wet effect.
“Were any of her things still here when you moved in?” the detective asks, pressing.
“No. Empty as a blank canvas.” Frank turns around finally to look at the detective, a younger man, and gives him a wink in regards to the lame joke.
“What brought you to town, Mister Saffo?”
“Lost love, Detective, a love lost that I had no intention of rediscovering.” He decides the watercolor painting needs more blues, for the shadows. “Divorce brought me here.”
“I’m, uh, I’m sorry about that,” the young detective apologetically says.
“I’m not. It was never a good marriage and it never was going to be. We were young, we fucked a lot, talked little, and then we had a son. Our son’s grown now, and there wasn’t any reason to keep up the pretense.” He pulls out another water brush, although instead of water, this one contains ink. He begins to use the black India ink to better illustrate the shapes and shadows of the buildings surrounding his home. “I’m not young anymore, Detective, but life is still short. I’m a man finally discovering himself, rather than defining himself by those around him. I’m sorry that in doing that I’ve brought myself into whatever world you’re traveling in. I’m afraid I don’t have any more to offer you, Detective…”
“Ingalls. Henry Ingalls. And I’m sorry to have disturbed you, but this missing woman’s family are old friends of mine, and I really want to help them find her. If you come across anything, or remember anything, please give me a call.” Henry hands his card to Frank, and looks down at the finished sketch on the desk. “That’s really nice.”
“I will call if I have anything to help you find her, of course.” Frank looks down at the journal, then tears the sketch out along the page’s perforated line and hands it to the detective. “Here, you can have it. I just do these to warm up in the mornings. Some people like coffee or tea, I like creating something that wasn’t there.”
Henry takes the painting and looks at it with a smile. “I appreciate both, sir. You have a great day.” The detective is led to the door, then shakes Frank’s hand. “Do you have any shows coming up?”
“Sure, sure, yeah, next week. I’ll go grab one of my postcards for you.” Frank walks back to his work area. While his back is turned to the detective, Henry briefly looks around until his eyes are caught by some paintings stacked up against the wall. They are all made to look like the sort of paintings done for the covers of early twentieth century era fiction magazines and paperback covers.
“Where’d you move from, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Batesville, and no, I don’t mind at all.” Frank comes back with the postcard and hands it to Henry, noticing the young man looking at his work. “Those are, uhm, those are for the show, actually. Sorry, I don’t really like people seeing them before they’re exhibited.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll definitely be there for the real show,” Henry says on his way out the door. “Definitely.”
Frank closes the door and walks back to his window. He looks down at the street and sees his visitor get in a car and leave. He watches the car drive down the street until it disappears over a hill, but still looks on. Frank Saffo knows what the young detective saw. He picks up his phone, dials a number, and says into it, “Oliver, it’s Frank. We’ve got a…yeah, yeah we do.”
Posted by Schamberger at February 3, 2009 09:17 PM