Chapter One
Leif
“Le but de l’art est de trouver le sens. L’émotion n’est que le début.”
I blinked at the professor’s words, translating the French as I went along. Perhaps it should make a little more sense than it did, or maybe I was losing my mind. Considering I hadn’t slept last night, thanks to an all-night party turned protest, and rolled into class with a baguette and a prayer, I wasn’t sure which was which.
I didn’t mind.
This was what a semester in Paris learning about art and yourself was for, after all.
“Now, for those of you still learning French, I commend you for taking this class. Remember, however, that you will still need to follow the program in both languages.”
I scribbled down notes, then focused on the subject in front of me. The long lines of his neck, the way his hand settled on his hip. Figure studies in an art class weren’t anything new for me and this wasn’t the first naked man I’d ever drawn. In fact, the first one had been my boyfriend at the time. Then I’d drawn a figure study of my girlfriend when the guy and I hadn’t worked out. I was an equal opportunity artist and relationship kind of guy.
Now I was a single man in Paris, trying to get through this program without showing the world that I was a failed Montgomery.
No pressure or anything.
By the time the class ended, I was ready for a latte and a nice walk in a country not of my own, but of a history long since cemented in the echoes of history. As my classmates and I said our goodbyes, each of us heading toward our respective homes and lives, I let the full scale of my new life settle on my shoulders. It didn’t feel real, but then again, nothing felt real when I wasn’t at home.
A Montgomery in Paris.
Honestly, that sounded as if it should be the next subject line for the Montgomery Family Newsletter. And yes, there was indeed a monthly newsletter that went through all the major accomplishments for any Montgomery in our family who wanted to let the others know. It might sound ridiculous to some but considering the number of people I had in my direct family, let alone the connections that were close to us, it was needed. Hell, even my group chats exploded during certain times, because we were a nosy bunch, and we couldn’t help it. The latest had been when the favorite family cheese monger had decided to retire.
I always thought growing up in the Montgomerys and liking cheese was a joke, but it had turned into the pastime. It was like when you told your grandma that you liked frogs when you were six, and boom, every gift that you get until the end of time has to do with frogs. Suddenly you have a frog collection. The Montgomerys had a cheese collection. Each family had their favorites. We not only had a cheese drawer, but a curated one. Then of course, we had the merch to go with it. One did not lean into a joke without merch.
Our favorite cheese monger retired right before I had come to Paris, and as a joke, we celebrated with him. One of my uncles had pointed out that we should give him a party, and it sort of exploded into a real event where we ended up sending him and his wife to Aruba for the week. I have no idea how that happened, but I had donated along with others and the man finally got to have his dream vacation with his wife. The person who’d replaced him had large gouda shaped shoes to fill, but we weren’t that insane when it came to cheese. My stomach rumbled, and I looked into a store window wondering if I could find a shop and get myself some cheese.
It wasn’t quite lunchtime, but I didn’t care. I was in France and that meant I could have cheese. It was an unwritten rule. Of course, thinking about cheese and my family made me a little homesick. I had been in Paris for three weeks. Three weeks in which I felt like I was lost, exhilarated, exhausted, and wondering what the hell I was doing.
I was grateful that between AP courses, exams, and an overloaded schedule, I’d gotten my bachelor’s degree in business in three and a half years. I had now graduated and was ready to face the world. Except the fact that I didn’t want to go solely into business. I wanted to show the people around me that I could be the artist that I wanted to be.
My father had traveled the country when he was younger along with his cousin Shep and had learned art from some of the greatest tattoo artists out there. Now he, Aunt Maya, Uncle Shep, Aunt Adrienne, and a few others, were well-known enough in the world of tattoos and ink, that their art and memories were legendary.
I wanted to be a tattoo artist. Hell, I was a tattoo artist. I’d been apprenticing at my father’s shop in Denver since before I was eighteen. Not to mention working shifts with my aunts and uncles in Colorado Springs. I’d even gone to a friend’s down in New Orleans where my uncle had once worked and learned from a few people there. Now I was in Paris taking a different approach.
I had been accepted into an art program. It was one where it moved past the basics and into some of the subjects that I had always been interested in but hadn’t been able to truly focus on. A few of the people that I painted and drew next to were already in galleries and well-known. I was the only tattoo artist there.
It also meant that I didn’t quite fit in. Hell, I had never fit in except for with my family.
Those around me painted, sculpted, and drew to their hearts content. They were artists, and the art world told them that they were artists. They made art. I sculpted people’s flesh, according to one person. Or dug into their body with needles and forever scarred them. It was all bullshit but a few of my classmates were excited about what I did. I had gone into a few tattoo shops in Paris, and because I had gone through the paperwork and worked with them before, I’d been able to do few small pieces for those people in the program.
I was figuring it out, at least that’s what I told myself.
That morning I’d had a silhouette class, where I’d spent hours trying to get the angles that I wanted, doing my best to get the shading just right. Working with pen and pencil was far different than working with a needle and ink, but I wanted to stretch my abilities. I didn’t want to be a tracer. I wanted to draw. I had the talent, I knew it. And it wasn’t just because my dad was one of the most famous tattoo artists in the world.
The name Montgomery meant something in that profession, and I had a lot to live up to.
So I needed to learn to be better.
My back ached, my hand hurt, and I was glad the class was over for now. I had spent three weeks immersed in Paris and art. And I really just wanted a coffee.
I loved this city. It constantly moved, and there were so many things to see. I had my sketch pad ready to go, and I couldn’t help but stop sometimes at a small cafe and work with what I saw in front of me. They would never make tattoos, that wasn’t the point. I wanted to breathe in culture and something different than who I was.
I stopped by my favorite coffee place, got myself a latte, and sat down to people watch.
Everything moved a little slower here, even though they never stopped going. I could sit down and enjoy a cup of coffee, and just be, without feeling like I had to move on to the next phase.
