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The painter
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"Peter Heller, the celebrated author of the breakout best seller The Dog Stars, returns with an achingly beautiful, wildly suspenseful second novel about an artist trying to outrun his past"-- - (Baker & Taylor)

"Peter Heller, the celebrated author of the breakout best-seller The Dog Stars, returns with an achingly beautiful, wildly suspenseful second novel about an artist trying to outrun his past. Years ago, a well-known expressionist painter named Jim Stegner shot a man in a bar. The man lived, Jim served his time, and he has learned to live with the dark impulses that sometimes overtake him. Jim enjoys a quiet life in the valleys of Colorado. He works with a lovely model, he doesn't drink, he goes fly fishing in the evenings. His paintings fetch excellent prices at a posh gallery in Santa Fe. He is--if he can admit it--almost happy. One day, driving down a dirt road, Jim sees a man beating a small horse. Jim leaps out of the truck, tackles the man, and bloodies his nose. The man is Dell, a cruel hunting outfitter notorious among locals. Jim cannot shake his rage over the little horse. The next night, under a full moon, telling himself he is just going night fishing, he returns to the creek where Dell has his camp and kills him. As Jim tries to come to terms with what he has done, he must evade the police, navigate his own conscience, and escape the members of Dell's clan set on revenge. And he paints the whole time; trying to make sense of his actions. Traveling from the rough adobe cottages and rivers of Colorado to the bright streets and galleries of Santa Fe, aching with grief and transcendent with beauty, The Painter is a story about art and love and violence, and using the remnants of hardship to create a rich life"-- - (Baker & Taylor)

Struggling with dark impulses after serving time for attempted murder, a successful artist gives in to his obsessions to kill an abusive troublemaker before fleeing authorities and the man's vengeful clan. - (Baker & Taylor)

Struggling with dark impulses after serving time for attempted murder, a successful artist gives in to his obsessions to kill an abusive troublemaker before fleeing authorities and the man's vengeful clan. By the author of the best-selling The Dog Stars. 75,000 first printing. - (Baker & Taylor)

Peter Heller, the celebrated author of the breakout best seller The Dog Stars, returns with an achingly beautiful, wildly suspenseful second novel about an artist trying to outrun his past.

Jim Stegner has seen his share of violence and loss. Years ago he shot a man in a bar. His marriage disintegrated. He grieved the one thing he loved. In the wake of tragedy, Jim, a well-known expressionist painter, abandoned the art scene of Santa Fe to start fresh in the valleys of rural Colorado. Now he spends his days painting and fly-fishing, trying to find a way to live with the dark impulses that sometimes overtake him. He works with a lovely model. His paintings fetch excellent prices. But one afternoon, on a dirt road, Jim comes across a man beating a small horse, and a brutal encounter rips his quiet life wide open. Fleeing Colorado, chased by men set on retribution, Jim returns to New Mexico, tormented by his own relentless conscience.

A stunning, savage novel of art and violence, love and grief, The Painter is the story of a man who longs to transcend the shadows in his heart, a man intent on using the losses he has suffered to create a meaningful life.

- (Random House, Inc.)

Author Biography

Peter Heller is the best-selling author of The Dog Stars. He holds an MFA from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop in both fiction and poetry. An award-winning adventure writer and a longtime contributor to NPR, Heller is a contributing editor atOutside magazine, Men’s Journal, and National Geographic Adventure, and a regular contributor toBloomberg Businessweek. He is also the author of several nonfiction books, includingKook, The Whale Warriors, and Hell or High Water: Surviving Tibet’s Tsangpo River. He lives in Denver, Colorado. - (Random House, Inc.)

First Chapter or Excerpt

The Painter

A novel

By Peter Heller

Random House LLC

Copyright © 2014 Peter Heller
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-385-35209-3



An Ocean of Women


52 x 48 INCHES

My house is three miles south of town. There are forty acres of wheatgrass and sage, a ditch with a hedgerow of cottonwoods and willows, a small pond with a dock. The back fence gives on to the West Elk Mountains. Right there. They are rugged and they rise up just past the back of my place, from sage into juniper woods, then oak brush, then steep slopes of black timber, spruce and fir, and outcrops of rock and swaths of aspen clinging to the shoulders of the ridges. If I walk a few miles south, up around the flank of Mount Lamborn, I am in the Wilderness, which runs all the way to the Curecanti above Gunnison, and across to Crested Butte.

