The well-fed artist

“I didn’t mind being poor, but now the money has come, and I don’t mind it either,” he said, seeming not uncomfortable in his blue velvet smoking jacket, a cigar stuck between his ringed fingers resting on the white tablecloth. 

“What about your work?” the interviewer asked. “Has your newfound success influenced your painting?”

He blew a cloud of smoke and, veiled behind it, looked down into his lap. A lock of his perfectly combed hair fell onto his forehead. His hand was trembling as he raked the renegade strands back into place.

“Ah, yes, it’s going well. I have more time to work now. And I don’t have the landlady banging on my door or the neighbors stomping around upstairs.” He laughed as he reached across the table to ash his cigar in the glass tray. Then his eyes trailed off and glazed over, like he was looking into the past.

“It’s been almost a year now since you’ve exhibited a collection. Are you working on anything new?”

The artist exhaled deeply. His eyes glanced from the silverware to the candlesticks, to his empty champagne flute. He picked up a napkin, refolded it, and set it back down. He looked at the teapot, longingly, as if he wished to take off the lid and hide inside.

When he looked back at the interviewer, there was a pained expression on his face. He raised the napkin to dab away perspiration from his forehead.

Then he pulled his shirt sleeves out from the cuffs of his jacket, straightened up in his seat, and resumed an air of blasé cheeriness.

“Hey, how ‘bout another drink?” He raised his hand and signaled for the waiter.