by Daryl Banner
“No,” I answer, my response much delayed. I pick up two buttons from the lip of the sink, confused. “What in gay hell are these?”
“Cufflinks. Dude, you’re a lost cause. Gimme.”
Dmitri swipes them out of my hand and grabs my wrists, directing me to hold them steady as he puts my cufflinks on for me. Once again I followed Eric’s expert advice and invested in a full-on tux, complete with a black bowtie, fitted white starched shirt, and a measured-to-my-every-sleeve-and-inseam jacket and slacks.
“Your hair …”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mumble, cutting him off. “I’m not used to the whole tuxedo thing. Figured I should be all business and formality from neck down, then all party on my head.”
I run a hand through my hair to ensure it’s still the precise level of out-of-control I want. The trick to proper bedhead is making sure, after spending hours styling it, that it looks like you took no time at all.
“I think you’re ready,” Dmitri decides, giving me a onceover.
I feel like something’s missing. My nerves seem to be charged with some kind of electricity I don’t remember putting there, and my heart thumps like I’m back from a five mile jog, yet all I’m doing is standing here in front of the mirror.
“Something’s missing,” I decide to voice.
“Like what?” There’s a knock at the door. “Oh, she’s here.”
“Who?”
“My imaginary date you think doesn’t exist. You look perfect, dude. Just chill and take a few deep breaths or something and we’ll, y’know … we’ll go in and, like, own the place or something. Practice your spiels and stuff. Everyone’s going to ask you what your exhibit meant and what inspired you and blah, blah … I’ll be right back.”
Dmitri leaves me in the bathroom to stare at myself. I swallow hard, right my bowtie again, then wonder what the hell is missing.
I’m still wondering when we’re walking to the art school. Riley is walking ahead of me with Dmitri as we go. She actually does exist, by the way. Who knew? I’m staring at the backside of her pretty blonde curls the whole way there. She’s a dainty thing, this Riley, which is a curious contrast to Dmitri’s dark, punkish look. She’s like the rose and he’s the thorn colored in black guy-liner.
The school glows with the light from the gallery, which is a separate wing that runs in the opposite direction of where all the studios and classrooms are located. When we reach the tall glass doors, I feel a quiver of anticipation in my gut that makes me equal parts sick and horny. I can’t explain the horniness. Maybe I’m the sex addict. Maybe everything makes me horny.
Or maybe every time I walk into an art gallery, I’ll imagine Nell pushing me against the wall and covering my lips with hers.
Maybe I feel the cold kiss of each cuff as she bound me to that platform nearly naked, turning me into her Object.
Maybe I get the sensation of all my clothes falling off my body, one by one, article by article, until there’s nothing left but skin.
And Nell.
Touching.
My skin.
I shake away the thoughts, figuring that strolling into the End Of Year Showcase with a boner in my tuxedo pants would not be the most fitting first impression for all the stuffy, uppity folk in the art industry who I’m about to encounter. I’m thankful that Dmitri knows where we’re going because I brainlessly follow his and Riley’s lead, snaking through the sprinkled crowds and couplings of people around the gallery, who observe the artwork and make quiet, small-talk amongst themselves regarding how the pieces make them feel and what they think they mean. “What a curious commentary on the state of our educational system,” I overhear some man say. “Oh, an allegory to music and mime. Yes, touching. Cliché, but touching,” says another.
I can’t make sense of any of it. I just follow Dmitri and worry over no one and nothing that I hear. Am I going to be able to withstand what these pretentious know-it-alls say about my work?
“Dude, is this you?”
Dmitri’s voice snaps me into reality. I look up.
Lined along the wall are my five photographs, each strategically placed on the wall to show a sort of sequence. The first photo is of a guy slumped over his kitchen counter in a slightly unflattering posture and he’s eating a bowl of cereal. His hair is messy, his cheeks puffy from lack of sleep, and he’s wearing an oversized t-shirt. The spoon is halfway to his hanging-open mouth.
