I’m wrong.
He spends a few seconds conferring with the assistant, who nods solemnly. Then the assistant announces, “All of Devo’s relationships with his subjects are…”—he hesitates, making me unsure how much artistic license he takes on these answers—“…special.” I watch Devo’s chest rise with a deep intake of breath. I don’t know if that indicates frustration, resignation, anticipation… or something else.
If only I could see his face.
The assistant is watching Devo closely too. He finishes theanswer with a sharp eye on Devo’s reactions, “But this was a particularly strong connection.” Devo gives a diagonal tilt of his head—acknowledgement that this was true. I wonder how he would have explained it in his own words.
My heart squeezes again at this answer, then drops a few floors. If he feels like we had a “strong” connection… is it safe for me to admit to myself that I have a crush? Or will this man crushme.If all his Muse Paintings are created in a manner that’s similar to this one… tomine,then this man’s job is to be a literal playboy. I can’t trust my heart with this. Best to keep my crush from leaving the stables.
A few more questions are thrown out from the audience about his methods and use of shadows in his splatter technique, which is apparently uncommon. A woman asks again about Devo’s philosophy on depicting female pleasure. This is something he’s answered many times, however, and his assistant barely needs to confer with him to give his readily recognized answer. “Female pleasure has been undervalued in our society and each person’s pleasure is unique.” I know all about this, so I continue to let my nervous thoughts run rampant through my head. Flashbacks to two days ago come and go. Me pushed against a doorframe, the silk tie sliding out from under my neck, his demand for me to remain quiet,good girl.My thighs squeeze together at the thought. I tune back in for the next question.
“You’ve completed twelve pieces in your Muse Series at local studios,” a nasally voice says a few yards away from me. “Are you coming to a close soon? Will the series end? What’s next?”
The assistant’s head tips toward Devo and then he looks back up to answer, “This is all I’m at liberty to say: It will end. One day.”
“Great,” the sharp voice mutters near me. Clearly not the answer he’d wanted. Nor the answer I want, I realize. My teeth clench as I bear the burning sensation washing over me. I’m just one of many,with more to come.
“You,” Alex voices as he points at a newly raised hand.
“Will you ever see this woman again? This muse?” My breath catches. The seconds tick by at the same rate as my heartbeat. Time hangs suspended.
The assistant grins after conferring with Devo, and then he answers: “One day.”
I’d been staring at a comforting scuff on the floor, but at hearing that response, my head whips up. The assistant’s eyes find mine. He flashes me a polite smile and nods before quickly looking away.What isthatsupposed to mean?
The crowd starts murmuring again. Alex’s booming voice goes a decibel above the rest, “And that’s it for today folks! The Q&A portion has come to an end!”
The orderly ring of people around the room begins to loosen and the volume grows louder, but Alex isn’t done: “For all our guests from the press, please take a moment to browse the room, we have many amazing local artists here today and much of their work is on display, please go ahead and ask them about it!” He adds the last bit in haste, “Anyone interested in ceramic sculpture, please see me!”
Alex never fails to take an opportunity, and I must admit I admire him for that. I look back toward Devo as he exits the room, assistant in tow. I don’t know what to do. I want to run after him and look into his eyes. I want to pull down his mask and kiss him. Thank him for making my image so beautiful. But I also want to slap him—for not seeing me again. Fornotcoming up to kiss me.
In my panic, I hesitate for too long and lose sight of him. Finally, my feet start moving and I’m cutting through the crowd. I walk past that same nasally voice I heard earlier, “…I can get the feature if I figure out who this guy is.” My head whips toward the voice and I see a man sporting a mustache with twisted tips speaking to someone I presume is a colleague—a fancy camera dangles from his fingers. The two of them notice my stare and the mustache man looks back at me with narrowed eyes. Bad vibes. He gives me very bad, squirrely vibes.
I want to warn Devo.
I continue to push my way through the crowd, and I head in the direction I suspect Devo snuck down. I push past Alex, who’s asking if I’m alright, and into the hallway that leads to the old loading dock behind the converted warehouse. I throw open the door to the cool breeze, but no one is there. It looks like the squirrely mustache man won’t be getting the scoop he needs, and neither will I.
That night I go home and look up the meager footage of Devo’s reveal today. Apparently just one rebellious, social media-savvy person had been there. The footage they’d posted had then been used over and over again on multiple platforms. One blogger had written up information on today’s reveal, but no articles from any major arts and culture outlets or professional pictures had been published yet. It had only been a few hours. I refresh my email even though I’m pretty sure now the initial address I’d reached out to hadn’t been a direct link to Devo.
Nothing.
I’d also checked my physical mailbox on the way in.
Nothing again.
I don’t know what to think. I feel sad? No, I feel abandoned. Leaving today had been anticlimactic. Our studio group chat is blowing up. And I receive a text from Alex that reiterates what he’d asked me earlier today as I’d rushed down the hallway: “Hey, are you alright?”
No,I am decidedly not alright. I want to connect with the one person who knows what went into the reveal today. To the artist. To the mysterious, charming and frustrating man who had painted megetting offon a canvas.
Who gets to keep this mysterious image of me? Can only pop stars and art collectors afford it? I’ll never see that painting inreal life again. I wish I’d snapped a picture, but it didn’t feel like something that would have the same effect through a screen.
I decide to lock the memory away. I’ll take it out only when I feel like I can handle it. Or moments I want to reminisce... for simple physical reasons.
My throat feels tight and my chest aches. I can feel my body reaching out towards numbness to protect me.
My mind whirs into nothingness.
I close my eyes and go to sleep.