From the little ramada I look south to all those mountains and east to the massif of Mount Gunnison. All rock and timber now in August. There's snow up there all but a few months a year. They tell me that some years the snow never vanishes. I'd like to see that.

If I step out in front of the small house and look west it is softer and drier that direction: the gently stepping uplift of Black Mesa where the Black Canyon of the Gunnison River cuts through; other desert mesas; the Uncompahgre Plateau out beyond it all, hazy and blue.

This is my new home. It's kind of overwhelming how beautiful. And little Paonia, funny name for a village out here, some old misspelling of Peony. Nestled down in all this high rough country like a train set. The North Fork of the Gunnison runs through it, a winding of giant leafy cottonwoods and orchards, farms, vineyards. A good place I guess to make a field of peace, to gather and breathe.

Thing is I don't feel like just breathing.

Sofia pulls up in the Subaru she calls Triceratops. It's that old. I can hear the rusted out muffler up on the county road, caterwauling like a Harley, hear the drop in tone as it turns down the steep gravel driveway. The downshift in the dip and dinosaur roar as it climbs again to the house. Makes every entrance very dramatic, which she is.

She is twenty-eight. An age of drama. She reminds me of a chicken in the way she is top-heavy, looks like she should topple over. I mean her trim body is small enough to support breasts the size of tangerines and she is grapefruit. It is not that she is out of proportion, it's exaggerated proportion which I guess fascinates me. I asked her to model for me five minutes after meeting her. That was about three months ago. We were standing in line in the tiny hippy coffee shop—Blue Moon, what else?—the only place in town with an espresso machine. She was wearing a short knit top and she had strong arms, scarred along the forearms the way someone who has worked outside is scarred, and a slightly crooked nose, somehow Latin. She looked like a fighter, like me. Sofia noticed the paint splattered on my cap, hands, khaki pants.

"Artist," she said. It wasn't a question.

Her brown eyes which were flecked with green roved over my head, clothes, and I realized she was cataloguing the colors in the spatters.

"Exuberant," she said. "Primitive. Outsider—in quotes."

"You're kidding."

"I went to RISD for a year but dropped out."

Then her eyes went to the flies stuck in the cap.

"Artist fisherman," she said. "Cool."

She asked how long I'd been here, I said two weeks, she said, "Welcome. Sofia," and stuck out her hand.

I said I needed models.

She cocked her head and measured me with one eye. Held it way past politeness.



"How much?"

Shrug. "Twenty bucks an hour?"

"I'm trying to decide if you are a creep. You're not a violent felon are you?"

"Yes. I am."

A smile trembled across her face. "Really?"

I nodded.

"Wow. What'd you do?"

"I shot a man in a bar. You're not going to back out the door like in a horror movie are you?"

She laughed. "I was thinking about it."

"My second wife did that when she found out."

She was laughing uninhibited. People in line were smiling at her.

"You're married?"

"Not anymore. She ran off down the road."

"I'll do it," she said. "For twenty-five. Danger pay."

Took her a while to rein in her mirth.

"Nude modeling for a violent killer convict. That is a first. Twenty-five, right?"

I nodded. "I didn't kill the guy, I just shot him. I was a little high and to the left."

She was laughing again and I knew that I had made a friend.

Now she shoved open the door like she always did, like she was doing some SWAT breach entry. Tumbled into the room.



"Your muffler is getting worse."

"Really? Tops is balking at extinction. Poor guy."

She sat on a stool at the long butcher block counter that separates the kitchen in this one big room. I pushed aside a bunch of sketch paper and charcoal and the fly-tying vise where I'd been tying up some Stegner Killers, invented by yours truly, which the trout couldn't seem to resist the past couple of weeks. I set a mug of coffee on the counter between us, poured myself another.

"What are we doing today?"

"An Ocean of Women. Something I've been thinking about."

"An ocean? Just me?"

"On my way up here from Santa Fe a good friend told me I can't always swim in an ocean of women. I saw it. Me swimming, all the women, the fish. I thought we could give it a try."

