by Hoang, Jamie
“Sure,” I said, smiling as naturally as I could. I tried not to think about how long it had been since I’d felt the thickness of lipstick on my lips.
The idea of standing in a room full of critics, all there to judge my new work, made me sick to my stomach and the car ride wasn’t helping. Anxiety and regret clutched at my chest as my body shifted forward with the brakes. Luckily, Carmen rode with me to the gallery. “We’re here,” she said.
My hands shook as they moved across the door in search of the latch. When I found it, I pushed the door open with so much force that I heard it bounce on its hinges. A cool beach breeze filled the car instantly and I carefully placed one foot outside before lifting myself out of the seat. This was my first time wearing heels since going blind and my rattled legs made it difficult to find a solid footing. I told myself to act confident and lifted my body from my seat, only to bump my head on the roof of the car.
“Fuck,” I whispered.
“You okay? Take your time, there’s no rush,” Carmen said, sliding her wrist into my right hand.
“I’m fine. Happens all the time,” I said, rubbing the raised bump I felt forming.
Inside, high heels clacked on the ceramic flooring, chatter bounced across the walls, and a violin concerto lightly played from somewhere in the back. There was nothing quite like standing in such a familiar place only to hear it for the first time.
“Would you like a drink, miss?”
“Yes, please,” I replied, slowly reaching into space so as not to accidentally knock over his tray. A thin champagne flute found its way into my hand. “Thank you,” I said, taking a large sip and begging the fizzy bubbles to work their way through my system quickly.
“Aubs, you look beautiful,” Michael said, giving me a kiss. I traded Carmen’s elbow for his.
“Thanks,” I said, squeezing his arm tight.
“Aren’t you glad I made you do this now?”
“Glad is not the word I’d use,” I smiled.
Shifting in my strappy gold heels, I felt goosebumps covering my legs, and suddenly the risqué choice to wear a low cut dress seemed like a bad idea. Did it look like I was trying too hard? And what if the tape came loose and I flashed everyone without even knowing it? The image of Janet Jackson at the Super Bowl crossed my mind and I quickly brought the hand holding my champagne to my chest to make sure nothing had shifted. Carmen had taped the edges to my body and as far as I could tell it was still pretty secure.
“Are you hot?” Carmen asked. Apparently she was standing on the other side of Michael.
“The opposite actually,” I said.
“Then you might consider moving the cold champagne glass away from your skin?” she suggested.
“Ah, right,” I replied. “Just checking to make sure the girls are still secure.” I took another gulp of liquid courage and relaxed. If I was going to get through this night in one piece, it wasn’t going to be sober.
“Are you ready to mingle?” Michael asked.
I took a deep breath. Ready or not, I couldn’t just hide behind them. I released the air in my lungs and said, “Let’s do this.”
Swapping elbows once again, Carmen would be my eyes for the night. I asked that they do this because I wasn’t particularly great at using my walking stick and I didn’t want to draw any more attention to my blindness than necessary. I wanted to appear strong and able-bodied; to elicit triumph, not pity; to appear confident and happy. The room was quiet, too quiet, and I could feel their pitying eyes watching me. “Why is it so quiet?” I asked. The sudden lack of movement and chatter was disconcerting. My body mechanically pressed forward, ready to bolt even though I had nowhere to run. I had no idea where I was spatially in the room, because I hadn’t been paying attention to how many steps I’d taken or how many times I’d turned.
Suddenly I heard a clap, and then another, and before I knew it the whole room was whooping and whistling.
The applause wasn’t just a polite acknowledgment of talent but a fierce acclamation that rang proud. I had expected the event to be somber and quiet, like a funeral. Respectful praise for the pieces I created and sympathy for my situation. Their thunderous support was so unexpected that I did something I swore never to do at an opening: I cried. Carmen handed me a tissue, which I used to quickly dab my eyes as the noise died down. “It took Carmen three hours to make my face look this good and y’all ruined it in thirty seconds,” I laughed, and the room laughed with me.
“Thank you,” I smiled, straining to control my trembling voice.
