“Hey, Tara. Nice to see you.” I extend my hand in greeting. I take hers and kiss the top gently with a little squeeze. She really is a phenomenal woman. She’d become quite close to Sylvie over the years. I haven’t seen her since the funeral.
I see the indecision in her eyes, a not-knowing how-to-proceed look, so I save her from herself. “Intriguing piece here. Someone will be quite lucky to have it in their home.”
“What? Oh, yes, The Seraphim. It’s exquisite. One of the higher-priced exhibits tonight. I think Sera priced it hoping it wouldn’t sell.” She winks at me, indicating her knowledge of an artist’s desire to hang on to special work.
“She obviously didn’t price it high enough, or wasn’t aware of what someone would be willing to pay to have her with them daily.”
“Yes. She underestimates her worth. Most artists do. I haven’t been able to catch her to tell her how well things are going. There are only one or two remaining in the collection that haven’t sold tonight.”
“I haven’t seen her, either, but when I find her, I’ll make sure she comes to see you.”
“Thanks, Bastian. I’ll tell her you’re on the prowl if I see her first.” The awkward silence fills the space between us. “Well, hey, it’s great seeing you. I hear you’re working with Ferry on a project. I hope you’ll give me the pleasure of opening for you when you’re ready.”
“Certainly. Thank you.”
She leans in, gently pecks me on the cheek, and whispers, “I’m so glad you’re back, Bastian. We’ve all missed you.” With that, she turns on her stilettos and mingles her way through the crowd. I stand, saddened, knowing The Seraphim has gone to someone else, but I realize I couldn’t have afforded it regardless. I hope whoever purchased it appreciates the mesmerizing beauty the angel offers. I bid farewell to the stone figure.
Wandering aimlessly in search of Sera or Nate, it’s overwhelming the number of people I recognize—some who beeline toward me to reconnect, and others who cower, unsure of whether to acknowledge knowing me. I welcome those with the courage to talk and give a pass to those who are afraid. Suddenly, I’m in my comfort zone, discussing mediums, hearing about newcomers in the community, exhibits opening, pieces that have sold. My old friend, art, welcomes me back to the living with a warm smile and a firm handshake. But then I feel a chilled hand on my forearm. Turning away from the group of people I’m talking with, I see first the fingers—long, thin, delicate fingers. Traveling the length of them, the nails of an artist who, despite how hard she scrubs, she’s unable to reduce the appearance of hands worn by clay.
My eyes cast up from the hand to a beautiful face, green eyes twinkling from the lights in the gallery like a cartoon. Fuck, she’s gorgeous. My heart constricts, the sting of my Sylvie staring back at me with the warmth of Sera calling my name.
“Bastian.” My name on her lips is the sound of song as it rolls off her tongue.
“Sera.” I take her hand in mine and lean in to kiss her cheek. She returns the gesture as though we’re old friends. I step back holding her hand, and take all of her in, from her black high heels up her lean body sheathed in black silk that hugs her curves in all the right places. Then my gaze touches on her full lips and high cheekbones. My mouth rises in a wide grin. “This is simply amazing. I had no idea how talented you are. Tara is looking for you. She has news for you.”
“I just spoke with her. I had to come find you.” Her voice trails off as her eyes fill with tears, threatening to fall.
“Whoa, what’s wrong?”
“I just can’t believe Bastian Thames bought one of my pieces. I’m overjoyed.”
I have no clue what she’s talking about. As much as I wanted to buy something, I missed out on the piece I hoped for but never would’ve been able to afford. “There must be a mistake. While I love your work, I wasn’t—”
“Sera, I’m Nate, Bastian’s date for the evening.” Nate extends his hand to Sera, who looks perplexed but accepts his greeting with a graceful smile before looking to me.
“Your date?” She raises her eyebrow.
“Excuse Nate. He’s a jackass with no decorum. Nate this is Sera. Sera this is Nate. Nate’s been my best friend since I was an embryo.”
