The Cellini Dictum

By Laurence Quirk

To what lengths will an aspiring artist go to achieve success? Conspiracy? Fraud? Murder? Will Hogan faces moral dilemmas in his quest for artistic recognition, and the woman who shares his dream may not be the best influence. When Pope Paul III pardoned Benvenuto Cellini of murder because he was an artist, he set a bad precedent for these two.
Having compromised his dream of being a full time artist, Will works as an architect in a small southern town in order to be close to his daughter who lives with his ex. He pours his energy into his art and renovating an old service station into a studio, but his personal and professional lives are complicated by others, including his boss, who wants Will to manage the firm; and the amorous wife of a friend, who wants Will as a lover.
His creative efforts are hindered by an ex-con who once used the abandoned service station illegally, and still thinks of it as his own. With his teenage son, the ex-con harasses Will with acts of vandalism.
When Will meets a female artist named Roky, he finds himself making decisions that will change the course of his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laurence Quirk
• Release date: Aug 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301235605

Laurence Quirk

Laurence Quirk studied fine arts and architecture in college and received a Master of Architecture degree from Tulane University.He works on his paintings, writing, and architectural projects from his home studio in Lindsay, Virginia.

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The Cellini Dictum

By Laurence Quirk

Copyright 2013 Laurence Quirk

Smashwords Edition

Book cover design copyright 2013 Laurence Quirk

The Cellini Dictum is a work of fiction. Except for commonly known people and locales mentioned, all characters, places and events are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, or events is coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with others, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

CHAPTER ONE

He had been sitting in his pickup for over half an hour. If the heater worked it wouldn’t be so bad, but damn it, he hated waiting. He’d have approached the place, even with all the lights on, if he was steady enough to be soundless. Shit, what’s that pussy doing in there? Why ain’t he in bed? I got business to take care of, he said to himself. Five minutes and a few shots of bourbon later he decided to go home. Shit, he’d send Brick for the stuff and tell the sissy-assed law student he could wait a day or two. But this artist guy was going to pay for making him wait.

* * *

Through the open skylight Will heard an engine start; surprising for this time of night. He thought to check it out, but he had just loaded his brush with paint. He continued working at his easel, feeling every bit the part of an artist as envisioned by some Hollywood casting director. His bib overalls, t-shirt, and lace-less work boots were covered in myriad layers of paint. The overalls in particular had been subjected to abuse wiping clean brushes and palette knives, and had never seen the inside of a washing machine. Maybe it was true that no matter what role you wanted to play in this world, it helped to dress the part. He wished that were so, but Will felt more like a dramatic actor who had been relegated to the role of a ‘quick-change artist’ in vaudeville. He was a single-focus type of guy in a world that required multi-tasking.

More than once he had whimsically considered the concept of cloning himself. How handy it would be to have a Will-2 clone to go to work as the consummate professional architect. Will-3 would be the nurturing family man; vigilantly providing for his family’s physical and emotional needs. This would leave Will-1, the original Will, to pursue his passion for art. The only problem was that Will-1, without Will-2, and Will-3, would be considered a self absorbed bastard, unfit for human companionship. That might explain why Will, the one and only, stood before his easel at 3:15 am, alone with his canvas.

Now that the left hand on the figure had been resolved, it was time to quit and get some sleep. Working wet into wet with the oils, one thing had led to another, on into the night, before he had found a point where he could stop. By the time he cleaned his brushes and got to bed, he could still get about three hours sleep before having to rise and get ready for work. He could eat something then. Accommodating the daily rituals of life, like eating and sleeping, all too often imposed on his schedule. It helped that he was now living at his studio, even as he was renovating it.

He was awakened by a dream that had turned into a disturbing nightmare. Forgetting the details of the dream with every step he took towards the bathroom, he could only remember that it had started as a romantic encounter with a shadowy-faced woman, but had morphed to his being accused by a crowd of some horrible behavior that he couldn’t remember or had any defense for. The feeling he had upon awakening was that everyone in that crowd was disgusted with him, and had good reason to be.

