I tried formally and politely to reinstate the payments but the letters I received in response were in the negative. None of his replies dealt with the context of our contract or offered alternative solutions, but were, in substance, of an inappropriate nature and frightening. I felt in my gut a spread of liquid fear as I read some of his replies. One statement, made a few times, was that he had a right to destroy the painting Blithe.

Blith(http://www.michaelnewberry.com/works/Blithe.jpg) is a painting of a naked woman with crossed legs and she is joyfully stretching backwards on a tilted chair. I had thought of calling the painting Joy, but joy is too obvious a word; I prefer to have some subtlety about the titles of my works. The model in real life was statuesque, she was beautiful, and she projected an aura the size of a room! She was larger than life. She was my favorite model. I remember the second time I met her, with all of her presence in my face she asked me, “Did I tell you about the time I was kidnapped?” And she really had been abducted!

Earlier, before Blithe, she had modeled for a couple of my pastel nudes. There have been moments while I have been drawing or painting that every mark I make comes from and generates sensory vibrations. It is the most exalted experience I know. The pastel Houlihan came from one of those times. This pastel and several others where grouped together for a small exhibition. A few moments before people arrived to the Opening Reception I received a call from Houlihan, and she told me that she must have her pastel no matter the cost. We exchanged; she got the pastel and I got her to model for Blithe.

Sadly, she has died. I attended her service. It took place in beautifully landscaped grounds and there were over a hundred people there. A few of them addressed the crowd with a microphone under a pavilion that shaded them from the sun. The nurse, who was with her when she died, tentatively did her turn at the microphone and factually told us about Houlihan’s last moments of life. She told us that the cancer had robbed Houlihan of her voice, but that seconds before she died she stretched out her arms in a wide gesture and began to sing, albeit soundlessly.

Appropriately, the image of her in the painting is larger than life.

I digress.

Before the trial my attorney was shaken up by the correspondence with the collector in the pre-trial proceedings. Enough so that he asked me if there was more to the trial than just the painting. “What went on between you two guys? Is there something more I should know about?” In truth, I hardly knew the collector. He had bought a few lithos and drawings, but he seemed introverted, not expressive at all. He was a licensed professional but worked as a minion. I assumed he had money from a source other than work, because he owned a home, he had a good-sized art collection, and he owned an expensive car. On the rare occasions that we met he had always been respectful towards me. Though, before he had bought Blithe there was a moment I witnessed that should have made me wary.

I had organized an exhibition in my L.A. studio for an ex-apprentice of mine. She was a brilliant young artist and she had recently spent a year studying in St. Petersburg, Russia. She filled the studio with over 30 paintings. The collector, the artist, and myself were standing together and he said to her, “Sell me.” She responded with a slightly nervous quizzical gesture. He elaborated, “I am a potential buyer, sell me. Give me your sales pitch.” She and I were stunned to dumbness. Afraid I would become unprofessional I moved away towards another group of visitors.

During the trial the collector represented himself. I stole several glances at him. And I couldn’t help but to study him, visual analysis is habitual for me. He had gained soft weight. He looked ill kept but, incongruously, clean. His hair had not been trimmed for some time, but it had been recently washed. His plaid shirt and loose pants looked like they were a month or two away from being given to the homeless, but they appeared fresh. The spread of skin on his face was rumpled. His eyes looked smaller than I remembered, and they looked like they ached from a dull throbbing pain. My attorney asked him about the existence and location of the painting. I swallowed my heart when the collector refused to answer. The collector went on to say that my work was worth nothing, that I was a mediocre artist, that I manipulated potential buyers, that I was a criminal, that I was running away from the law, that I was a fraud. He explained his reasoning for the evidence of fraud, “How long do I need to look at the painting before I feel blitheness? A day, a week, a year?”

Early in the trial the collector asked me if I sell my work to anyone who pays for it? I replied, “Of course. Why would anyone buy a work if they didn’t love it, or, at least, like the piece?”

Towards the end of the trial the Judge paraphrased the collector’s question. He asked me, “Would you still sell your work to anyone who paid for it?” After a revelatory span of seconds, I looked the Judge in the eyes and said, “No, I wouldn’t. If someone doesn’t have a soul, no art work can fill that void.”

Bang. The trial ended. We won. Apparently we also proved several legal technical points. I got Blithe back within three hours!