She giggles. It’s a beautiful sound, melodious.
“Well, Nate. It’s nice to meet you.” She does a cute curtsy that endears her to me even more. “I can’t talk long.” She looks over her shoulder at the crowd behind us, acknowledging she has to be available to talk to anyone attending. “I’m just blown away, Bastian. I’ll have to thank you over coffee sometime. Give me a call and let’s get together soon, yeah?” She waits for my response.
“Yeah, definitely. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Thanks again for coming, Bastian. I think more people showed up for the chance to see you than my work.” She winks at me before she walks away.
I watch her glide through the crowd for a moment, just enjoying the view. “She thinks I bought one of her sculptures,” I say as I watch her cross the room. When I turn back to Nate, he has a grin the size of Texas on his face. “Fuck. What the hell did you do?”
7
The Seraphim arrives at my house the following day. I have yet to get Nate to tell me what he paid for it, but based on Tara’s comment about Sera having priced it not to sell, I’m sure it was a pretty penny. When it arrives, I put it in the living room. Ferry comes by to capture the decay that has begun on my kitchen wall, and when he spots The Seraphim, he recognizes the work.
“Sera Martin’s piece?” he asks knowingly as he walks by the angel without so much as stopping to admire her grace.
“Yeah, are you a fan of her work?” This is a relatively small town in comparison to the metropolises like Atlanta and New York, so the art community is rather close-knit. I hate admitting I wouldn’t have recognized her work because I’ve been out of touch for so long.
“She’s young, but I can see potential. Unfortunately, her social life may keep her from ever recognizing success. I hate to see women do that.” He shrugs his comment off as though he’s talking about the weather, not knowing the effect Sera’s had on my life recently.
“What do you mean?” Trying to sound nonchalant, I pose the question as though I would ask it of anyone.
“Word around town is her work—and I guess her life, for that matter—are dictated by her latest guy craze. It’s unfortunate. Unless she matures and outgrows that, it’ll kill her in the art world. At least around here.”
I don’t need any further clarification, at least not regarding what he meant. The details would be interesting, especially those pertaining to Sera. The South is a fickle place to live. If you’re an artist who lives by the rules and creatively colors inside the lines, you’ll be welcome, possibly even well received and successful. However, if you don’t conform to what the Bible Belt deems acceptable, at least putting up the appearances, your career can be snuffed out like a cigar. Based on what little he mentions about her social life, I imagine he’s referring to the number of men crossing her path rather than the way she’s walking the course.
After that conversation, I felt as if I was somehow exposing Sera by having the angel out in the open for anyone to see, as if she herself is cast in the stone figure. I moved her to my bedroom to keep her safe. I stare at her for hours on end, in awe of the detail, the broken spirit captured in her face, the exquisite wings; she’s simply breathtaking. I wonder what place Sera had to go to mentally in order to create her. She seems so full of life, so vibrant, but she would have to touch a really dark place inside herself to bring The Seraphim to fruition. I relish in the irony of the name of the piece, and the meaning behind her name.
Sometimes it’s as though The Seraphim is speaking to me, trying to communicate with me. I strain to hear what she has to say, what connection she’s trying to make, but no matter how closely I listen, it’s a futile effort. The whispers are always too faint for me to hear, too quiet for me to decipher.
8
Wilt must have made his deadline; a picture of Ferry giving me a side hug graces the front of the Community Arts section of the Sunday paper. I reluctantly read the article, feeling my cheeks begin to rise as I realize this is a celebration of my return, not a mockery. There’s mention of my sudden, long-lasting departure from the art world when my wife passed away after a long illness, but respectfully, Wilt doesn’t dwell on it. He honors my need to have escape, but he showcases my return.
Reading the words he put together regarding the kitchen piece, even I begin to believe a comeback is possible. The art world might embrace their once golden boy, possibly even without ridicule. The entire article is upbeat. To immortalize my latest piece, he eludes to the work Ferry and I are doing together. It causes chills to run up my arms in anticipation. The excitement begins to flow through me, and I find myself hopping around like a child in excitement.