Returning to bed, his mind roamed to when he had lived in a city filled with galleries; before Libby and he had moved to this small town in order to raise a family in what was touted to be a better environment for children. Well, Montsburg had been good for that, at least while they were still a family. After the divorce, he could easily second guess that decision.

Thinking had nudged his brain awake. Instead of lying there with his increasingly morose thoughts, he got up and returned to the easel to evaluate what he had done. It was another nude, though it didn’t start out that way. He sketched all of his figurative work without clothes initially, to develop a solid sense of anatomy beneath the fabric. This helped with foreshortening and made applying clothes easier. But if Will decided that the fussiness of clothing became a distraction he often left the figures nude, unless he needed the color of the clothing for the composition. This approach had not worked particularly well as to how his paintings were received. At best, he was labeled as provocative; at worst, he was deemed a pornographer.

He decided that he was satisfied with the left hand, but now felt the female’s right hand, a fist resting atop a table, needed more impact. He thought about clothing the hand in a glove; maybe a brightly colored vinyl glove; and wondered what his critics would make of that.

Maybe it would provoke that woman who had wrote to the newspaper that his paintings were ‘unsuitable’ for a town like Montsburg. Poor sales of his work indicated she may have been right about that.

Will smiled remembering how his boss, Maurice Jordan, had reacted to that letter. Goddammit, Will, he had said, Think about the firm’s image. We do a shit load of work for the churches in this town.

He looked at his bed: a futon mattress atop a platform he had built to provide storage room underneath. His body craved sleep, but his mind was now too active to allow it.

Considering the hours he worked and his lack of commercial success, he wondered if all his work was worth it. Montsburg had plenty of artists who painted bucolic scenes of the town, the university and the surrounding landscapes, all variations on a theme by Thomas Kincaid. Those paintings sold relatively well locally as decorations for living rooms or offices, but Will didn’t want to be the type of artist who made paintings as a commercial venture. He made paintings for his own satisfaction.

The architectural work he did was different. Clients came in to the office looking to commission a house that suited them. After all, it was their money and they were the ones who would have to live in it. What he did in his paintings, though, was a reflection of him. He wouldn’t make paintings with the idea of pleasing other people. He identified with Van Gogh, who stuck to his style despite selling only one painting in his lifetime and died thinking he was a failure. Will held out hope for a more successful resolution to his own life, though things right now didn’t look rosy. Pinned to his easel, Will kept a quote from Kurt Vonnegut: The practice of art isn’t to make a living. It’s to make your soul grow. That sure sounded nice, but hadn’t Vonnegut also tried to kill himself once? Will wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure about the size of his soul either.

Two hours of sleep and a shower made Will feel better. As he dressed, Will looked around at the progress he had made renovating the old service station he had bought with Libby. Located in a rural area, the station had gone out of business a long time ago, after the by-pass skirted it. He had needed a place to work and Libby was happy to get his mess out of the house.

The original plan was to divide the space so he could rent part of it to another artist, and have some remaining space to serve as a gallery. The Station Gallery was what he was going to call it. That plan changed along with his marital status. Now, thanks to the mixed-use zoning, he could live in the space, having added a living area, full bath, and an incomplete kitchen. He didn’t need much personal space, since most of their common belongings stayed with Libby. It would be better for Colleen that way. With the bath now functional, just needing baseboards, the only hold-up was getting Neal to finish his kitchen cabinets.

The neighborhood was a small grouping of low income families, which stood in contrast to the surrounding large estates belonging to the gentleman farmers in the area. With the projected growth of the county, Will hoped that the vicinity would improve and his gallery would be favorably situated in the middle of a scenic commercial enclave.

Starting his old Volvo, it was time for Will to reconfigure his brain. He had to shift modes; turn off the right side of his brain and turn on the left side. To be honest with himself, he knew that a true artist didn’t do this. A true artist would yield to his creative nature and say to hell with everything else, even if everything else included being a responsible parent and paying the bills.