"Forget it."

I set down my mug. "Really? No?"

"Just kidding. Fuck, Jim, you ask a lot of a girl."

"Want an egg with chilies?"

Shook her head.

"You just have to make like an ocean. Just once."

She cocked her head the way she does, fixed me with an eye. The light from the south windows brushed a peppering of faint acne pits on her temple and it somehow drew attention to the smoothness of her cheek and neck.

"Stormy or calm?" she said.

I shrugged.

She leaned forward on the counter, her breasts roosting happily in her little button top.

"How about choppy and disturbed? Dugar told me yesterday he wants to move to Big Sur." Dugar was her hippy boyfriend. "I'm like how fucking corny. Plus nobody lives there anymore, it's so damn expensive. He read a bunch of Henry Miller. Are you a teenager? I said. You like read a novel and want to move there?"

She stuck out her mug and I refilled it.

"It wasn't a novel it was a memoir, he says. Jeez. He says he is a poet but between you and me his poems are sophomoric. Lately, since he's read up on Big Sur, they are all about sea elephants which he has never seen. I have and they are not prepossessing, know what I mean? They would never even move if they didn't have to eat. I said there is no fucking way I'm moving to Big Sur with the sea elephants, or even the Castroville, which is like the closest place a normal person could afford to live. I mean, do you want to live in the artichoke capital of the world? Be grateful for what you've got right now, where you are right now. Then I unleash the twins."

I am laughing now.

"That's not fair, is it?"

"Not by a long shot."

"I'm young," she says. It's a simple statement, incontrovertible, and it stabs me with something like pain in the middle of my laughter.

We begin. Sofia is a champ of an ocean, a natural. I paint fast. I paint her oceaning on her side, arched, facing and away from me, swimming down off a pile of pillows, breaststroke, on her back over the same pillows willowing backwards arms extended as if reaching after a brilliant fish. I paint the fish as big as she is, invoking him. More fish, a hungry dark shark swimming up from the gloom below with what looks like a dog's pink boner. The shark has a blue human eye, not devoid of embarrassment. I am lost. In the sea. I don't speak. Sofia has the rhythm of a dancer and she changes as she feels the mood change.

I love this. I paint myself swimming. A big bearded man, beard going white—I'm forty-five and it's been salt and pepper since I was thirty. I'm clothed in denim shirt and khakis and boots, ungainly and hulking in this ocean of women, swimming for my life and somehow enjoying it. In my right hand is a fishing rod. It looks like the swimmer is doing too many things at once and this may be his downfall. Or maybe it's the root of his joy. My palette is a piece of covered fiberboard and I am swiping, touching, shuttling between it and canvas, stowing the small brush with a cocked little finger and reaching for the knife, all in time to her slowly shifting poses. I am a fish myself, making small darting turns against the slower background rhythms and sway of the swell. No thought, not once. Nothing I can remember.

It is not a fugue state. I've heard artists talk about that like it's some kind of religious thing. For me it's the same as when I am having a good day fishing. I move up the creek, tie on flies, cast to the far bank, wade, throw into the edge of a pool, feel the hitch the tug of a strike bang!—all in a happy silence of mind. Quiet. The kind of quiet feeling that fills you all night as you ready the meal, steam the asparagus, pour the sparkling water and cut the limes. Fills you into the next day.

I wouldn't call it divine. I think it's just showing up for once. Paying attention. I have heard artists say they are channeling God. You have to have a really good gallery to say that. I am painting now without naming any of it, can name it only in memory, and I become aware of a tickling on my neck. Sofia is leaning into me, standing on her tiptoes and watching over my shoulder. I turn my head so that my bearded chin is against her curly head. She is wearing the terry cloth robe she leaves here. She doesn't say a word. She is behind me, but I can feel her smile, a lifting and tautening of the pillow of her cheek against my chin. I was painting more fish, and women, and these crab-like things at the bottom that had men's eyes and reaching claws, and had somehow lost the fact that my model had vanished in the tumult.

"It's been three hours," she whispers. "I'm gonna go." I nod. She tugs my beard once and is gone. Somewhere in there among the ocean of women and the darting fish and a man happily lost at sea I hear wind over water and a heart breaking like crockery and the bleating roar of a retreating dinosaur.