“Who’s that?” Dmitri asks, leaning in to inspect it. “I know him. Oh my god, is that—?”
“Eric,” I agree. “Doesn’t look like him at all, does it?”
“Hell no. Damn.” He squints and adjusts his glasses, as if his eyes are playing cruel tricks. “He’s gonna kill you for showing this.”
I throw up my hands. “Hey, he signed off on it! Signed the release and everything.”
Dmitri chuckles. “He’s still gonna kill you.”
“I love it,” mutters Riley.
“Yeah,” agrees Dmitri. “It feels so …”
“Personal,” she finishes thoughtfully. “It’s so raw. So … untouched. It doesn’t look posed. I really feel like I’m in his kitchen just … sharing breakfast with him. Waking up with him. Dreading the day I’m about to have.”
“Well, you are in his kitchen,” Dmitri replies.
“Thanks for the attitude.” Riley rolls her eyes, nudging him, though I can’t tell if it’s an annoyed nudge or a playful one.
“Oh, wow.” Dmitri notices the next photo. “This one’s yours too? You did all of these?”
“These five,” I confirm.
The next photo is one Sam let me take of her in the music building. She’s practicing a piece in one of the cramped piano rooms with her sorta-boyfriend Tomas standing next to her with his bassoon. I noticed a flinch of discomfort from Sam when Tomas played his first note, and for some reason, my finger chose to capture that moment forever.
Dmitri stares at the photo for so long, I’m worried he thinks it’s crap when suddenly he says, “Never seen her like this before.”
“Seen who? Sam?”
Dmitri doesn’t respond, oddly taken with the photo.
Riley chimes in. “Oh! Is this Samantha? I never met her before. Dmitri, is this the one who used to be roommates with that actress?”
“With Dessie, yes, that’s the one,” he answers distractedly.
Riley turns to me. “These photos are stunning, Brant.”
I can’t help but grin stupidly at that, like a dog that had just been tossed a treat. If I had a tail, it’d be wagging. I’m so damn easy to please.
The third photo is one I took straight from the collection I’d done at the theater of Clayton watching Dessie from the wing of the stage, except I picked a shot that I captured from the front. His dark, twisted tattoo coils up his neck, caught in crisp detail, and seems to cradle his frozen face, which watches with bewilderment as he observes the performance in front of him. Beads of sweat adorn his forehead, and there’s a streak of grease on the collar of his t-shirt. The fourth photo is from the same series, but it’s of Dessie sitting in her dressing room, all alone. She didn’t know I was there until she heard the click of the camera and by then it was too late—her moment caught by my too-quick hands. She had been fiddling with a charm bracelet on her wrist, studying it with such intensity that it seemed to transport her into a whole world of memories and thoughts and feelings. I remember standing there in the doorway wondering what she was imagining, just before slowly lifting my camera and sealing the moment in a single, forever photograph.
The final photo shows two of the kids at the Westwood Light as they watch Nell melt a single crayon over a large circular canvas. She was drawing a picture with the wax from above—bumpy and wormy-looking, though the photo doesn’t capture the painting; it focuses solely on Nell, the care she takes with the crayon, and the unfiltered fascination in the children’s faces. I made this photo black and white, except for the deep, rich green color of the melting crayon in her h
and. I snapped this shot candid-style, just like the four others. The click was so quiet, she didn’t even notice, and the moment wasn’t ruined. It was the first time she took me to see the kids at Westwood Light.
“She is here,” Dmitri says thoughtfully, studying that last photo. “Well, in a way.”
“In a way,” I agree, somewhat pained.
“Ugh,” comes a voice from behind.
