Art Is The Lie (A Vanderbie Novel) - Plot & Excerpts
My aunt’s car was gone, as was Quentin’s. He’d left just as I’d asked. When I entered the house, Dad was sitting on the couch, his face filled with the same misery burning in me. I knew he heard me, but he didn’t budge. We were both silent as I crossed through the room, stopping in front of Mom’s painting. I saw it with fresh eyes. Torment and lies raging in the storm of blue. Love and hate where hard and soft wrapped around each other. “Your grandmother used to paint her visions,” Dad said, eerily commenting and breaking the stillness. I didn’t turn. Instead, I wallowed in the nuances I’d never noticed. The texture. The strokes. “Her art allowed her to escape the hold the visions would have on her.” “Does she have them often?” I asked, unable to look at him and not be overwhelmed by betrayal. “She used to. She used to see terrible pain and suffering. It would take over her mind, throwing her body out of control as she struggled to make sense of it.”
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