When Sera reached the door, she turned to me. “I’m in awe of you, Bastian. You see beyond the façade of life. Past the synthetic appearance people show the world. It’s what makes you truly great.” With that, she walked out of my front door.
Her acceptance of who I was stunned me. Sylvie had always loved my work, but I never believed she saw in it what I did. And I’d certainly never moved her to tears, although that could have been because my work now contained an element of sadness that my earlier stuff hadn’t. Sera saw my pain, she recognized my anguish and accepted the reality of my perception. I couldn’t confirm whether she’d seen herself in the Dark Angel—and I wasn’t going to ask—but she had definitely felt the torment of the gilded lady.
There was a piece of Sera that was aware I sensed more than she admitted. Maybe that scared her as much as it terrified me to know it existed.
8
Chapter Eight
With less than twenty-four hours until the opening, I ran around, trying to put the finishing touches on paintings. The canvases needed to be delivered to Tara yesterday, and I still hem-hawed around about what I’d picked. I’d over thought every color, every stroke of the brush, and every touch of the knife. And the torture continued as I questioned what the hell made me think any of this had been a good idea.
Exposing myself to the public was ludicrous.
The vulnerability was frightening.
Add to the emotional turmoil that I’d never worked with photography, and I had a beast I couldn’t contain and didn’t know how to manage—and a medium I preferred to never work with again. And even though I’d learned more than I’d ever cared to, none of it was my cup of tea.
I’d never been on this side of an opening. In the past, I had delivered my canvases to the gallery and then showed up on the night of the event—what had happened between those two points was a mystery to me and one I wish still remained. And truth be told, I could have done without the call from Tara yesterday to inform me of the collectors attending. Every bit of information I’d gathered had only spurred cataclysmic stress. Five years ago, this all rolled off me, but today, the fear was almost paralyzing.
My only saving grace and soothing salves were Nate and his pending arrival. Any minute he’d show up to help me transport the painting to the gallery. And when a knock sounded on the door, I expected to find my best friend on the other side. Instead, before me stood the beauty showcased in so many of my latest endeavors.
“Hey, Sera. What are you doing here?” I cracked the door before swinging it wide to invite her in.
“I just came by to see if you needed any help. Give you an attaboy. Pump you up.”
Somehow, someone else’s faith in me settled my nerves, and the butterflies went from fluttering to flying. Anxiety to excitement. This was why I painted. To evoke emotion. Not only did this woman awake a creative desire within me, but she reminded me of who I was. Or possibly, she was helping me to redefine who I would be without Sylvie.
I stopped in my tracks and closed my eyes. Breathing deeply, I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat and fought off the tears that burned the back of my eyes. But it was too late, they welled and fell, sliding down my cheeks and into an endless stream.
“Bastian.” My name burst from Nate’s mouth in a thunderous boom. “What’s wrong?” He occupied the majority of the doorway, looming.
I shook my head, unable to answer or even open my eyes. When I did open them, she still wouldn’t be here. My wife would never see another one of my paintings. She would never attend another opening with me.
Never again would she sing my praise or champion my performance.
Sera spoke in place of the silence. “I don’t know what happened. I just came by to give him encouragement.” And now she rambled. “He’s been really nervous, and I thought it would help to have friends on hand.” Her voice cracked, but I couldn’t fathom why she’d be upset.
Nate didn’t bother to correct her or deny the validity of her reasoning. He knew without my saying a word because he was always in tune with me. Instead, he spoke to me, ignoring Sera. “She’ll be there with you, Bastian. Just because you can’t see her doesn’t mean she’s left.”
We’d had this conversation more times than I cared to admit, and Nate was always the voice of reason, the reminder that Sylvie walked with me. Her spirit, her soul, she never left my side. But it had been easier to believe when I saw her each time I’d slept, in every dream I’d had—but she didn’t come to me anymore. I no longer got that familiar comfort at night. And I knew that the piece of her I’d held onto for five years was slipping away…just like she had.
