No one could possibly use Tracey’s works for anything practical. They wouldn’t hold food or drink or flowers. But they did hold the attention. Not unlike the man himself. Carl Tracey seemed an unfinished, partially formed man. Soft. Useless. And yet there was also something about the man. Not attractive. In fact, Gamache felt repulsed by him. But he also felt his eyes returning to him. Carl Tracey was a presence. There was no denying that. A statement piece. Like his works.