I turn, surprised to find Sam standing there with Tomas a few steps behind her. Sam’s wearing an uncharacteristic olive-colored gown, her hair dark and touching her shoulders, curled a bit at the ends. And to ruin the whole bombshell thing she’s got going on, her big ugly black-rimmed glasses cover half her face, enlarging her eyes in an oddly chic-geek sort of way. Tomas, in contrast, just looks pure geek in a pair of jeans and an oversized white polo with a big Atari joystick on the front. Despite him being a total dud of a guy, I gotta give him props for the old-school gamer thing going on with his shirt.
“Ugh?” I retort teasingly. “It’s that bad?”
“I’m just not used to seeing myself.” She smirks unpleasantly at the second photograph, then tilts her head. “I look annoyed.”
“You are annoyed,” Tomas puts in.
“I am annoyed,” she agrees, looking like a cat who’s folded her ears.
Dmitri shuffles a bit. “You look great, though. I mean …” He clears his throat and points at the photograph. “I’m kinda wondering what note you were hearing when the pic was taken.”
“A wrong one,” she groans.
Dmitri chuckles at that. “No such thing as a wrong note.”
She lifts a blunt, tired eyebrow. “Then I guess there’s no such thing as grammar, punctuation, or spelling.”
His eyes flash wide. “Touché.”
The next moment, Dessie and Clayton find us. “Oh my god, you guys. Did you see the Klangburg Dome? It’s an acrylic painting of the whole university, imagined in a futuristic setting, and the detail put into every little … Oh.” She interrupts herself, her eyes finding my photos. Particularly, the fourth one. “That’s me,” she says and signs, tapping Clayton on the chest as she does so.
He grins, drawing up to her backside and wrapping her in his arms. “And me,” he mumbles into her neck, pointing at the third photo, “as I watched you onstage.”
“Brant, these are beautiful,” says Dessie.
I smile and offer the pair of them an appreciative nod. “Thanks so much, guys.” Then, when Clayton’s gaze meets mine, I put a flat hand to the front of my chin and let it fall outward—the sign for thank you.
He grins approvingly, returning the gesture.
I resolve right now to learn more signs other than the ones for “Coke” and “penis” and “poop”.
We move around the gallery, observing the other pieces that were selected. Of course the first one we visit is the Klangburg Dome, which really is pretty cool and just as Dessie described it. Some of the other pieces, however, leave me squinting my eyes in confusion. One piece seems to be a grey canvas with a large pale, greyish circle painted in the middle. A few tiny out-of-place bright red specks dress the corner of the painting. It’s called The Stain.
There’s a clay sculpture that looks like a big horseshoe with a nose and eyes peering out in mock surprise. It’s all a rusted, burnt orange color, and the piece is titled Amateur.
Tiny wires hold up a sculpture that hangs in separate pieces, yet in their exact positioning, if viewed from the right angle, it looks like a tesseract—which Dmitri explains is like a four-dimensional version of a cube … or something. When you walk around the structure and view it from the side, it looks completely flat. The work is called Honesty.
“One of these days,” Dmitri muses to me, “you’ll have a whole room full of your photos, and a bunch of old men and women with their fat wallets are gonna fight over who gets to purchase your work.”
“Yeah,” I agree mockingly, “and my photos will have names like Benevolent Blueberry … or Pajama Pants … or Tesseract.” I sputter, trying my best to suppress a laugh. “Nell warned me that the art world can be kinda pretentious, but … damn, I’ve never quite noticed …”
“I know.” Dmitri shakes his head, giving the nearby piece we’re standing in front of a doleful onceover—a painting of a mother nursing a baby dolphin wrapped in a blanket, its wet, slippery snout suckling the mother’s nipple. “Your stuff really is the only real shit in this room. I can’t believe the crap I’m looking at.”
The piece with the dolphin is called Homeschooled.
“What does that even mean?” asks Dmitri, wrinkling his nose in derision at the painting.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
Dmitri blinks. “For what?”
“Believing in me.”
He seems to find that funny because he just laughs, shaking his head and waving his hand to dismiss my words, but the truth rings in the stern look that takes his eyes. He may not have realized how much those words he just said mean to me, but hopefully he knows now.