The sob caught in my throat and then escaped before I could prevent it. A bellow of agony. I sank to my knees and succumbed to the anguish Sylvie’s memory brought, and once again, acknowledging that I’d never see her again on this side of eternity. But as quickly as it had started, I flipped the switch to force it to stop. My best friend was accustomed to my meltdowns; Sera, however, was not. And she likely now thought I was the biggest pussy to ever walk the face of the earth.
“I have to get down to the West End. Tara’s waiting.” I didn’t wait for anyone else. I grabbed a load of stuff and walked out the door.
When Sera believed me to be out of earshot, she whispered, “What just happened?”
“Sylvie.” Nate’s tone was somber and sympathetic. “She haunts him. He loved her with a passion most people only read about. When he lost his wife, it nearly destroyed him.” He stopped speaking, but I couldn’t tell what they were doing, and I couldn’t see them. “This is the closest to living I’ve seen from him in five years. Be patient with him, Sera. Bastian’s just starting to heal. It’s a painful process, and just about everyone in his life gave up hope he’d ever do it.”
I raced down the sidewalk toward Nate’s SUV. I didn’t want to hear her response or know what she thought about a weak man who’d loved a woman so intensely that he hadn’t lived since the day she’d died. I believed my reaction to her death had been a testament to my love for her. I wouldn’t change any of it. I would mourn her loss until I took my own last breath.
The three of us piled into Nate’s SUV along with my paintings, acting as though nothing odd had just taken place in my living room. Sera filled the ride with anecdotes and stories of art and her love of it. The animation in her voice could make even the darkest heart light. Her zest for life was infectious. I often found myself smiling at the sound of her voice—not listening to the words, just the highs and lows in her tone. The melody was like sunshine that warmed my soul.
Tara greeted us at the door and bypassed Nate, who’d essentially become my pack mule. He unloaded the SUV while Tara gave me the evening’s itinerary and dress code.
“You don’t want me showing up in Chucks?” I winked as I delivered my jab.
“So help me God, Bastian. If you show up in Chucks, I will kick your ass myself.” She giggled but gave me a look that dared me to test her. Game on. “Sera, are you coming tonight?”
Holy shit. I’d never fucking invited her. For weeks, she’d been in my house, helping me pick paintings, taking pictures, hauling shit back and forth, going to the supply store with me, helping me in more ways than I could even count. Never once had I extended an invitation. My ignorance was limitless.
“Yes, I got my invitation. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Joy radiated from her smile; I had no idea to which invitation she referred, but I was prepared to bow at the feet of whoever had sent it. “It’s an honor for me to be considered. Huge names are coming to this showing. Just getting to network with the bigwigs of the art world has me totally pumped. Knowing Bastian and Ferry are the center of that is even better.” Everything about her was genuine, including her excitement.
“Bastian.” Tara turned her attention toward me again. “I got your parents’ confirmation this week as well. They’ll both be in attendance.”
Nate strolled by, carrying another load of my shit
while I stood there, shooting the breeze about the guest list. “What about me? Don’t I get a mention?”
Tara rolled her eyes in feigned irritation, but she loved Nate. Everyone did. He was the man every woman wanted. But before I had an outward expression of love or a bro moment, I went back to Tara and her mention of my parents.
“Seriously?” I hadn’t spoken to either of them in more than two years.
They hadn’t understood the severity of my grief; therefore, when I was unable to “snap” out of it, they had refused to continue to subject themselves to my ongoing misery. They lived less than five miles from me, but I’d been relegated to the Christmas card list for communication. Their abandonment used to bother me, but I’d given up trying to hold onto them a long time ago.
“Yes.”
Well, alrighty then. That multiplied the dimensions of my panic attack. For fuck’s sake, there was no reason for them to come.
“Stop overanalyzing, Bastian. Who cares?” again with the fly-by comments from Nate as he swept back and forth from car to gallery.
Sera appeared perplexed. “Why did you invite them if you didn’t want them to come?”
