Art of a Narcissist

He said he was wasting his time with a relative nobody. She shared no passion for his masterful oils, his up and coming marine-life paintings recognized for their circular brush strokes and colorful marks. She had no usefulness, and her only talent was striking up conversations with the leather-faced dimwitted fishermen that came to look at his paintings but never purchased. Besides he watched her have a child, his child, and said he was no longer attracted to her after that grotesque display of womanhood.

The baby took up too much of her time, so he took to drinking most evenings at gallery openings and cafés, wherever he could meet potential clients, and the times at home were spent lifting barbells and complaining about laundry left in the dryer or the undercooked salmon for dinner that night. She was relieved when he took short trips. He never once diapered the baby and held her only for the occasional photograph.

The first time he saw that bleached blonde woman she immediately became the symbol of everything we were not. Boisterous and colorful with a glass of champagne in her hand, a gallery owner’s daughter with connections to buyers, she came with a sizable inheritance. She was an adoring trophy with 10 more years of shine than my mother and was not consumed with the weight of a child, full-time work and watching her dreams die.

Mom never said a whole lot about him, as his visits became fewer to never. I discovered these tidbits in a black leather Moleskine notebook stashed in a pile of empty journals she had collected in her French walnut armoire over the years. She always dreamed of being a writer, but most of the journals were empty reminders of an unfulfilled purpose, collected over the years when she felt like she should do something for herself.

I don’t think she ever allowed herself to get past the relationship with my quasi-famous father and never showed interest in men again. She instead invested herself in getting me through school and relationships, caring for a few wiry shelter dogs and listening to any soul with a shattered heart. Though it was her shattered heart I read about in that notebook.

Here is why I ended up at an auction for marine art. Because beneath the notebook and journals, purposefully tucked between the dusty shelves of the armoire, was a black Moleskine sketchbook of my father's early studies, and on a quick computer check with a local auction company, it was agreed they could get at least $3,000 for it, enough to enroll my mother in the Mastery Writing course at the local college she excitedly spoke about for several years. It was time.

I stumbled a little on the way in while gazing at Chihuly’s glass ceiling of Persian sea life, hand blown viridian and chartreuse jelly fish swirling in floes of cerulean to indigo with chrome yellow light popping through. These heeled sandals I borrowed for the occasion were a little loose, but the butterflies in my chest seemed to throw me off balance. That and perusing the program at the same time, the anxiety slipped in seeing most of the items were starting at $10,000 and up, a gross comparison to my little holding.

The sketchbook was the only remaining object I had of my father's that wasn't burned or macerated. He left eleven years ago when I was ten. I couldn’t disturb him in the studio so I rarely saw or knew him anyways. But I memorized the chaotic strokes of his paintings, the game fish in a tug-o-war fight towards their certain death, not the serene beauty of the creatures I had practiced drawing alone in my room. I hardly saw my mom those days either as she was his slave, cleaning his brushes and messes he made. She worked more than he did. She started gaining a little weight, the arguments worsened and he stayed out of the house for longer periods. I was happy when he was gone for good.

He was gone and a few months later married the bleached blonde woman. I saw more and more of him in obscure newspaper articles and an occasional auction notice, and less of him on infrequent visits to our house which seemed more like opportunities to berate my mother for ruining his life earlier. Six years later he published a coffee table book of his works and had a four-page feature in Modern American Artists where we learned he divorced the blonde and married a rail thin brunette art journalist.

The Wyland breaching humpback bronze was starting at $20,000. Next to that hung Jim Warren’s misty green mermaid with waterfall hair starting at $13,500. Another Warren was close by, a surreal transparent orange sunset melting into deeper hues of phthalo blue. Then there they were, three easels of my father’s prized billfish paintings in different bloody stages of capture, Van Gogh inspired with more abrupt markings, $15,000 apiece. I needed to sit down.

I was ushered to the vinyl padded folding chairs when I noticed a dark-haired man in slim fit navy suit sitting a few rows back eyeing me. I was in no mood to flirt, but noticed he was cute in a Ted Bundy sort of way. In that moment I stood a little taller, but had to sit down and focus on my breath.

Number one, “Pasta” Pantaleo’s Old Man done in oil, a rare medium for the Italian’s Hemingway inspired marlin fishing scene, cited the auctioneer’s assistant.

Number one, cried the auctioneer, a thin, shrewd looking gray man with black horned rim glasses. Number one, starting bid $10,000.

Ten-thousand dollars, I thought if I could get half that it would cover the class for my mother and a little extra for art supplies I’ve recently been considering. Ah, but not for that black sketchbook, no. Mom tried to rid her belongings of him, but it was untouched for the ten years that had passed, remaining in mint condition. It contained studies in old world hues and crimson, 24 pages of bloodiness, a few the beginnings of his noted works. He even practiced signing his name in large, bold swirly strokes, a feature, I was told, that gave Number 18 its value.

Number 18, cried the auctioneer, glaring over his glasses at me, Number 18.

I nervously glanced behind me over a sea of stern faces, though Ted Bundy gave me a nod and a thin smile.

Starting bid $1,500 cried the auctioneer, when a paddle arose up front along with my excitement. We have $1,500, do I have $1,600, $1,600? And, uh, as he glanced over my shoulder, $20,000, we have $20,000, do we have $20,100?

My jaw dropped in awe has I turned to see Ted Bundy holding up his $20,000 paddle. I wanted to scream but stifled it. There were a few loud whispers from the crowd as I momentarily froze in my chair.

Do we have $20,100? Sold for $20,000.

When I could slow my breathing again, I twisted my head around but Ted was gone.

The wait was long as the rest of the items were plowed through and most of the crowd had thinned. I signed a few papers for the financial assistant and she assured my cut would clear the next day. I was relieved to leave.

Out the front door in a stupor, I slid off my sandals and pulled my phone out to call a ride when I noticed Ted bending over the driver's side of a white Mercedes sedan pulled alongside the curb. I made out an aura of bleached blonde hair, and when he stood up, I saw it was her, the symbol, the second wife. She raised a finger, gave a nod of recognition and slight smile as she slowly drove away. Ted ambled towards me, handed over the sketchbook without a word, and disappeared back into the auction house.

Hello? Yes, I am in front of the South Beach Auction House going to Blick Art Materials.