“We love you, Aubs, and we’re looking forward to many more works to come,” Michael said from somewhere beside me.
“Right,” I replied under my breath, before addressing the room. “Well, thank you all for coming. I always worry that no one will show up for these things.” They laughed. “I’ll make this quick: I just wanted to talk about the work you see at the end of the exhibit.” I paused—just the mention of it made me choke up. Swallowing hard, I continued, “As most of you know, I was recently diagnosed with Retinitis Pigmentosis. Which is why, when you talk to me, it may seem as if I find something behind you far more interesting.” They laughed politely. “Anyway, I went on this journey around the world looking for answers. Downloading all these images and memories to store as reference points so that when people mentioned things like the Eiffel Tower or the Taj Mahal, I’d know what they were talking about.” My voice threatened to crack so I quickly rushed though the rest of my rehearsed speech. “These last six, they’re a break from my usual work, so be prepared for that. And the seventh, the large photograph of the dancing ballerina, is my most recent piece and umm, I hope you enjoy them. Thank you all again for coming.” I raised my glass and they all replied, “Cheers,” in unison.
I turned toward Carmen, ready for her to lead me around, but she squeezed my wrist and stood stoic. There was another eerie silence. To release the tension I could feel building, I circled the top of my now empty champagne flute with my finger and waited.
“Aubs, I’ve known you since you were a nineteen-year-old kid peddling New York City skylines to tourists on a sidewalk.” He was crying. The silence that followed my speech was everyone waiting for Michael to gather himself. “I remember haggling with you for the first piece I bought from you. I think I paid $500.” I laughed, along with a few others. “Everyone here knows that I am a hard businessman. When I bought Ballerinas on Skid Row, I had no idea how talented you were. I only knew that your work made me feel something.” He laughed to himself. “So when it sold for $5,000 to the Gibsons, I had no choice but to pick up the phone and call you.”
My eyes were glistening. “And two days later I showed up in Venice.”
“And two days later you showed up in Venice,” he repeated.
I shook my head, “You steered me down this path, when I could’ve become an accountant.” That got a few more laughs, including one that made my stomach flutter. His high-pitched, single syllable ‘Ha!’ was a sound I hadn’t heard in months, but I thought I recognized it immediately. Jeff?
“You’re gonna forge a new path and blow us all away. I know you are. And until then, there is always a place for you at The M. Sanders Gallery,” Michael finished.
“As a sales rep?” I chided, trying not to think about Jeff being in the room. “Thank you, Michael.” I felt his arms wrap around me. “I owe my career to you. I’ll never forget that,” I whispered in his ear. He hugged me tighter and then let me go. Raising my hand in a toast, he clinked glasses with mine and said, “To dancing on an empty canvas.” He and I were the only ones who knew what that meant. Attached to the portrait in Petra, I had written a letter to Michael telling him all about Atef’s blind tourist.
“To dancing on an empty canvas,” I repeated, and we drank.
“May I?” Michael said, from somewhere on my right. He took the empty glass from me and rested my hand in the nook of his elbow. We walked twenty-six steps before he said, “Mr. and Mrs. Gibson were eyin
g this second painting of Paris at midnight. It goes with the one they purchased earlier this year.” I had no reference point for where the artwork was; Mrs. Gibson must’ve sensed it because she slipped her arm through my left arm and turned me slightly, toward what I assumed was the painting. Like a choreographed dance, Michael slipped his arm from mine and disappeared.
“Thank you for coming,” I said.
“What you’ve done with these last six—it’s astounding,” Mrs. Gibson said.
“Thank you,” I smiled. “Were you thinking of picking up Midnight in Paris II as a set?”
“We were, but it looks like someone already snatched it up!” Mr. Gibson said.
“Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s quite alright, dear. I quite like this new one. What’s the story?”
“Well, I went to Paris for the first time this summer—”
“Oh no, I’m sorry. I’m talking about the Dancing Ballerina photograph,” she interrupted.