“He didn’t, Sera. Tara did. Bastian’s parents haven’t been all that supportive in the last few years. My guess is they saw the mention in the paper and heard about the opening. They are big into being seen.” He used air quotes to highlight the last word. “Good people, but to them, appearances are as important as the reality of what takes place.”
“I’m sure tonight will be amazing, Bastian. Between the collectors and other artists attending, I’ll be stunned if you don’t have a wildly successful night. Now go home and get dressed.” Tara pivoted on her fancy heel with the red sole before turning her head to call over her shoulder, “Black tie!”
Nate would be here in less than ten minutes. With one final glance into the mirror, I was happy with what I saw. I’d managed to put on some weight. My face was fuller, my eyes weren’t so gaunt, and maybe just a shred of happiness was starting to shine through again. I smiled, thinking about how far I’d come since that day on Facebook. My tux was fly, the embodiment of dapper, and I knew Nate would be proud.
That notion sobered me just a bit. I was starting to see why people might think we were gay, but that man was the greatest brother I hadn’t been born with.
“Bastian, you ready?” Nate didn’t bother to knock when he arrived.
I strolled out of the bathroom and toward my date. “Hey, honey. How was your day?” A deep laugh exploded from my chest.
He glanced down at my feet and then made eye contact. “Fuck you, dude. Tara’s gonna kick your ass the moment you step through the door.”
“Nope, she won’t touch me if we walk in as the opening starts. She’ll have to keep up impressions.”
“You couldn’t do something a little more understated than neon-blue Chucks?”
This was who I was; it was who I’d always been. I just hadn’t seen this guy for a long time. “This is understated. I almost put on the yellow ones.” I grinned and not only felt the smile lift my entire face and reach my eyes, but I felt it throughout my entire body, in every inch, every fiber of my being. This was the first taste of real happiness since losing Sylvie.
The pain was still there, just beneath the surface, but tonight wasn’t about grief. I was proud of myself, and I wanted to enjoy it. That was the choice I made. I might not be able to make the same choice tomorrow, but for the next few hours, I was claiming it—owning it.
“Good to have you back, B.”
I clapped Nate on the shoulder before opening the front door, ushering him out.
The moment we walked in, Tara made a beeline for me. Gracious outwardly for appearances, but when she leaned in, she whispered, “When this is over, your ass is mine for pulling that little stunt.” With a kiss on the cheek, Tara pulled back with a sweet smile.
I responded with a wink and a grin. Tara wasn’t really mad; she just wanted me to believe she was. This came as no surprise to her. This was the “me” of years ago. Or maybe that was the surprise, that underneath the layers of perpetual sadness, somewhere deep beneath, there was still a piece of the man that the rest of the world remembered.
I wasn’t given time to contemplate her threat beyond that. Almost instantly, the introductions started. I was in awe of how well attended the event was, even right at opening. Typically, people arrived fashionably late, but Tara had scheduled the first hour for viewing only. It was brilliant really; it forced serious procurers of art to arrive early to make any selections and put in their cards. And while I had expected people to attend, I anticipate Ferry would be their reason—that, however, was not the case.
I recognized several of the patrons as well-known collectors. I assumed they were trying to catch one of Ferry’s pieces.
But Ferry had done everything he could to focus this exhibit on me, going so far as to choose a theme to compliment my individual work and our joint piece. He was famous for working with all subject matter; it was what made him so unusual. He was just a master behind the lens. But this group was all people.
My favorite was a little girl with long, flowing, curly hair. He’d captured her profile at the exact moment she’d turned her head toward the camera at just the perfect angle—head tilted back in the middle of a hearty belly laugh. I felt that little girl’s joy. Her shoulders raised, her eyes crinkled, and she sported a huge, toothless grin—consumed by whatever had made her laugh. Her piercing eyes stared right into the lens.
Another collection of three black and white images came in a close second. The old man sat on a bench, loneliness evident in his tired expression in the first frame, time-stamped on his features. In the second frame, a little boy—maybe age three—joined him on the bench, oblivious to the older man. In the third frame, the little boy looked up at the man whose eyes had stirred. They were alive again, but it was the grin on the old man’s face that was so arresting—proof that a smile from a stranger could brighten someone’s day and scare away desolation.