I came to the valley to paint. That was four months ago and I am painting, finally. I came up from Taos which is getting more crowded and pretentious by the minute. I was looking to find a place that was drama free. I am pretty good, somewhat famous, which means it gets harder to be quiet. A quiet place. There are two books about me. One I admit was commissioned years ago by Steve, my dealer in Santa Fe, as a way to boost my cachet, and it worked: prices for the paintings almost doubled. That's when I traded in my used van, the one with the satellite Off switch that the collection agency in Santa Fe could activate if I missed a payment. Leaving me stranded by the side of the empty desert highway.

The other book is a fine and true scholarly study of what the author calls a Great American Southwest Post-Expressionist Naïf. I've been called a lot of things, but naïve was never one of them. It must have been because I couldn't stop painting chickens. Farmyard chickens in every frame: landscapes, adobe houses, coal trains, even nudes. There was a chicken. They make me laugh, their jaunty shape all out of balance—like a boat that was built by a savant boat maker, you know it shouldn't float but the fucker does. That's chickens. Naïf.


Excerpted from The Painter by Peter Heller. Copyright © 2014 Peter Heller. Excerpted by permission of Random House LLC, a division of Random House, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Booklist Reviews

*Starred Review* Heller's first novel, The Dog Stars (2012), a muscularly literary postapocalyptic tale, became a blazing best-seller. Here he takes the frenetic energy down a notch without diminishing suspense as he portrays an artist with "the heart of a killer." Though renowned and well off, with a top gallery in Santa Fe, painter Jim Stegner is haunted by grief and guilt. He served time for shooting a dangerous man who made lewd remarks about Jim's blossoming daughter, who later died under circumstances he can't bear to think about. Seeking peace in the glories of land and sky and the Zen of fly-fishing, Jim has just settled into a small house in the Colorado wilderness, where he's painting with great intensity, inspired by the best model he's ever had, smart, tough Sophia. Then he encounters a man brutally beating a horse. Jim ends up murdering this notoriously violent, much-feared hunting outfitter, putting an abrupt end to his quest for serenity. As Jim duels with the police and the dead man's kin, he keeps painting, creating provoking, elegiac, and jubilant works fueled by anguish and love. Heller's writing is sure-footed and rip-roaring, star-bright and laced with "dark yearning," coalescing in an ever-escalating, ravishing, grandly engrossing and satisfying tale of righteousness and revenge, artistic fervor and moral ambiguity. Copyright 2014 Booklist Reviews.

Library Journal Reviews

Another from Heller, who sparkled with The Dog Stars, his edge-of-the-earth breakout debut. Having served time for shooting a man, Jim Stegner gets good money for his paintings at a Santa Fe gallery and has sworn off violence. Then he spies a bad-news local named Dell beating a horse and intervenes; a painting he does of a man digging a grave proves prophetic, as Jim again encounters Dell and kills him. With an eight-city tour.

[Page 69]. (c) Copyright 2013. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

Library Journal Reviews

Right and wrong. Good and evil. Often, these are difficult distinctions to make, as we see in this second novel from the author of the acclaimed The Dog Stars. Expressionist artist Jim Stegner finds sanctuary in fly-fishing, especially after the murder of his teenage daughter. He has been jailed once for almost killing a man, but he isn't what most of us would call a bad person. When Jim sees lowlife Dell Siminoe viciously abusing a small horse, he becomes angry, and they fight. Jim never planned to kill over it, but when he stumbles upon Dell in the dark, by the side of a river, Jim doesn't let him walk away again. For the rest of the novel, Jim battles his demons, producing brilliant paintings even as he dodges the police, and Dell's family, at every turn. The story is at times suspenseful, at times melancholy, at times spiritual, but always engrossing. Jim is no hero, but he is certainly compelling. VERDICT Difficult to define by genre, this novel embraces themes of personal loss and growth, drama and suspense, while also including plenty for those who enjoy art or nature fiction. Highly recommended. [See Prepub Alert, 11/3/13.]—Shaunna E. Hunter, Hampden-Sydney Coll. Lib., VA

[Page 77]. (c) Copyright 2014. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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