At the curb, Will saw that the mailbox he had put up last week had been run over and flattened. The 4 x 4 post was broken off at the concrete that had anchored it. Colleen had even painted a design on the box. Now it was trash. A suspect immediately came to his mind.

As he collected the debris, Will remembered his first encounter with Dwayne Loman. After purchasing the property, Will went out to the site with a chain saw to clear some scrub trees which had grown up around the building over the years. It wasn’t long before a pickup truck pulled up and a greasy-looking guy got out and approached him. No doubt a neighbor; Will was of a mind to be friendly. Living in the country, you never could tell when you would need the help of a neighbor.

Will shut off the chainsaw. Hey. My name’s Will —

Ya’ll can’t come out here to cut fire wood. This here be private property.

A little bit on the rough side, thought Will, but this was probably the area’s version of a neighborhood watch association. This ‘block captain’ sounded like he was swallowing his tongue. That’s all right, said Will. I’m the new owner. Thanks for your concern though.

What the fuck you talking about? My concern? That’s my shop here.

Will could tell the guy was annoyed, but also a little unsure of himself. His eyes had widened at that ‘new owner’ line.

Maybe you haven’t talked to Mr. Coleman lately? He sold me this property, said Will, but he never told me anything about a tenant. Do you have a copy of your lease? Will knew the lawyers had checked all that stuff. What was this guy talking about?

Sheeeit. Followed by a pause. Fuck.

This guy was a walking thesaurus. Will thought of firing up the chain saw again before the hillbilly lunged at him. Or he could try reasoning with him. Look, I don’t know what kind of arrangement you had with Mr. Coleman, but he should have told you something. I’m sorry, but I’m going to renovate the building and use it as my art studio, so whatever agreement you had with him … well, I’m not interested in renting the space.

Art studio? Fuckin art studio? This here’s a garage. For working on cars. It ain’t no fuckin art studio. My tools inside. You didn’t buy my tools.

Maybe mentioning the art studio was more information than this guy needed. Okay, said Will. I don’t want your tools. Whatever’s inside that’s yours; you can remove it. Then, annoyed by this guy’s attitude, he added Just have all you stuff cleared out by next week when I start demolition. Anything left behind I’ll assume you don’t want and toss in the dumpster. Be a little tough with the guy, Will had thought, he’ll respect that.

You don’t throw out any tools, mothafucka. You hear? Goddam pussy artist. Fuck. Shit. He turned, went back to his truck and sped away. So much for the welcome wagon.

Loman had moved his tools out of the station, managing to break some windows in the process. There had been incidences of vandalism while Will had worked on the studio, but that wasn’t uncommon to construction sites. More unsettling was the lurking presence of Loman’s hefty son, Rick, commonly known as Brick. Will had seen Brick around the property on several occasions. Upon making eye contact, Brick would stare without expression at Will. Since the kid was only 15 or so, Will just let it go. Besides, Colleen had to occasionally ride the school bus with Brick. No sense in escalating tensions if it might affect her. Eventually the kid would tire of his stalking and find something else to do. At least Will hoped so.

As he drove, Will’s annoyance grew. With all he had to do; now he had to replace the mailbox as well. He didn’t have time for this crap.

* * *

Climbing the stair to the office of Jordan and Associates, Will passed the same photographs of pseudo-colonial buildings that had hung there for the past six years and sensed the oppressive familiarity of his workplace. His co-workers seemed to find it an adequate place to spend the day in social intercourse while performing their tasks, but none of them, except for Maurice Jordan, would define themselves by their work. Will wanted to be defined by his work, but not the work he did in that office.

Walking into the reception area, his first sight was, thankfully, a pleasing one: the shapely bottom of Sheila, the clerical assistant, clad in a tight leather mini skirt, as she bent over the desk of Lois, the office manager. Sheila was a student at the university who worked part time whenever her class schedule permitted. In addition to helping Lois she provided eye candy for the office. Without standing up or otherwise altering her presentation, Sheila turned her head to acknowledge his arrival. Good morning, Will, she said over her shoulder. Okay, thought Will, this was one benefit of coming in to work instead of spending the day alone in his studio.