Ferry’s photographs were poignant, awe-inspiring, thought-provoking—still frames that managed to draw a viewer into a specific place in time, joining his subject in heartache or happiness. I envied his ability to see the moment and capture it, unnoticed. He didn’t arrange the subjects into poses; he simply happened upon the most perfect fragments of time. His gift was obvious, even to those who weren’t lovers of art. It was simply impossible to deny his talent.
I still hadn’t seen Sera, although I had no doubt she’d arrive at some point. I stopped in the middle of the gallery and near the entrance to look at what started this whirlwind. When I stepped up to Kaleidoscope Dark, the crowd seemed to make room. My jaw dropped at the finished product suspended in front of a black divider, showcased by lighting from above and below. The growing lump in my throat caused tightness in my chest. Putting my hand to my heart, I allowed myself to appreciate the work. It was my defining moment, my fragment of time, one Ferry had graciously captured on film. As much as I loved some of my new work, I wasn’t sure anything will ever top KD. It was a summation of where I’d been, the struggle to get through it, the ability for life to perish, but the vitality in the colors we could live.
“There’s going to be a war over this one, Bastian.” Tara stood beside me with a glass of red wine. She really was a beautiful woman—simple and understated elegance. “I have several collectors arguing over it. They have asked that it go to bid.”
When I turned to her, she had to see the emotion in my eyes. I couldn’t be more grateful, but letting go of this one would hurt. “That’s wonderful, Tara.” My voice was small, but I was certain she’d heard me.
A flash of sympathy graced her eyes when her lips turned up in an understanding smile. “This is the one for you, isn’t it?”
Trying to clear my thoughts to focus on what she’d said, I looked away from Kaleidoscope. “I’m sorry?”
“The Seraphim. That was Sera’s piece. She
never wanted to let it go. She was too close to it. She believed she had priced it not to sell, so she wouldn’t have to acknowledge she didn’t want to part with it. Every artist does it at some point in their career; this is your piece.” Tara shrugged her bare shoulder, just a fraction.
“Yeah, I guess it is. Somehow in my mind, those images signify my transition. Regaining myself, or trying, grabbing ahold of life once more. When I look at parts of it, I see the mess, other parts I feel the sun shining on me again, and that spot”—I pointed to the one that haunted me—“right there was the moment I almost gave up permanently. I see Sylvie, my life past and present, Nate, and Sera. I see solitude, depression, happiness, elation, and everything in between. This piece is me. If I could be captured in colors, this is the expression and progression of my life. It will be very hard to let it go.”
Tara allowed me to stand there, silently contemplating the work for a few more minutes before pulling me away to socialize. Finally, I spotted Sera. Even from across the room, she was breathtaking. Her hair was swept up off her nape into a loose bun, but the dress she wore was sensational. It was backless with the exception of a few crisscrossed pieces of fabric to keep the dress from falling off her thin body. When she turned toward me, the simple, deep-red gown graced her skin as if it were only there to enhance her natural beauty.
She wiggled her fingers coyly. With a side smile of my own, I invited her to me, an invitation she readily accepted.
“Oh, Bastian, this is wonderful.” She kissed my cheek and then pulled back. “I didn’t think anyone could do anything to make your paintings any more alluring, but Tara showcases better than anyone I’ve ever known.”
I reached down to take the scarf she had draped over her arm, but she stopped me, placing her hand firmly on mine. “Did you just get here?”
“I’ve been a little chilly. I’d like to hold on to it in case I get cold again.” Her eyes darted around the room as though she were looking for someone before finally settling on mine. “I’m sorry I was late. I got held up unexpectedly. Tara says you have people fighting over several of your paintings and Kaleidoscope! Did you know they want her to take them to bid? Bastian, that just doesn’t happen.”
Reality's Illusion Page 8
