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The studio smells like paint thinner, old cigarette smoke and a moldy dampness she imagines is quite detrimental to the preservation of artworks. Paper and rubbish and dried globs of paint crunch under her heels when she steps inside, first tentatively and then too curious to focus on anything other than the stack of paintings in the corner.
When Declan Howell rushes down the stairs into the studio space, his energy is, if possible, even more manic than the night before. And to her surprise, his face is bruised and his shirt is torn, filthy with both blood and indeterminable stains. Through the shock, Midge can’t help but smile, though she tries to hide it.
She’d found him fascinating from the get-go. Not just because Benjamin was so taken with this man and the myth surrounding him, but because he was something else. Something new. Seemingly a belligerent drunk, which was in no way a novel thing to Midge by now, but when he crawled up onto the bar, she recognized something in him – something she knew from herself. The way he readily and easily took command of the room and held the crowd in his sway made her think he was as much entertainer as artist.
She found him amusing, with his drunken compliments and silly comment about her skin, but she also couldn’t help but feel proud for piquing his interest. Despite her best attempt to pull Benjamin into focus, all Mr. Howell saw was her. All he cared about was her.
And now, in his studio, he is still condescending and increasingly hostile towards Benjamin. She’s pretty sure no one has ever called him “Doctor” in such a contemptuous tone of voice. By the time Mr. Howell is offering to sell nothing but his soul, the tension in the room is getting uncomfortable, and Benjamin has had enough. But Midge isn’t ready to leave – she knows she can take advantage of this strange man’s apparent interest in her and get something good out of this whole interaction. At minimum maybe a good story for her next show.
They’ve barely been alone together for a minute before his demeanor changes. He’s calmer, open and honest with her about his intentions. He takes the first rejections kindly, with nothing more than a shrug, and she feels surprisingly at ease with him. Then suddenly he’s asking about her painting, her Agnes Reynolds, and she realizes he was far more observant last night than she’d thought.
“I thought you were blind drunk.”
“I’m never quite as drunk as people think I am.” He’s so nonchalant about it when he tells her, taking another drag of his cigarette. Soon enough, she’ll come to realize Mr. Howell is even more of a performer than she thought at the bar. He is constantly playing a role – the role people expect from him. Drunk, stumbling, chaotic, loud-mouthed artistic genius.
When she tries to deflect the conversation, to brush it off with a joke about shopping, he just looks at her, steady and like he knows exactly why she’s trying to hide behind her own image of a woman who must care more about shopping than she does about art. He listens attentively when she tries to describe what she really felt, the smallest hint of a smile twitching in the corner of his mouth.
She doesn’t know why this is apparently a determining factor, but shortly after she finds herself in a mostly barren room, looking at what must be the most magnificent, perfect work of art she’s ever seen. She can’t tear her eyes away from it, even as Mr. Howell tells the story of a life not wasted but never even brought to fruition. The specter of an existence sacrificed in the pursuit of art – the pursuit of greatness. It sends a chill down her spine and makes her palms clammy as the stunning beauty of this piece of art is put into perspective in direct contrast with the artist’s personal happiness. The painting doesn’t make her smile. Not now.
“Are you sure I can’t get you to sleep with me?” The moment is over, though she is still reluctant to look away from the painting, so brilliant and jubilant in its artistic triumph. She tells him no. He is very charming though, even when he’s being rejected again.
She takes him in for a second, from his ruined shirt to his ridiculously sharp cheekbones. She is attracted to him, yes, and the attention he pays her is very flattering. But Miriam is not cut out to be an artist’s muse – that is just a bit too bohemian, even for her. Besides, she’s not what he’s looking for. They’re much too alike.
“Mr. Howell –“
“Please, call me Declan.”
“Declan,” she smiles, “I think such a tryst would be detrimental to both of us.” He nods, frowning in exaggerated defeat, but he also reaches out and takes her hand in his. She allows it to happen. His hands are softer than she’s expected, and surprisingly clean with not even a speck of paint to be seen.
“Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.” He looks around the near-empty room. Maybe in another life, she thinks, and then she makes an impulsive decision. Mr. Howell seems genuinely surprised when she leans in, but he quickly realizes her intension and bends his head closer to hers. So close she can smell a sharp hint of the whiskey they shared before.
She kisses him softly, almost innocently, on the lips, and he only barely returns the kiss. He knows what this is and, more importantly, what it isn’t. She can just make out the faint pink stain of her lipstick on his mouth, and for a moment she simply looks into those keen but sad eyes of his. He finally lets go of her hand.
“The doctor sounds panicked.” She’s confused at first, but then she hears Benjamin calling for her – she hadn’t even heard him the first time, apparently. It’s time to go.
When Mr. Howell tells her to let Benjamin pick out a painting, it feels like a consolation prize for both of them. When he threatens to come back and get it if he has the address, she wonders if it’s actually the painting he’s asking to sever all ties with.
That evening, she watches Benjamin walk around his home with his new prized possession, holding it up against different walls to determine the best place to hang it later, when the framer is done with it. She felt his unease and apprehension when she told him that she’d just talked to Mr. Howell and he’d agreed to sell a painting, just like that. He’d chosen a piece quickly – one of the two he’d initially inquired about. He hadn’t even taken the time to go through the other stack of paintings.
As Benjamin holds the mostly grey-toned painting against his tastefully cream-colored walls, all Midge can think about is that masterpiece, so exquisitely superior to this work, hidden away for good to haunt and please only one man. His greatest feat and his own destruction. The price and the prize. She turns away from Benjamin’s new acquisition after that and vows not to look at it again.