Calico's Favourite

Calico’s Favourite

Irene Swanson’s studio was located above the Five and Dime in the quiet village of Inglewood. The view from her living room window was spectacular and as a result was the focus of her inspiration as a visual artist. She would often sit by the window and gaze into the distance with paintbrush in hand, mesmerized by the rolling hills and fields of wheat that glowed in the sun. She sat waiting for the perfect moment, which always seemed to be the one that had just passed, or the one about to happen.

 All seasons inspired her, but she was especially drawn to the late summer and early autumn when the fields were ripe and ready for harvest. Cloud formations that sometimes formed along the horizon at dawn created entire landscapes of mountains and valleys caught in a moment that was fleeting, as perfection often is.

Hours skipped by like minutes as she worked, completely lost in the poetry of the paint. It wasn’t the colours she focused on so much as the mood they portrayed on the canvas. A loud yawn interrupted her thoughts, and she glanced at her cat who was stretching lazily beside her.

“Calico, why must you sleep on that painting?”

Irene held her arms open, and the cat yawned again, stretched and leapt onto her lap. She scratched her cat’s ears and watched as she closed her eyes, smiling her endearing cat smile while stretching her neck for more.

“I know you’d keep me busy scratching your neck all day, but I must pack up the painting you love napping on, so say good-bye to your comfortable bed.” 

She moved Calico to a spot on the couch beside her, then reached for the painting placing it on her table where she wrapped it in cardboard and brown paper. The cat watched critically, turning her head and raising her chin in disapproval.

“Everyone’s a critic,” stated Irene.

After many unsuccessful submissions, the tide had turned in her favour. Acceptance of this work in the very prestigious juried art auction was an accomplishment she had not expected. Niggling self-doubt stirred in the pit of her stomach, but she dismissed it. She had to believe she’d crossed the chasm of despair and had landed on the shores of hope.

                                                                        *

Clifton Framingham straightened his tie as he checked himself in the mirror. It was going to be a long day in the courtroom where he worked, but he was hopeful because it was the day of the annual art auction. He anticipated the addition of new work to his growing collection. One piece had caught his attention in the brochure that he’d received. He remembered how lucky he had been several years ago when he had the good fortune to purchase a work which had tripled in value due to the artist’s untimely death.

“What a shame” he mused, “but kudos to your good timing, old man!” 

                                                                        *

Bill and Livey Wilson had been awaiting the auction with growing anticipation. The childless couple began collecting artwork as a hobby a decade ago. They had a good eye for art although they knew little about the artists or their work. They’d learned that unknown artists offered the best value. As well, they had to like the “feel” of the work.

“I’m so excited, Billy,” exclaimed Livey. “Today is the day we adopt another work!”

“Oh Livey, please don’t get your hopes up. It’s so hard to find a suitable work. I don’t want your hopes dashed. I know how depressed you get when things don’t work out.”

“I just have a feeling dear heart. Something tells me we will be very lucky today.”

“Well in that case, wear your brightly coloured dress.”

“Oh, you remembered! It has been a good luck charm, hasn’t it?”

Bill smiled at his charming wife and hoped for her sake that they would be successful later that evening.

                                                                        *

Wendall Pruit woke late. He rolled over in bed and reached for the blaring alarm clock, misjudging its proximity and knocking it to the floor. He cursed, then hung his head over the edge of the bed to retrieve it. It was just out of reach and still blaring loudly. He cursed again and got out of bed. As he did, the morning sun blinded him. He winced and grabbed the clock, putting an end to the noise.

He felt disoriented, but then realized that today was the day of the annual auction. As a gallery owner, he was responsible for collecting work for very important clients and had to be sharp this evening. From what he had seen in the brochure, his time would be well spent today. One work especially had caught his attention. 

                                                                        *

The doors opened at 5:30. Cocktails were served to the eager buyers including the artists and those who paid $100 just to browse. Businessmen, gallery owners and private collectors mingled anxiously, viewing the artworks as they waited for the auction to begin.

Wendall Pruit nearly choked on a shrimp when he saw the painting, ‘Calico’s Favourite’. 

Clifton Framingham pretended to drop his pen while walking past so he could take a closer look. 

The Wilson’s openly admired it.

“Ohhh Billy,” crooned Livey, “I knew it! I just had such a good feeling about this evening! We simply must have this lovely work!”

“We’ll go for it!” Bill happily agreed and then kissed his wife.

Wendall Pruit had to act fast. The silly couple were causing a scene and were drawing far too much attention to the artwork he longed for.

“Excuse me,” he said as he stepped close to the embracing couple.

Bill and Livey parted slightly, somewhat surprised.

Wendall found Bill’s hand and shook it with great energy.

“Wendall Pruit of the Pruit Gallery on Front Street. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?” 

He continued before he gave the couple a chance to answer. 

“I couldn’t help but notice your interest in this painting...” 

He made a grand gesture to step in front of it and read the label.

“‘Calico’s Favourite’, it has been done by a complete unknown. Irene Swanson. How interesting.”

Bill and Livey looked at Wendall and then at their favourite painting.

“Ah, yes…” said Bill, “the artist is unknown, but the work is, well…”

“A bit naive, don’t you think?” Wendall was looking at Livey with pursed lips and raised eyebrows.

