There Are No Saints by Sophie Lark EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Author: Sophie Lark
- Language: English
- Genre: Gothic Romance
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
COLE BLACKWELL
I saw the headlines that a girl had been murdered on Ocean Beach, her
body left floating in the ruins of the old Sutro Baths. I knew it was
Shaw, as surely as if he’d signed his name to his work. I didn’t need to
see his smug smirk at the showcase to confirm it. He delights in losing
himself in the frenzy of beating and mutilation. His subjects can rarely be
identified by teeth or even fingerprints.
I already saw the piece he’s showing tonight. Mine is better.
Everything is excess with him. All the color, all the bold strokes, all the
symbolism hitting you over the head.
Still, I’m sure he’ll sell a thousand prints, whether he wins tonight’s prize or
not. Alastor is nothing if not industrious. His genius for self-promotion far
exceeds his genius for art.
He catches my eye as he swaggers into the gallery, giving me the merest
suggestion of a smile, a tug of the lips that shows the glint of bleached
teeth. I give him nothing in return.
He looks tanned, despite the viscous fog covering the city all week. Several
women flock toward him, including Betsy Voss, who organized this event.
She smiles up at Shaw, resting her hand lightly on his forearm as she laughs
at some joke he’s made.
Alastor grins back at her, his face boyishly animated.
He reminds me of a pitcher plant, exuding sticky sweetness to lure in flies.
I know most of the people milling around, drinking complimentary glasses
of merlot, examining the work on display, arguing its merit with increasing
abandon as the wine takes hold.
It’s all the same people, the same ass-kissing conversation.
I’m so fucking bored.
The San Francisco art scene is incestuous. Everyone knows everyone else,
in both the common and biblical senses. Betsy and Alastor have fucked
before, though she doesn’t have to worry about ending up in the Sutro Baths
—she’s much too useful as a broker for Shaw’s art.
In fact, the only person within my view I don’t recognize is the skinny girl
shoving cheese in her mouth over at Betsy’s excellent buffet spread. Betsy
never skimps—she’s provided a generous selection of fresh fruit,
sandwiches, and macarons. The girl is demolishing the smoked gouda like
she hasn’t eaten in a week, which she probably hasn’t. Another starving
artist scavenging on the outskirts.
The girl has tried to dress up for the occasion: she’s wearing a loose white
shift dress, crisp and bright enough that she must have acquired it recently.
Her boots tell another story—the battered Docs look older than she is. A
botanical tattoo runs down one bird-like collarbone.
I’m about to turn my gaze to a more interesting subject when the girl
collides with Jack Brisk, curator of contemporary art at SFMOMA.
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