Morning, Sheila, he said.

I’m here too, you know, said Lois from somewhere behind Sheila.

Of course you are, said Will. Good morning Lois.

As he passed the desk, Lois gave him one of those looks that said ‘I know what you were looking at’. He figured Lois might appreciate Sheila’s looks as much as the rest of them, having come out as a lesbian after twelve years of marriage. Through therapy Lois discovered the source of her unhappiness, which apparently had been the suppression of her natural inclinations. Now she turned her head back towards Sheila, and gazed into her cleavage.

Proceeding to his work station he saw that Neal was busy at his desk, but that Donald ‘Big’ Byrd had yet to come in. Tardiness was now the norm for Big, whose life had crashed when he had a mental breakdown.

Will walked to over to Big’s drafting station. Clearing away the candy bar wrappers and empty coffee cups, Will found the latest drawing taped over several layers of previous sketches. As he looked it over, Neal came and looked over his shoulder.

So where is Big this morning? he said. When he left early yesterday he said he would be in early today.

Maybe he was in early and stepped out, said Will. Whenever he gets stressed he flees the office to buy junk food. He’s putting on a lot of weight.

Nah. I was in early and opened the office. No sign of Frank Lloyd Wrong, said Neal. You know if you let me do this design work it would get done on time.

Then what work would I have for Big? Since the demons in the computer episode I can only give him drawing board work.

So he gets rewarded for having a melt-down, and I’m stuck turning his sketches into something usable?

What were you doing in early? said Will, growing weary of defending Big.

Working on models of furniture I’m designing. Trying to get something worthwhile accomplished before Mojo gets in, said Neal, using their nickname for the boss.

Will noticed Neal’s desk cluttered with an array of models, about three inches tall, of various chairs and tables. Neal had a shop in his basement and was quite skilled at making furniture, cabinetry, and the like.

Are you using the basswood you ordered for the Hayes model?

So? I ordered extra. They can afford to help out my moonlighting.

I am amazed at just how productive you can be, when you want to, said Will.

Don’t worry, Will-da-beast, your kitchen cabinets are getting done. In fact, how about I come over this Saturday and deliver some of them? I need to get some out of the shop to make room for the countertops, said Neal. I also need to pick up that model I’m storing at your place. You haven’t splattered any paint on it, have you?

Actually, I’m supposed to be playing tennis with Big Saturday morning, said Will. We should be done by noon, but you can come over anytime. I’ll leave the back door open.

I probably won’t make it before noon anyway. Big playing tennis? Now that’s a sight. When did he take that up?

He used to be a pretty good athlete. Now, with all his weight gain, his wife is urging him to be active again.

The nag, said Neal. The last thing he needs, with all his mental problems, is a wife who wants him to worry about having a sexy body. Come to think of it, that sounds kinda like my wife. You know, she said that if I was in better shape, maybe we would have sex more often. I said that if we had more sex, maybe I would be motivated to work out. There you have it, the old chicken-or-the-egg question.

There you have it; more information then I wanted to know, said Will.

Out the window they saw Mojo’s car veer into the parking lot. The octogenarian Mojo refused to acknowledge his age when it came to driving, hunting or work. The last time Will had rode with him it was like being driven by Mr. Magoo.

As Mojo climbed the stairs to the office, Neal broke into song, doing his Jim Morrison impersonation for the entertainment of Lois and Sheila.

It’s Mr. Mojo rising. Mr. Mojo rising … rising…

Will looked over Big’s design for a bathroom renovation on the drawing board. Big had mentioned that he was having trouble getting everything to fit within the space. The master bathrooms of today had to include all the elements prescribed by the realtors of Montsburg: a huge soaking tub (just for appearances); a two-person shower; dual vanities with a make-up area; and a room within the room for the toilet and bidet. It was a lot, but the space for it all should have been adequate. Studying Big’s plan, though, Will could see it was all too crowded. Then he saw why.

