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Show 117 Rex Schoefield. He seemed suddenly kindled, alert, inclined forward, questioning. "More sangria?" Leah asked. She waved Hunt's pitcher in a semi-circle at the crowd. "Did he paint the sangria?" Lane Pierson did something with his mouth, half a grin, then took an icecube from his scotch and threw it into the pool. Hunt felt like a shuttlecock. His eyes photographed the knuckles on both of Lane Pierson's hands. "Really . . . seriously, have we heard of you?" Rex Schoefield wanted to know. When it fell that Hunt's painting happened in the northeast bedroom, now his studio, someone, it was probably Rex, asked if they could see it. "Would that be possible? Could we see your work?" "What do you paint?" Andi Pierson asked. "Well ..." Impossible questions: Hunt fought, though, to be gracious. "Well ..." Leah passed some guacamole and some chemical-doused tortilla chips. "Landscapes? -Portraits?" It was inescapable. He'd become the casual center of attention. "Well, right now ..." "Right now he's seeming himself as a Realist," Leah said, anxious for both question and answer to be over. "I don't basically ever go into his studio, but ..." "Did he paint that dip?" Lane Pierson fished and tossed another cube of ice. |