I quell my exuberance when my doorbell rings. I glance at the clock, knowing it’s Ferry and his crew, wondering if he read the article and the accolades Wilt gives the two of us as a team. I have to give Wilt Carter props. He alluded to the project and our interaction, but gave the reader no real clues to indicate what we’re up to.
With the paper in hand, held up for him to see, I open the door to a seemingly unhappy Ferry. When he sees the picture, his expression changes, a smile graces his face, and he takes the article from me.
“This is great, Bastian. I didn’t realize Wilt made the deadline. Have you read it?” He sits down on the couch while his people go to work setting up for him. I watch him open the paper and notice scratches all over his hands and what appears to be the early onset of bruising, none of which was there yesterday.
“Yeah, I have. It’s definitely a great re-opener for me.” He glances up with what appears to be genuine happiness for me. I notice another scratch on his face. “Damn, man, what happened to your hands? How did you get that scratch on your face?”
Chuckling, he responds, “Yard work. I don’t get along well with lawn equipment or thorn bushes. No worries, I’m good.”
Last time I checked, Ferry lived in a condo somewhere downtown, but maybe he moved recently. Or maybe I should just mind my own fucking business and not worry about it. I go with option two.
Finished with the article, he says, “Great piece. I’m sure it feels good to be back in the swing of things, huh, Bastian?”
“A little surreal, but I’m sure it’ll become normal again. I think we may be nearing the end of this stage of this particular process, though. The wall’s almost completely black.”
Ferry follows me into the kitchen, where I watch him work like I have every day for over a week. My amazement continues seeing how graceful he is, and watching him search for the lines he wants is like art in itself.
“I think you’re right. Once I take a couple of shots I’ll be able to tell if tonight is the end, or if we’ll get one more day out of it, but I would venture to say this is the day. I’ve been going through all the shots, narrowing the days down so you don’t have thousands of images to choose from. When we finish this, we can set up a time for you to come to my studio to start the next phase.”
Normally, Ferry is here for a couple hours at a minimum between setting up, shooting, and tearing down. I swear, I heard less than ten clicks of the camera before he claps twice, signaling his team he is done for the day. Crimson Fs flitter about. He shows me the camera, flipping quickly through a couple shots. There’s beauty in the decay, which fascinates me. It’s nothing but waves of darkness. Light reflects off the texture creating depth, but the wall appears to be completely black. A lump forms in my throat, as I realize just how accurately this project symbolizes my life. But, it’s either backwards or needs to replicate to show the period of darkness before finding light again. I’ll have to think on that before Ferry and I select images.
I force the emotion back down, swallowing hard before speaking. “I can’t wait to see this come together, man. I think it’s going to be brutal.”
“I agree, Bastian. You wanna come by tomorrow afternoon around two?” he asks.
“Sure. Your studio still in the same place?”
“Right off Center Avenue downtown. See you then.”
I close the door behind the last of his troop, watching the red Fs march down the sidewalk, grateful for all he’s doing with me but glad to see them go. Having that many people in my house every evening has been a hard adjustment. I fly solo most days. I didn’t realize how sensitive I’ve become to noise and people in general. I wonder if I’ve developed some sensory disorder or just an overall disdain for society as a whole.
9
At two o’clock on the dot, I open the door marked by his logo and step foot in Ferry’s studio downtown. I haven’t ever been inside, no clue what I expected, but this place is industrial with a sterile, cold feeling until you get past the front door. The photography hanging from every inch of free space—mostly suspended on steel cords—warms the soul. I search the faces of the nameless people hanging in the air and on the walls, some filled with heartache, others with laughter. The sheer beauty of the landscapes, and with everything Ferry touches, he illuminates and captures the spirit of the occasion, whether the tone is somber or that of celebration. His camera beautifully immortalizes it.
