Suddenly, Alex emerges from the kitchen. He claps a hand onDevo’s back who nods at him. Then Alex turns to address the guests. “Welcome everybody!” He has a booming voice when he wants to use it. I’ve always been impressed by that. No matter how awkward Alex can be at times, there’s a reason he’s become the de-facto representative of the studio—he cares, he buys in, he wants to keep the community together and thriving. He can command an audience, even if his speeches are littered with dad jokes.
“Thank you for attending our little gathering.” He waves his arms around. “For those of you with your phones up, I’m going to ask you to abide by the honor system: Please don’t upload any footage to social media, we’ve invited specific outlets here today for photographic coverage, thank you!” There was some murmuring in the crowd, but they all know that the limited coverage of Devo’s paintings adds to the allure. The edges of the studio have filled out with those who were previously standing around in clumps. A few folks are elbowing each other and whispering, pointing to the object covered by the tarp next to Devo.
“As many of you know, we’ve been lucky enough to host a very, very special guest this past week.” Alex puts his hand on Devo’s shoulder again, who takes a moment to look up briefly at the crowd. Cameras snap, trying to get a glimpse of those piercing eyes. No wonder he prefers to keep his face in shadow—his heterochromia is striking in full light. Not helpful for someone who prefers to remain anonymous.
“Devo, is that you?” a member of some press contingent yells out.
Alex puts his hand out toward the man. “Don’t worry, there will be time for questions in a few minutes”—he takes a deep breath—“but yes, you’re stealin’ my lines, man!” He gives a solitary chuckle. “Yes, everyone, this guy in front of all of you, looking like an internationalsuper spy,is Devo!” He smacks Devo’s shoulder again, with maybe a little too much force. From my vantage point towards the front corner of the room, I swearI can see Devo’s eyes crinkle again as he subtly shakes his head back and forth.
So he thinks Alex is ridiculous too.We never had a chance to talk about that.
There’s so much more we could have talked about. Like, oh I don’t know, all our hopes and dreams and greatest fears, or whether he would forget me when he moves on to his next micro-residency. I take a deep breath. So many emotions are slithering through the block of nerves sitting in the bottom of my stomach: excitement, fear, jealousy, panic. I squeeze my hands together in front of me.
I’ve read all the articles that have covered his past micro-residency Muse painting reveals. I know the order of events—a brief introduction with a representative of the local studio and then a Q&A with the journalists representing various artistic publications, including popular blogs. There might even be a representative fromDevo’s Darlingshere.
The door to the outside opens then, ushering in a sharp breeze that whips at my naked ankles. I turn. It’s Marvin Flint. He works forTheNew Yorker.Geez. Being covered byThe New YorkerArts and Culture section is no small feat. I pinch the bridge of my nose and try to steady my breaths. All Muses have remained anonymous unless they revealed themselves, I remember. I won’t be recognizable. Besides, I’m not famous, no one will care about my involvement. Except Daisy, I suppose.
“Now, before we reveal what we’re all here to see,” Alex re-takes control of the murmuring crowd. “I’m going to give you a brief spiel about our humble little studio you’re all standing in today. Copper Works, as its namesake suggests, used to be the final destination for details on fine copper goods! Nowadays, we host local artists working with all mediums, just for a small monthly fee. As an artist Co-Op…” I zone out, since I already know the history and set-up of our studio.
I can’t stop staring at Devo—at his well-defined figure—just waiting there in that wide stance, head down. He seems somysterious, and cold—nothing like the warm, charming and humorous young man I’d gotten to know in person over the past week. While his famous pseudonym and his real name are quite similar, this persona before me and the one who danced with me at McArthur’s, who’d kissed the top of my head and held my hand, seem worlds apart.
I bite my lip.
“And with that, I’ll hand it over to Devo and his team. He’s been a delight to host and we’re so excited to see his latest creation.” Alex makes a grand sweeping gesture towards the shrouded object. Devo’s assistant, waiting for his moment in the corner, walks up and very dramatically swooshes off the silken fabric. He quickly wraps the material around his forearms and retakes his silent post in the corner.
It feels as if my whole world narrows to the four foot by six foot canvas before me—before the entire room.
It’s striking. The majority of the canvas has been hit with pastel blue splatters. It looks like hundreds of raindrops against a glass. Many of the drops have been set in relief by detail work I hadn’t yet seen, with blues and grays of varying darker shades. It feels as if I’m looking at a three-dimensional background. Inches from the edges of the canvas, the green strikes begin—creating an almost glowing effect against the watery background.
Closer to the perimeter of the focal point of the painting are more pointed black splatters—they outline the curved figure of a woman on her side. Tangled tendrils of hair spill from the outline of her head towards the edge of one side of the canvas. Her head gives a tilted back impression, and the side profile of her face has been given more detail, including softly parted lips and eyes shut with light lashes cutting through the harsher black lines around her face.
One hand, fingers splayed, looks to be pushing its way through the canvas, right in front of the bend of her waist. Interesting, considering that I know my hands and wrists weredangling above the canvas, momentarily clasped in Devlin’s hand.
Everything about the piece feels intimate and breathless. The background makes the subject feel wet and the tipped head and splayed fingers feel heady, desperate.
I suppose I had been.
I suppress a manic giggle. How wild that Devo’s next muse, the Muse in front of us, is me. Just little ‘ole me. It’s beautiful, and there’s no doubt that the painting is sensual and feminine... the subject had been admired. He’d done it again.
Cameras click and click. The room’s initial murmurs have transformed into a cacophony of voices. Everyone is discussing the artistic choices of this piece compared to others in his series. A few folks are looking around, scrutinizing unknown faces, perhaps looking for the inspiration. But there are no identifying features on the woman captured in the canvas before us. It’s just a figure in a moment of intimate pleasure. Forever anonymous unless she chooses not to be. That thought makes me feel powerful. I feel like I have a secret, and a memory I’ll always cherish.
All mine.
And his.
I glance up to Devo. I wish I could better share this moment with him. His assistant is standing next to him, whispering. Devo gives a nod, then pushes the brim of his black hat down further.
Alex confers with them as well. “Alright, everyone, settle down!” He makes a gesture to imitate quelling the volume of the crowd by putting out his hands and lowering them. “It’s time to take questions! Who’s first?” He scans the room with a hand to his forehead as a mock visor. “You!” He points to the corner of the room farthest from me.
“Yes, Devo—is it true that all of your pieces are inspired by real women?” This question has been asked at previous reveals.Devo’s assistant confers with him for a moment, then speaks for him.
“Yes, Devo likes to draw direct inspiration from real life for authenticity,” he projects, and then respectfully steps back, hands clasped behind his back.
The same voice shouts in response, “Well who’s the lucky lady then!” My heart seizes. These crowds are normally a bit more polite. I try to mentally run through the written articles of these Q&As at previous studios. A name had never been given in connection with these paintings. But what if… no one had asked directly before? I squeeze my hands together tighter and note the short distance between me and the door. Only a few people to get around.
Devo’s assistant goes to take a half step forward, but Devo gives a sharp shake of his head. Alex notices too. “Next question!” he booms. The assistant gives him an appreciative nod. “You!” Alex points to an older gentleman with a palm-sized notebook flipped open in the center of the room.
The man clears his throat and then begins, “This piece feels more intimate than some of your other pieces in this series, what was your relationship like with the subject?” The crowd goes relatively silent. Everyone wants the details on the Muse process. Me included. Based on the last question, however, I expect Devo to give a shake of his head—indicating a desire to move on to the next question.
