Page 2 of Painted in Love

Clay said almost forcefully, “You don’t have to worry about being trashed. I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Dylan looked at him, his head wagging on his narrow neck, his body otherwise immovable. “You can’t really stop that.”

But Clay assured him, “Yes, I can.”

That’s what his new video platform, Art Space, was all about, providing a safe place for artists where they were never demoralized by cruel or vicious comments. He had the power to make sure Dylan never suffered what his friend Gareth had.

He went back to Dylan’s earlier comment. “Once it’s sanitized, this is a good place to start.”

But still the kid repeated his refrain. “I don’t know.”

Clay walked into the alley despite its eau de garbage. Dylan followed more hesitantly. Until they both made out a mural at the end of the alley. Though slightly obscured by shadow, there was definitely a painting there. Street art. As he closed in on it, Clay saw materials on the ground beside it, spray paint cans, regular paint cans, even a stepladder to reach the uppermost parts of the mural.

Suddenly, Dylan overtook him, almost running. He stopped at the base of the mural, staring up as if he were looking at a religious icon.

“This is him.” Dylan’s voice dripped with awe, his gaze reverent.

“Who?”

“San Holo.” Dylan looked back at Clay. “It’s him. I know everything he’s done, and this is totally new.” The boy’s voice had taken on the worshipfulness of a postulant.

Clay stared with him. He knew about San Holo, the famous street artist Dylan always talked about. When the kid first mentioned the artist, his voice had been full of adulation. “San Holo is the best. This is what I want to do. I want to be just like him.”

Clay had immediately researched San Holo and studied his art. He’d talked to Cal Danniger, too, since he’d heard the story about Cal coming across San Holo’s early work in London. In fact, that was the trip where Cal had first met Clay’s brother Dane. Cal had spoken highly of the artist and owned several first edition prints.

San Holo, like Banksy, sold canvases of his murals and limited-edition prints. That was where the money came from. He also did commissions. But what made San Holo almost as famous as Banksy was right here in front of them. His street art.

Despite having studied the man’s art, Clay still had to ask, “Are you sure this is his work?”

The kid narrowed his eyes mutinously. “I know it.” He put a hand to his chest. “Don’t you feel its power?”

Dylan obviously wanted them to experience that power together, as he stepped away, hand on Clay’s arm, pulling him back to gaze up at the mural. Breathlessly, he said, “Isn’t it totally amazing? Everything he does is mind-blowing.” His voice dropped low to that reverent note.

Clay stared up at the painting. A ladder reaching all the way to the clouds was peopled with an array of climbers: a Native American woman, an Asian man, a Black man with a child’s hand in his as he helped her climb. A Black woman held out her hand to a white woman on the rungs below. People of all diverse cultures climbed into the clouds together.

Dylan pointed. “Look. There’s even a little green man.”

Sure enough, a green alien with bulging eyes held out a three-fingered hand, helping the people of Earth reach for the sky.

Dylan murmured, “Do you feel the power?”

Clay did. Much of the work had been spray-painted—the clouds, the sky, the grass and flowers surrounding the ladder. But the expressions on the individual faces were rendered with perfect brushstrokes.

“Could he have done this overnight?” Clay asked, not so much of Dylan, but of the universe.

“That’s what he’s famous for,” Dylan expounded. “His paintings appear overnight.” He squeezed Clay’s arm in his excitement. “Let’s find the fleur-de-lis.”

The fleur-de-lis was part of San Holo’s signature. Once they found it, they would also uncover the small initials SH that went with it. San Holo was known for making his acolytes search for the symbol. If Dylan found it now, that would be the real tell that it was one of the artist’s new pieces.

They searched every inch—the flowers, the people’s clothing and faces, the trees, the ladder, until the sun crept up the wall to banish the last of the shadows. Dylan set up the stepladder, climbing for a better look.

“I found it.” His cry echoed with joy as he pointed at the alien. “I told you this was San Holo.” Then he took his phone out of his back pocket and snapped a picture.

Once on the ground again, he pushed Clay to the ladder. “You have to see.”

Clay climbed beside the people ascending their ladder, until he was level with the alien’s bulging eyes. There it was, right in the eye, a fleur-de-lis and the initials SH.

Dylan was right on the money.

---