“Oh,” stated Livey, “Well, to be truthful I don’t know that much about art, but I know what I like, and I like this!”

Livey looked at Bill who positively beamed at his wife’s clever response.

“Ah, yes...” said Wendall with a condescending smile, “but as a seasoned gallery owner, may I offer some free advice?”

“Oh please do,” interjected Bill as he gave his wife’s hand a squeeze. “That would be most appreciated.”

“Of course,” continued Wendall. “If you asked me,” he leaned in and lowered his voice to a whisper, “I’d put my money on (he glanced around the room until his gaze fell on a conventional, lackluster work of art), that work over there called, ‘Symphony and Song’. Striking in contrast and sure to be a wise investment.” 

Bill and Livey followed Wendall’s gaze across the room. 

“Yes, I can see the power in that work,” noted Bill. “Riveting!” 

Bill was on his way across the room.

Livey’s jaw dropped, and she looked back at ‘Calico’s Favourite’. 

“But, Bill, darling…”, she started, then closed her mouth and raised an appraising finger to her lips.

“Your husband has a good eye,” winked Wendall as he handed Livey his business card. “Perhaps we can do business one day!”

With that, he was gone and Livey had no option but to follow her husband across the room.

“Painting number 36 entitled, ‘Beach Ball Babies #9…’” 

The auctioneer took a sip of water from a tall glass before him and glanced at his watch. He had been working for over an hour and had yet to call on the painting everyone was waiting for. He knew from experience that once the desired piece had been called, the crowd would thin and disperse. He focused on the painting on the block.

“Sold to #531 for $2,500.”

The auctioneer wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

Irene stood nervously at the back of the hot and crowded room. Her painting had yet to be called. She was second-guessing herself, wondering if her hopes hadn’t been too high. She felt as if interest in her painting seemed to hover above all the others and was getting some attention, but then again, she could just be imagining it.

“Painting number 37 entitled, ‘Calico’s Favourite, Last Day of Summer’, by Irene Swanson…” 

The auctioneer glanced at the artwork as it came forward and he knew this was the one. The room was suddenly silent as 300 people managed to stop talking and focus. He turned away from the microphone because he knew that for the first time this evening, he wouldn’t need it.

“What’s my opening bid?” His words were drowned out by shouts of five thousand, then ten, then twenty thousand dollars.

Irene’s hands went cold. She felt as if she were floating, as if her feet no longer touched the ground.

“Excuse me,” she asked the person beside her, “What did they say?”

“It’s a bidding frenzy”, came the reply. “That work is amazing!”

Irene gasped as she gazed around the room. Part of her longed to be at home in her quiet studio, while another part of her wanted to bask in the moment.

With a final, “going once, going twice, gone!” down came the gavel and the sale was complete.

“Sold to #91 for $127,000!” The auctioneer stepped back from the podium and slumped into a chair. He knew it would be several moments before the fervor subsided and he could continue with the auction.

A photographer looked at Irene’s nametag. A camera flashed in her face. 

“It’s her, the artist. It’s Irene Swanson. You are the artist? Are you the one who painted Calico’s Favourite?”

“Uh, ya, yes, that’s me…” stuttered Irene.

“How does it feel, Miss Swanson, to have your painting sell for $127,000?”

“I uh... I’m, ah, WOW.” 

“I guess so, Miss Swanson. I am Jake Barker from the Toronto Star. Mind if I have a few words?”

Wendall Pruit could be seen in the back of the room with his cell phone in hand. A forced grin etched his face as he impatiently responded to a voice on the other end of the line.

Bill and Livey clung to each other as if in shock. What had just happened? 

Clifton Framingham was beaming. Never had he felt so excited about buying a work of art. He smiled for the camera as he stood beside the meek, unassuming artist. She would make him look good in the photos. Her story about the painting was endearing, charming…something about her cat and how it loved the painting. Clifton smiled to himself. Although he detested cats, he could not help but feel attached to this one, since its choice in artwork was exquisite. He congratulated himself for having had the foresight and the means to make such an important purchase.

                                                                        *

A week later the gallery delivered the painting to Clifton’s home.

He carefully unwrapped the work and set it up for appraisal. It was beautiful, in fact even nicer than he’d remembered. He stepped very close to the work and felt a tickle in his nose. A sneeze exploded from him, then another and another. Through weepy eyes he noticed a faint hint of... could it be cat hairs on the painting?

Awareness dawned too late. Calico’s Favourite…what had the artist said? It was the cat’s favourite. It liked to sleep on the painting. Clifton should have clued in right there, but all he was able to do was focus on his allergy. He took out his Dust-buster and lightly vacuumed its surface. He worked meticulously, covering every square centimeter until he was satisfied that all cat hairs were gone. It was when he stood back to admire his painting that he realized Calico’s contribution. Without the cat hairs, the brush strokes were ordinary. Colours were muted and dull and the painting lacked the vibrancy he had paid for, so dearly.

Clifton picked up the Dust-buster, opened it and carefully poured its contents onto a soft white cloth. He unwrapped a face mask from its packaging, gulped two allergy pills and between choked sneezes began to painstakingly reapply cat hairs to the painting one shimmering strand at a time.