Fuck, I wish Nell was here.
A half hour later, I’m in front of my photos again, alone, when a woman’s voice surprises me from behind. “Great work.”
I turn, finding a woman in a suit with her arms folded. “Thanks,” I tell her with a smile. After half a heartbeat, I realize I know her. “I’m sorry, your name was …?”
“Lori Turlington. We met a few months back. I, ah … unlatched the cuffs that freed you from the pedestal on which you were the exhibit. I believe that’s the proper way to say it,” she finishes with a wink.
I chuckle dryly. “Yes. I remember now. That was … an experience.”
“I thought you were just a model at the time. I didn’t know you’re an artist yourself. Brant, is it? These photos are very impressive.”
That annoying grin finds my face again. I can’t help but be proud of my work. “Thank you.”
“What I particularly enjoy about them,” she goes on, “is how you seem to capture … precisely what it is that you’re looking at. There’s no distraction. There’s no pretentious ulterior meaning or message, unless the viewer wants there to be. There’s no confusion. It’s just …” She searches for the word, then smiles when she finds it. “Clarity.”
“Mmm. Maybe I should’ve called it that,” I reckon.
“What is it called? I don’t see a plaque.”
“It’s just called: Caught.”
Her eyes flash at the word, and then she revisits the photos. “I see. That … That title lends an entirely different take. Yes. Caught. Each and every one of them, caught.” She smiles, bigger this time, and turns back to me with a new appreciation on her face. “You know, Brant, I’m always looking for new people to feature in my gallery. I would love to see more of your work.”
I swallow. I can’t believe I’m hearing this. “Uh, okay, uh … yeah! Yes. Yes, of course. I’ve got … I have got so much … so many photos, and—”
“And I know a lot of people,” she says. “Remember how I said I have contacts? I have them for the art world too, if modeling isn’t your aim. I’m the owner of that gallery as well as a few spaces downtown. I have connections with magazines, local and national. I think you and I need to work on getting this work seen.” She pulls a card out from nowhere, like a magic trick. “Please, call me and let’s see more of your … catching,” she murmurs, pressing the card to my palm.
I nod quickly as if I’m being injected with lightning at the neck. “Yes, yes. Great. Thank you so much.” I take her hand and shake it eagerly, then stop myself for fear of breaking it. “Thank you!”
She laughs—likely at my embarrassing enthusiasm—then gives me a single nod and excuses herself, strolling away.
I stare down at the card in a total stupor, the reality slow to cross my brain. Is this the start of something big? Possibilities are flying past my eyes. I feel a strange and fiery sense of vindication thundering through me, as if this is my little way of showing all those peo
ple who thought I was nothing more than a walking bag of orgasms that I’m so much more. Watch out, world. I laugh out loud, grinning at the card.
The chasm in my chest only lets me get so happy before I’m pulled back down to the soggy earth. She’s not here at my side, I remind myself for the twenty-second time tonight, and she should be.
It isn’t much later when suddenly the lights dim and everyone starts to gather near a stage at the front of the exhibit. A light round of polite, pompous applause flutters across the room like a buzzing of insects, and then a twenty-something woman takes the stage wearing a hat that features a lavender feather half the height of her torso.
When she faces the crowd and thanks them in her tight, muted voice, I realize with a start who she is: Renée Brigand.
“From the bottom of my iron locket of a heart—yes, that’s a reference to my piece titled Heart Of Iron, as seen in my Security series—I would like to thank you for attending the 34th Annual End Of Year Showcase. This is a special showcase, as it features a minute sampling of the ripe and hungry student body who are enrolled at the Klangburg School of Art. These students are thoughtful. These students have a drive within them to push the boundaries, to think outside the scope of expectation, and to expand their wings. I was once an exhibiter, three years in a row, for my work when I was but a student here. It is my utmost honor to be this year’s sponsor.”
