“Sorry about the scene earlier,” Christos smiled. “I was having a bit of a problem with one of my paintings.”
Spiridon nodded sympathetically, “I’ve been there many times myself. Sometimes a painting goes south in the middle of the process and there’s not much you can do with it short of starting over.”
“You’re an artist too?” My dad asked innocently.
“Yes,” Spiridon said. “All of the paintings hanging in this room are mine.”
It was weird, because there were literally dozens of them surrounding us, and my parents hadn’t said a word about them since they’d walked in. That just went to show how much my parents paid attention to art. It was nearly invisible to them. Just like my love of art. They had no idea it existed.
“There’s a lot of paintings in here. Don’t you ever sell them?” Dad asked.
“I do. As a matter of fact, I’ve sold over a thousand paintings in my career,” Spiridon said.
“Is that how you paid for this house?” my dad asked.
Yeah, my dad was world renown for his social graces.
Spiridon smiled indulgently, “Yes. Everything you see in this house was paid for by the sale of my art.”
Go, Spiridon! Tell it! This was exactly the kind of thing my parents needed to see and hear. An actual mansion, way bigger than my parents’ house, bought and paid for by a real live art career.
“So why haven’t you sold the paintings in this room?” Dad asked.
“I love them too much to part with them,” Spiridon said thoughtfully. “Each one holds a special meaning for me. They’re touchstones that remind me of moments in my life I never want to forget. I could never sell them, at any price.”
“Oh,” Dad said. He had no idea what Spiridon was talking about. Spiridon may as well have been speaking a foreign language when it came to talking about feelings with my dad.
“They’re very nice,” my mom said curtly. “You’re a very gifted artist, Spiridon. I’m sure if our daughter could paint as well as you, she would sell paintings too.”
Because I was turned away from her, my mom’s words literally stabbed me right in my back. Fortunately my mom couldn’t see my face burning with sudden rage and embarrassment. Had she seen my anger, she would’ve told me to get a hold of myself and stop acting like a child. I gave Christos a pleading look.
“You haven’t seen any of Samantha’s recent paintings,” Christos said to my mom. “She’s come a long way since I met her. Her artistic growth has been unreal. Your daughter is epically talented.”
Take that, stupid Mom and Dad!
“She really is good,” Spiridon said, walking over to me to rest his hand on my shoulder. “With my grandson tutoring her, she gets better every day.” He flashed a smile at me, “Isn’t that right, Samoula?”
Now I was blushing as tears of joy threatened to pour down my face. I nodded. The Manos men were defending me against my evil parents! I wanted to jump for joy. I wanted to happy dance all over my parents’ faces while hungry sharks nipped at their toes. Yippee!
“You should see some of her paintings,” Christos said.
The next thing I knew, we were all in the studio.
“This entire room is a painting studio?” my mom marveled. “It’s as big as our house!”
My dad looked around, taking everything in. “I wouldn’t say it’s as big,” he said defensively. “Perhaps two-thirds the square footage. Maybe less if you include our garage.”
Yeah, whatever, Dad.
“And these are your paintings, Christos?” my mom asked.
“Yeah,” he said casually.
I could tell Christos was still somewhat buzzed from all the bourbon he’d been drinking before my parents arrived. But now he was happy drunk, not angry drunk.
“You sure like to paint naked women,” my mom scoffed judgmentally.
I couldn’t take my parents anywhere.
“It’s art, Mom,” I said. “You know, like Rembrandt and Botticelli and Bouguereau.”
“Who?” she frowned.
“William-Adolphe Bouguereau? The nineteenth century French realist?” I’d learned a thing or two about artists from hanging out at the Manos house all the time.
My mom shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“He’s really good. You should check out his work,” I sneered. “One of Bouguereau’s paintings is hanging in the San Diego Museum of Art in Balboa Park. It’s awesome.”
“Are any of your paintings hanging in the San Diego Museum of Art, Spiridon?” my dad asked snidely.
“Yes,” he smiled, “in the permanent collection. As are two of my son Nikolos’. I imagine one day soon, one or more of my grandson’s will join them,” Spiridon said, patting Christos on the back. “And who knows, if she keeps at it, maybe one of Samoula’s will end up there too.”
I think I heard a shame plane fly over my parents’ heads and start dropping suck it bombs all over them. Too bad the explosions weren’t fatal. But the confused looks on my parents’ faces made me rejoice.
Mom motioned at Christos’ paintings as if they were garbage. “I assume all these nude women are actual people?”
“Yeah,” Christos said.
Mom nodded, “Was that young woman who was here earlier one of the nude women you paint?” she asked acidly.
“Yeah,” Christos said.
“And what,” Mom continued, “she just takes her clothes off for you?”
Christos shrugged, “That’s usually the way it works.”
My mom huffed, as if Christos was forcing women like Isabella to strip for him while he watched with his pants around his ankles and did nasty things to himself. She said accusingly, “You know, you’re setting the women’s movement back thirty years.”
“They’re models, Mom,” I said. “They get paid. It’s a job.”
“To take their clothes off?” she scoffed.
“Yes!” I growled.
My mom shook her head. “That’s not art. That’s pornography. I hope you would never consider debasing yourself by deigning to strip for Christos. I should hope I’ve taught you better than that.”
I rolled my eyes. “Whatever, Mom.”
There was a pregnant pause as the room went silent. I’m sure my mom would accuse Christos of getting the pause pregnant after having paid it to model for him naked. Dirty pause. Everyone knew the pause had no shame. Pause was a whore who had sex for money. I rolled my eyes. My mom was such a prude.
“You should show your mom and dad some of your drawings, Samantha,” Spiridon encouraged.
Under any other circumstance, I would never have showed my art to my parents. Not after all those times in high school when they’d snarked about how bad my art was. But with Christos and Spiridon at my side showering me with supportive loving compliments, I felt like nothing too terribly bad could happen. I should’ve known better.
I walked over to my drawing table where my sketchbook sat. “This is where I work,” I said randomly as I picked up my sketchbook.
My mom put her hands on her hips. “It looks like you’re all moved in, aren’t you, Sam?”
Oh yeah, my parents and I hadn’t yet had the discussion about my new living arrangements. I couldn’t wait to discuss the topic further.
Maybe I would’ve talked to them about my move already if every conversation with them didn’t turn into a minefield. I swear, I couldn’t say a single wrong thing around my parents without triggering yet another one of their bullshit bombs. I needed more suck it bombs to defend myself. Too bad the shame plane was out of the area.
I clutched my sketchbook to my chest, suddenly reluctant to open it. I’m sure my parents were ready to lob insult bombs with abandon. Was there any point in showing them my art? Maybe I could change the subject.