To fit the drawing on the sheet, Big had chosen to draw the plan at the unusual scale of 3/8 equal to a foot. He apparently had forgotten this when he went to draw in the fixtures, and used a template scaled at 1/2 equal to a foot. So all the fixtures were drawn 33% bigger than they should have been. Will wondered how much time Big had wasted on this, including all the trips out for candy bars.

Half an hour later, Big finally showed up. Will’s first instinct, to chew him out for the scaling error, dissipated when he saw the condition Big was in. His shirt was out of his pants and soaked through with sweat; his tie hanging out of his pocket. His pants were torn and dirty. His face was red and sweaty, and his hair stuck out from his head at odd angles. He stood in the reception area, still trying to catch his breath.

Lookin’ good, Biggy, said Neal.

What in the hell happened to you? asked Mojo, sticking his head out of his office.

It took a while, but Big gasped out the story of how his wife, Althea, needed the car today so he thought he would ride his bike in to work, and maybe start a routine so he could get back in shape. It turned out that it was a lot harder than he thought it would be.

My bike had a flat, so I took his Al’s. The seat wouldn’t adjust, so it was too short. Man, getting up those hills was impossible. I was wobbling all over the place ‘cause my shoes kept slipping off the pedals.

Will looked down at Big’s feet. He was wearing his wing-tip dress shoes.

And you know, there’s no shoulder on that road, so people kept honking and cursing and throwing things at me. That’s what made me fall, and that’s when my pants split. So I walked the rest of the way, pushing the bike.

Before he could finish, Mojo had turned back into his office. Goddamned fool, he muttered. To Will, it didn’t seem like a good time to point out a mistake that had wasted at least a day of work.

Phew. You stink, Big, said Lois. Good old sensitive Lois; but it was true. Big’s odor was now very noticeable and the office smelled like a locker room. You need to go home, take a shower, and put on some fresh clothes. You can’t work in here like that. Thank God for Lois’s bluntness.

Big stood there, not knowing what to say. Sheila broke the uneasy silence, though reluctantly. I have to head to class in a few minutes. I can drop you off on my way, she said.

You want the pine tree air freshener from my truck? offered Neal.

What’ll I do with my bike? Big asked.

Leave it, Big. I’ll put it in my pickup and drop it off at your house tonight, said Neal. Then to Will he added I don’t know about your protégé, Will.

CHAPTER TWO

Will wrote out a note for Big explaining the drawing error. He did not mention that Mojo had asked about the progress on the project and that once again he had covered for him. He simply noted ‘ASAP’ on the note and left it atop the worthless drawing.

Will had other things to be concerned about besides the problem of Big’s bungled bathroom. He had to make some progress and put in some billable hours on his own projects before heading out to sit the desk for the afternoon shift at the co-op gallery he belonged to. Will had sold Mojo on the idea that it might be a way for him to make contact with potential clients, much as Mojo used his various club memberships for business purposes, reasoning that those who had the disposable income to purchase original artworks would be likely to hire a professional designer when taking on their pet construction projects. Mojo agreed to let him spend two afternoons per month sitting the gallery as long as it didn’t impede his projects.

Will worked past noon, planning to eat at the gallery. He announced his departure to Lois, interrupting her conversation with Neal.

See if your gallery will let me display some of my furniture, said Neal. It’s very arty and sophisticated.

If it’s sophisticated, you probably don’t want it displayed at Les Galleries’ de Arte, said Will.

Truth is, said Lois, that gallery doesn’t seem like a good fit for you either, Will.

I know, but it’s on the downtown pedestrian mall, so it does have high visibility. That’s the only reason I keep on paying dues, said Will.

Dues? Not in my budget, said Neal. Tell you what: if you get ‘discovered’ there, I’ll consider joining. Otherwise, I’m willing to sell on consignment and you all can benefit by my furniture bringing in the crowds.

I’ll let them know your offer, said Will as he descended the stairs.

