The Interview

The Lennox Gallery loomed ahead of Ethan Cross, its sleek glass facade glinting in the late afternoon sun. He adjusted the strap of his leather satchel and took a deep breath. Inside the bag were the tools of his trade: a notebook, a recorder, and a sharp instinct for uncovering truths.

...Today, his focus was Kai Lennox, the elusive artist whose work had taken the art world by storm—and whose reputation for secrecy rivaled his acclaim. ...

Ethan pushed open the heavy glass doors, stepping into the gallery’s pristine interior. The space was cool and hushed, the polished floors reflecting the bold, enigmatic paintings on the walls. His gaze swept over the artwork, each piece a riot of color and shadow that seemed to draw the viewer into its depths.

“You must be Mr. Cross.”

Ethan turned to see a petite woman with sleek black hair and a sharp blazer. She held a clipboard in one hand and exuded the efficient energy of someone who got things done.

“That’s me,” he replied, flashing a polite smile.

“I’m Emily, Mr. Lennox’s assistant. He’s expecting you in his studio upstairs.” Her tone was crisp and businesslike, but her eyes lingered on Ethan for a moment longer than necessary.

“Lead the way,” Ethan said.

Emily guided him through the gallery and into a narrow hallway that led to an industrial staircase. As they climbed, the faint strains of a piano drifted down, the melancholy melody adding an almost cinematic air to the moment.

When they reached the top, Emily gestured to a heavy door at the end of the hall.

“He’s inside,” she said, her voice softer now. Then, without another word, she turned and disappeared down the stairs.

Ethan hesitated for a moment, then squared his shoulders and pushed the door open.

----------------

The studio was a chaotic contrast to the gallery below. Canvases leaned against every surface, some finished, others half-covered in bold, sweeping strokes. Tables overflowed with brushes, paints, and jars of murky water. The scent of turpentine hung heavy in the air.

In the center of it all stood Kai Lennox, his back to the door as he worked on a massive canvas. His movements were deliberate, almost hypnotic, as he dragged a brush across the surface.

“Mr. Lennox?” Ethan said, his voice cutting through the soft strains of piano music playing from a nearby speaker.

Kai didn’t turn around.

“I hope you’re not the kind of journalist who plans to waste my time,” he said, his tone cool and dismissive.

Ethan suppressed a flicker of irritation. “I’ll do my best not to.”

Kai finally set his brush down and turned to face him. Ethan had seen photos of the artist before, but they didn’t do him justice. Kai Lennox was striking in a way that was almost unsettling—dark hair that looked artfully tousled, sharp green eyes that seemed to pierce through layers of pretense, and a face that could have belonged to a sculpture in the gallery below.

“I’m giving you thirty minutes,” Kai said, leaning against the edge of a cluttered table. “Make them count.”

Ethan opened his notebook and clicked his pen, forcing himself to stay composed under Kai’s piercing gaze.

“Your work has been described as cryptic, even impenetrable,” Ethan began. “Is that intentional?”

Kai arched an eyebrow. “Cryptic is just another word for misunderstood. People see what they want to see.”

“And what do you want them to see?”

Kai tilted his head slightly, as though considering the question. “That depends. What do you see?”

Ethan glanced at the painting behind Kai. It was a chaotic swirl of reds and blacks, slashed through with jagged streaks of white. To the untrained eye, it might have seemed random, but Ethan could sense a pattern in the chaos.

“Violence,” he said after a moment. “But also hope. Like someone clawing their way out of the dark.”

For the first time, Kai’s expression softened, just a fraction. “Interesting.”

Ethan pressed on. “You’ve been in the art world for over a decade, but your early works are almost impossible to find. Why is that?”

Kai’s face hardened. “Because I destroyed them.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t like who I was when I painted them.”

The answer was blunt, but there was a flicker of something in Kai’s eyes—pain, maybe, or regret. Ethan made a note, though he didn’t press further.

“Your recent work has been even more abstract,” Ethan said, shifting gears. “Some critics say it’s your best yet. Others say you’re hiding something.”

Kai smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Art is about evoking emotion, not explaining it. If people think I’m hiding something, maybe they’re projecting their own insecurities.”

Ethan leaned forward slightly. “And are you hiding something?”

Kai held his gaze, the air between them suddenly charged. “Aren’t we all?”

The silence stretched, and Ethan found himself caught off guard by the intensity of Kai’s stare. He quickly broke eye contact, jotting down another note to disguise his unease.

Before he could ask his next question, Kai’s phone buzzed on the table beside him. He glanced at the screen, his jaw tightening.

“That’s all for today,” Kai said abruptly, turning back to his canvas.

“But I still have—”

“I said we’re done.”

There was no mistaking the finality in Kai’s tone. Ethan closed his notebook and stood, feeling the weight of unfinished business hanging between them.

As he made his way back down the stairs and into the crisp evening air, Ethan couldn’t shake the feeling that Kai Lennox was more than just an artist with a mysterious past.

And Ethan would find out what he was hiding—no matter what it took.

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