“Oh,” I said. Initially I was surprised by their interest, but then I remembered they owned Ballerinas on Skid Row. I smiled. “When I was in Petra, I met this tour guide who told me he had a guest once who was a blind photographer. When asked why he took photos that he couldn’t see, the man replied, ‘Just because I can’t see the stage doesn’t mean I don’t want to dance on it.’”
“To dancing on an empty canvas,” Mr. Gibson recalled.
I smiled again, “Exactly. Well, not long after that I came across these street dancers in Brazil who created all kinds of beautiful images by dancing with glow sticks. Again I didn’t think much of it; that is, until I couldn’t see anymore.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t easy,” Mrs. Gibson said, squeezing my hand.
“No, but when I found my dad’s old Mamiyaflex camera, everything kind of came rushing to me at once and the idea of painting with light emerged. It’s a blind expression for the seeing world.”
“And you do everything yourself?” Mrs. Gibson asked. I could tell she was impressed.
“All of my chemicals are pre-measured for me, but for the most part, yes,” I replied.
“Michael’s right. Art is engrained in your soul. You’re not going anywhere.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but another voice interrupted me.
“Aubrey, what a fantastic exhibit,” a male voice said as he shook my hand.
I felt Mrs. Gibson’s arm slip from mine. “Congratulations again, dear,” she said, and then she was gone.
“Thank you, uh…” I started, unsure of who was standing in front of me.
“It’s Beth and Eli,” Beth interjected, giving me a hug.
“I’m so glad you could make it,” I smiled. I’d had a total of two dinners with them when I was in Houston finalizing the paperwork on the sale my childhood home. Eli’s firm, Kingston, Garber & Mitchell, managed my parents’ trust, but since I was an old friend, he and Beth insisted I come over for dinner before talking any kind of business. Over roasted turkey, mashed potatoes, and corn, they told me about my mom and dad before they were a mom and dad. It was the first conversation I’d had about my parents that wasn’t about their untimely deaths.
“I can’t believe you guys flew all the way out here,” I said, genuinely moved by their efforts.
“We’re glad to be here,” Eli said.
“Are you kidding me? A trip to California? I’m in heaven,” Beth gushed as she slid her hand down my forearm to grip my palm in a comforting squeeze. “You look absolutely stunning in this dress,” she said.
Beth was my mom’s college roommate, and my dad became good friends with Eli through the marriage. She told me that my mom was super-independent, saying that she would never just be a stay-at-home mom. My mom had big plans for traveling and opening up her own school in Middle America. My mom loved her job as a mathematician, so I was surprised she had these earlier philanthropic aspirations.
They told me my dad’s cameo role in Wes Anderson’s cult hit Rushmore was because he just happened to be walking by the mathematics building while they were filming and they liked how “academic” he looked. Not because he was the best looking guy on campus, as my dad liked to tell it. Hearing about the things my parents wanted in their late thirties and realizing their lives were full of uncertainties was both comforting and sad. Sad, because these “growing pain” conversations I thought were reserved for adolescence were actually lifelong topics I wouldn’t get to hash out with the two people whose opinions I valued most. Comforting, because it was nice to know that somehow, even without their guidance, I was living a life that in some ways paralleled theirs.
“Hey, listen. Eli and I have been debating for the last half hour about the meaning behind Girl in Petra,” Beth said. “Because of its muted tones and fragmented design, I feel like it’s about how we’re all just trying to keep the pieces of our lives from scattering, but Eli thinks it’s simpler than that—that it’s about how the world is already fragmented and at different times in our lives we see the same images differently.”
I smiled, “I would say you’re both pretty spot-on. I was feeling like the portrait of my life had been whacked by a large mallet, cracking the paint that I had so carefully layered throughout the years. So as I was sitting at the top of this Monastery for hours, looking at these shades of pink that made up the landscape, I felt myself melt into it. But I was also at a crossroads and seeing the world from two different perspectives, so the cubist aspect of the painting is representative of time.”
“It’s a conversation piece,” Beth said. “And it’s going right over our mantle. I love it. Aubs, this opening is fantastic and I know it’s bad form to say this, but I’m going to anyway. I wish you could see yourself, you look absolutely stunning.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Do you think I can top my dad’s cameo? Like, actually get a speaking role?”
