“I’ve already got a head start.” My lip quirked up as I held the glass up over my shoulder.
“Amazingg,” she drawled. “And then you can tell me more about your sexy artist friend.”
All thoughts returned to Devo. I’d just started explaining to her the previous night who I kept receiving letters from and why reading them made me smile like a little idiot.
“He’s not my ‘sexyfriend,’ I just like his art! Besides, you know I don’t know what he looks like,” I said and rolled my eyes. “No one does,” I muttered.
“Oh, come on, if he makes the kind of art you say he does, he’s gotta be hot,” she said.
My stomach fluttered.So, I have a crush on my pen pal. No big deal.
“You have to show me some of his paintings tonight,” she continued while heading to the bathroom.
“Okayyy.” I cringed. I knew that meant I’d be sharingDevo’s Darlingswith her. What would she think of his paintings once she saw how explicit they were? Mariah has always been more comfortable with her sexuality than me. Back in college, before we’d even hit Friday during our first week as roommates, Mariah, completely sober, had brought a boy back to our tiny dorm room. I’d re-watchedDirty Dancingfor the umpteenth time with the volume in my headphones turned all the way up.
I could never put my finger on why I’d always liked that movie so much. Baby and Johnny Castle were from completely different worlds—the two of them being together in real life would never make sense. The good girl-bad boy matchup is a clichéd fantasy... one I was apparently entertaining.
He’s not going to take me up on it, I thought back to Devo.I’m a nobody… albeit a nobody who’d been exchanging letters for months with the elusive, masked phenom. He’s a creative genius. A steamy Jackson Pollock. The next artist of our generation. Okay, that might be a little dramatic. But heisfamousandmysterious, and I love his paintings.
To some critics and many art world enthusiasts, me included, Devo is the hottest up-and-coming visual artist in North America. His enviable status is due in part to his persona but was catalyzed when a famous young pop star was found to have one of his pieces hanging in her living room.
Vogue had sat down to interview Mischa Michaels on camera leading up to last year’s Grammys—she’d been nominated for Best New Artist thanks to a slew of addictive dance floor hits. At the end of the interview, the journalist asked Mischa about the striking painting hanging above her couch. It appeared to be a dark silhouette of a woman with soft curves and her head tilted back. Some sort of beaded necklace dangled from her lips and a handreached between her thighs. Surrounding the woman’s body was a cacophony of splattered paint in bold colors: fiery red, royal blue, a rich sunflower yellow. The only mark that cut through the sensual silhouette was a sharp splatter of emerald green that ran through the hand between her thighs. It was provocative and energetic, the building ecstasy of the moment clear.
“Miss Michaels, can you tell me about the painting on your wall? It’s very… provoking. And stunning! Absolutely stunning,” the interviewer tacked on.
Mischa gave a Grammy-winning smile. “Thank you! Yes, it’s incredible, isn’t it? I’ve never felt so beautiful.” She tossed her long auburn locks over her shoulder.
“Oh.” The interviewer tilted his head, looking between Mischa and the silhouetted woman. “I didn’t realize you were the model. Oh, I can see it!”
Mischa raised her hand up to her lips, which now formed a perfect circle. “Ah—” She’d glanced around with heated cheeks, looking at folks behind the camera. “Let’s just say I enjoy being a muse.” Her confidence quickly returned, and the audience received an answer within her feigned non-answer.
“The artist’s name is Devo,” she’d ended the interview with, “and he’s a genius.” She’d blinded the camera with a dazzling smile and a wink.
Sex sells, and so does intrigue. The Vogue editors had heavily highlighted this section of the interview with close-up shots of the painting, including the scrawled signature in the corner. Mischa was America’s of-the-moment sweetheart, and so following the release of the interview, the view count quickly climbed into the millions. The public’s fixation on the painting and on Mischa’s role as the “muse” propelled Devo to contemporary artworld stardom.
Since the video had been uploaded, “Devo” paintings were showing up all over the place. Some had been authenticated, some had been confirmed as copycats—all featured a colorfulexplosion, paint splattered across a human-sized canvas featuring a female form—“the Muse”—in various forms of ecstasy. No muse ever appeared in quite the same position, nor seemed to depict the same woman. Devo had confirmed as much in a rare written interview forNew York Magazine.
“All women are captivating, and their experiences are unique,” one of his curt answers had read. “It’s important to me that the world sees that.”
And this is why I love his work so much; why so many women love his work. I know it’s salacious, and I quickly click away if anyone’s standing over my shoulder, but Devo’s art also centers on female pleasure. It’s presented as beautiful and revered... trendy, even. People want it in their homes. I want it in mine.
Maybe one day,I thought.
Pleas from women wanting to be Devo’s next “muse” have been posted all over the internet in recent months. Some women pair their pleas with sexy poses in moody lighting, while others give renditions of their bestWhen Harry Met Sallyorgasm on camera. I’d even seen one video of a slinky woman contort herself into some sort of pretzel shape—a silhouette not yet featured. Perhaps one that shouldn’t be...
But I’ve never seen Devo respond to any of these offers, not that he has any kind of known internet presence anyway. His only confirmed digital footprint is the handful of interviews he’d acquiesced to, typically alongside coverage of a new painting. At the beginning of his rise to fame, when pieces from Devo’s “Muse Series” first started being unveiled, his commentary had been mysteriously absent. The last four months, however, had been different.
Devo has been on a continent-wide studio tour. Every week or two, he takes up a “micro-residency” at a little-known studio collective somewhere in the US, although he once spent time at a studio just outside of Toronto, and once in Playa del Carmen.
The public hadn’t been made aware of his first micro-residency until a member of the press had been invited to cover the unveiling of a new signature piece at a studio in Oklahoma City. All Devo had shared at the time was that he wants to use his moment in the spotlight to highlight local artists, thus the traveling art studio tour.
This statement only endeared him to his fans more. Some of whom had started very popular blogs fully dedicated to tracking Devo’s tour and analyzing corresponding paintings as they’re released. Each of Devo’s micro-residencies is a surprise to the general public until the unveiling of a new piece, after which, Devo disappears again. He supposedly only notifies the studio he’s coming to of his arrival.
Lucky for me, I grew up in OKC and a childhood friend of mine, Larisa, is a sculptor in the very first studio Devo had chosen for a micro-residency. She’d passed me the email he’d used to contact the studio and told me not to share it under the threat of certain death. Of course, Larisa wouldn’t hurt a fly. But Devo had clearly commanded some kind of respect and gratitude at that studio for her to advocate so strongly, even in jest, for the secrecy of an email address. I’d waited a few weeks, enough to learn of Devo’s informal studio-hopping tour, before I worked up the nerve to send something.
I’d been coming back from a subpar date two months ago when I decided to type something out on my walk home. The air was crisp and my tipsy breath had come out in tiny white puffs as I read it back to myself aloud. I’d wanted to make sure my wine goggles weren’t too strong before hitting send on my phone.
Dear Devo,