When Will reached the mall, he slowed his pace. He stopped altogether when he reached Gallery 303. Peering through the window, he could see the show being installed was another minimalist installation, with an accompanying video. Unlike every other venue in town, Gallery 303 would show cutting edge art, but only if the artist was from somewhere else besides Montsburg; preferably, New York. Local artists need not apply; the reasoning being that if it could be produced locally, it must not be very good. To Will, however, it was more a case of the Emperor’s New Clothes. The message being that it is good art since it has been imported from elsewhere and if you don’t appreciate how good it is, then your taste in art is obviously unsophisticated. Les Galleries’ de Arte, on the other hand, definitely catered to those of unsophisticated tastes.

The art scene in Montsburg was an enigma to Will. Despite the very liberal politics of the populace, their taste in art was very conservative. The wealthy locals didn’t collect art; they merely used it to decorate. Being in an area known for its history, the wealthy tended to build ‘historic’ looking homes in the traditional style that Will found stifling. And so, when it came to decorating, they chose art that reflected the pseudo-historic nature of their homes. In just about every one of these homes could be found some image of fox hunting; and yes, giclee prints of those images could be purchased at Les Galleries’ de Arte.

Continuing on his way, Will took in the diverse assemblage of tourists, students, and shoppers, as well as the array of street performers and vendors on the mall. He arrived at 1:03 and found an agitated Dick Meyers waiting for him at the door.

Oh, there you are, said Dick, pacing uneasily. It’s after one o’clock.

Here I am, said Will. You’re free to go now, he added casually.

Will’s relationship with Dick had turned contentious shortly after Will joined the gallery. A long-term member and gallery treasurer, Dick had vocalized his unhappiness with the insurgence of the ‘younger’ generation of artists into Les Galleries’ de Arte, who he felt didn’t prioritize sales. The animosity had worsened recently when they were among a few members hanging pieces in the gallery and an older couple walked in.

The wife walked off in one direction to view floral still lifes and the husband stopped in front of an expressionistic nude Will had painted. I don’t understand this so-called art, he called to his wife, sharing his opinion with everyone in the gallery. I can’t imagine having something like this in my house to look at it every day.

Dick had taken the opportunity to raise his hands in a gesture of both exasperation and vindication. See? We should display things that the public will want to buy, he said to another member, but loudly enough for Will to overhear. Just like any other store on the mall.

When the man came to stand in front of one of Dick’s photos, he declared in his loud voice that it was the best thing in this place. Dick broke out in a wide grin, nodded his head and said Good eye, good eye. The man has discerning taste.

The woman walked over to the photo to see what had pleased her husband so. Did you realize, Roger, she said, that this is a photograph?

It is? Well hell, any damn jackass can aim a camera and click a button. That don’t take no talent at all, Roger replied.

Good eye, Will had responded flatly, and the tone of their relationship had been established.

Now Will walked past Dick and into the gallery. When he reached the desk and turned around, there stood Dick, holding the door open and leaning in to address Will.

I’m going to grab some lunch and run some errands, he said. But I’ll be back by two-thirty. Joyce asked for an impromptu meeting for all who could make it, to discuss her idea for a theme show next month. Did you get the email?

This was Dick’s retort, knowing of Will’s objection to ‘theme shows’ and that the email was likely sent out this morning so that all the retirees would be aware of the meeting but those artists who worked would be unlikely to attend.

No, Dick, I didn’t check my personal email while at work this morning, said Will. Thanks for the warning. Then he turned and removed his laptop from his satchel, letting Dick know that he had work to do.

Once the annoying presence of Dick was gone, Will opened the recent CAD files on his laptop. On a typical day at the gallery, with virtually no interruptions, he could get more work done than at the office. The noise of the forthcoming meeting would be unfortunate indeed.

Next, Will selected some music to listen to. The CD selections provided by Joyce consisted of classical and ‘new age’ music, of which the latter sounded like either Native American chants or whale songs to Will. He plugged a jack from his laptop into the gallery speakers and turned the volume up. That should help him stay awake.

The next 90 minutes went by rather quickly, interrupted only by one visitor to the gallery who looked like she wandered in just to kill some time, barely looking at the art.

Near two-thirty the ‘old guard’ of gallery members began appearing. Will did his best to acknowledge and then ignore them; returning to