Chapter 4
759 Words
Chapter 4
While ambling to his studio, Gustavo Vila Nova was lost in his thoughts, ignoring his surroundings and the warmth of the sunshine on his face.
Though Gustavo did not dare compare himself to Pablo Picasso, he often privately thought of the great master and wondered how he would be influenced and inspired in Los Angeles in the twenty-first century. Would he become an expert with digital art and technical advances? Or would he perfect traditional skills and be impacted by the greed, income disparities, or modern lifestyles in southern California?
With Gustavo's hunched shoulders and hands in his pockets, any perceptive passer-by would notice that this man, this artist, was struggling and in pain.
If Picasso was fascinated by gender, power, war, and the boldest experimentation, Gustavo pondered how he would characterize his own career at twenty-six years of age. He understood it did not seem to resemble Picasso's trajectory at all. Gustavo's journey began with the glory of nature—finding and capturing magical imagery in the waves, waterfalls, mountains, and rivers of the Hawaiian Islands. Though not unique or trailblazing, his oil and acrylic paintings possessed a lyrical quality that had garnered him attention, sales, and a fan base.
If the majesty of Hawaii was Gustavo's first period, or developmental phase, then his second period was the transition into mixed media portraits concentrating on the shapes and candid expressions of the human face. He personalized the portraiture with objects, broken or in original form, giving each piece depth with symbolism and a three dimensional quality. His artworks were a minor success, though many previous fans felt betrayed by his new direction. Private commissions and gallery sales afforded and enticed him with the opportunity to leave the islands and establish himself on the West Coast of mainland North America.
But now, after three years of creating and selling these portraits, Gustavo was aware he must advance his talents and expand his client base. The reasons extended beyond artistic clout and prestige. His dreams of using Los Angeles to springboard his career internationally had stalled. Sales were so poor he would not admit his real sales tallies to anyone. Not only was he tired of creating the portraiture, the art collectors, dealers, and benefactors were bored with his output, too. Though he lived modestly, and privately, believing that an aura of mystery about an artist's life was especially beneficial, Gustavo was running out of money and his mettle was waning.
He reached the studio, unlocked the entry, turned on the lights, and sighed, knowing soon he would no longer be able to afford it. Though nothing fancy and infused with a smoky scent, Gustavo was once convinced it would help propel him to fame and riches. The studio was originally a carport behind a Victorian residence just south of Hollywood Boulevard in the 1920s. In the decades that followed it adapted into an unattached, two car garage and then transitioned to a guest home, surviving the main residence that was demolished in the 1950s and replaced with a bungalow-style structure with stucco walls and a large porch. It also survived a fire in 2010 that ended its usage as a guest house. The owners, a couple who live in Long Beach, decided against having it torn down and replaced, perhaps for sentimental reasons, and had since rented it out for storage.
The only items Gustavo stored were his lights, equipment, art supplies, and dozens of canvases in various stages of completion. He tucked all of this away behind a faux wall, opting for a barren and large open space to embark on his creations.
Gustavo moved a plain wooden chair to the center of the space and stared at the empty walls. "I need a miracle," he said aloud. "Please. Is a miracle lurking around in here somewhere? Why do you hide from me? Reveal yourself. Today. There is little time left."
Gustavo's eyes slipped to the floor and his thoughts tumbled into worries about bills, deadlines, and humiliation. Realizing he was astray, he perked up, arched his back, and returned his gaze to the walls. Throughout his career, Gustavo had imposed a strict discipline for his daily time in the studio. Every moment must be devoted to artistic creation, even if it meant just sitting in the void and musing about ideas. If he failed to lift a paintbrush today, it would be the fourth consecutive day of complete futility.
"I am steering toward the edge of a cliff and doing nothing to save myself," he complained, cringing his face and hitting his fist against his thigh. "Nothing!"
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