Hearing what I assume are Ferry’s footsteps on the concrete floor, I turn toward the sound to see one of the many assistants from my house. “Mr. Thames. Mr. Koops is this way.”
I follow through the open room before he ushers me into Ferry’s office, which is stark. There’s nothing on the walls, no personal effects, no color, nothing. It’s completely barren. The only objects in the room are a desk, an enormous monitor with a computer, and two chairs. The walls are bright white. Literally, zero color or life in this space. “Are you re-doing your office?” I ask, trying to get an answer for the blank space from an artist.
“Hey, Bastian, come in.” He stands, extending his hand with a smile. “No, not at all. I try to keep this office free from clutter so it doesn’t distract from the photographs. Color on walls tends to change people’s perspective of the actual photograph, and light can reflect, causing the eye to be deceived, et cetera. Basically, when I have clients in, I want them focused on what they paid for, not whatever shit I deemed appropriate for my comfort. My office is fully adorned with all of the knickknacks of my life, I assure you.” He gestures for me to sit in the second chair in the room before dimming the lights just slightly, further ensuring I will focus only on what’s on the screen.
“I tried to eliminate as many images as possible, so most days there are only ten to twelve remaining to pick from. A couple of days there are more and others less. There are ten days to pick images from. I had thought originally there would be days where there wasn’t much change, but when I went back to look at them, each day is significant.”
With the click of his mouse, the screen comes to life with thumbnails of the twelve shots remaining from the first day. I immediately discard six of the twelve, not liking how the light hits the core of the images; there was an eerie glow in the center that didn’t belong. Ferry didn’t question my decisions and just moved them to another file before enlarging the remaining images. With each image removed, those left for consideration got bigger, enhancing the detail, displaying the luxurious color. I lose myself in the shots for minutes at a time, maybe longer, but Ferry never says a word. As I process, he waits with the patience of Job. I assumed he would’ve been more vocal in the selection, but then again, he chose the selection I’m seeing, so maybe he’s happy with any of my choices. Or maybe he’s waiting for me to eliminate one he thinks should be a strong contender before voicing an opinion. I don’t look at him, so I can’t get a read on what he’s thinking. Instead, I go with my gut and make my final selection for day one without either of us ever saying a word to the other.
There’s some discussion about days three through seven to determine where we want the project to go, wha
t we’re looking for it to depict. We volley back and forth about whether it should start with light or decay. We agree on light to dark as originally planned with filters in the middle, but it took some convincing on Ferry’s part because I don’t want people to see the black as my absolute. I want them to find the light in my kaleidoscope again. He convinced me this is a snapshot of where I have been, not the finality of who I am.
We spend hours going through each day, selecting the photos. We never got to filters before calling it a day. Agreeing to meet back at his studio tomorrow morning, I’m weary, and all I’ve done is stare at a computer screen. Before starting my car, I grab my cell to send Sera a text, having exchanged numbers online. We had planned to get coffee the day after the exhibit, but I haven’t been able to connect with her.
Me: Just finished at Ferry’s. I had no idea what a process this would be. Wanna grab a quick bite to eat?
Sera: That would be great. I’m downtown too. How about Rulatta’s on Coffee Street in ten minutes?
Me: See you then.
Dinner with Sera goes by quickly. She’s fascinating. As I listen to her tales about her travels, I watch her, and I find myself completely enraptured by her expressions—how her face comes to life with each word she utters. She steers clear of anything negative, which endears her to me even more. Anytime something comes up that didn’t go her way, she manages to spin it with a positive, unexpected outcome. I’ve always admired people like that, but I also wonder if it’s truly who they are or if they just hide their reality from the outside world. I can’t get a read on that aspect of Sera. Her body language and the animation she brings to a story make me want to believe it’s who she is, but her eyes tell a different story. There’s something hidden behind them, yet I don’t know her well enough to decipher if she’s disguising pain or sadness…or something else entirely. I try not to dwell on what she’s not telling me in favor of focusing on what she is.
Chimera Page 5