“Honey, in that dress I’d give you the lead,” she replied.
I was left alone for a few minutes while Carmen ran off to grab me a champagne refill. I stood somewhere in the back room with the corner of a wall as my only point of reference. Everything sounded as I would have expected, light chatter, shuffling feet, and the tap tap of heels with occasional laughter. The room was full of people, yet I felt utterly alone. I was certain I’d heard Jeff’s laugh, but the night was almost over and I had yet to hear his voice again. Stop it, I scolded myself. Stop thinking about him.
To distract myself, I imagined the layout of the room. I knew Michael had an eight-foot wall installed to separate a small space in the back for these particular pieces. On the front of that wall, I was told, was the collage of the world’s most famous places that I had made out of one of my travel books. Having seen it on my wall when he picked up the painting from Peru, Michael insisted that it be transferred to the studio for my opening. “It’s the thread that ties not only these six works of art together, but also bridges the gap between your previous work and your most recent,” he said, more as a statement than a request for my consent.
To be honest, I wasn’t entirely comfortable with a preamble to my new collection. I firmly believed that each piece should stand on its own in its ability to provoke and engage. What did it mean that these six needed a preface before their story could be understood? I wasn’t sure. As for Dancing Ballerina, Michael insisted that she have a wall of her own in the center of the room. Professionally enlarged and reprinted onto metallic paper, the image was given an added reflective quality, which created greater depth and contrast. I imagined it to look ethereal, and thought it interesting that the common catchphrase referencing the image was ‘magical.’
“I like her early works and I love the ballerina, but these six I don’t get,” I heard a voice say. The speaker had a feminine timbre and was either unaware or apathetic about the fact that I was standing nearby. Artists learn early on to let negative comments roll off, but my self-esteem was fragile and her words stung.
“I love them. They’re dark and p
ainful,” someone else whispered in my ear. It was Rusty—the rasp in his voice was unmistakable.
“Twice in one day. You just can’t seem to get enough of me,” I smiled.
“Aubs. This dress is…wow,” he said, pulling me into a tight hug. He kissed me on my cheek and the familiar fumes of cigar smoke from his beard moved through my nostrils.
“Tell me the truth, are there actually any people here? Or just playback devices designed to trick me?”
He laughed. “Get over yourself. No one has the time to plan that kind of elaborate scheme just for you. The place is packed. You’re like a living Basquiat, Siddal, or even Giorgione.”
“I knew I kept you around for a reason,” I replied with a wide smile. His hands rested on my hips as he gently walked me a few feet to my right, adjusted my body forward, then stood beside me with his arm wrapped around my shoulders.
“These last six paintings. Do you know why they’re amazing?” he asked.
“You know better than to ask me that,” I said.
“They’re you,” he stated. “This is the first time you’ve put yourself into your work. Your other paintings are a reflection of your thoughts, and they’re great too because you’re a smart person, but these are like a window into you. Take this one for example: Just looking at it, I know you fell in love in Paris.”
I shifted uncomfortably and began to protest. “How could I—” but he covered my mouth with the hand that hung lazily on my left shoulder.
“Don’t bother. I’m not going to press you about the details tonight.” I could tell he was smiling. Rusty was the kind of guy who fell in and, consequently, out of love very quickly. Critics often likened his work to music’s greatest love songs on canvas. So I knew he would make good on his word to come back for a full discussion.
I rolled my eyes. “It’s a little late for I told you so, don’t you think?”
He squeezed my shoulders. “Art, from a place of vulnerability, is the kind that transcends age, gender, culture, and generational boundaries. Your intuition has always been spot on. Pay attention to it.” He was quiet for a moment and then said, “I don’t know how you’re going to do it, but based these six paintings and the ballerina, I know that this is not the end of you Aubrey Johnson.” Rusty kissed me on the forehead, slid my hand into the nook of his elbow, and led me to find Patrick, who he said ‘was single-handedly marketing my new medium.’
