“Dope, right? Unfortunately, it’s only ours for the night.”
Paul must see the confusion on my face.
“We’re at a different venue every time,” he explains. “It’s how we get new artists to come through. Helps us keep it fresh. That way we’re more accessible to young up-and-comers in different communities. We’re out in Greenpoint in a few weeks.”
“Oh, I love that,” I say, beginning to understand Paul’s appeal.
“It’s real cool,” he continues. “Been a lotta fun to watch this thing grow. And your boy here’s been with us since the beginning.” Paul clasps a hand onto Ro’s shoulder. “Since he was just a scrawny kid finger painting comic books with Mommy’s watercolors.”
“That’s not how I remember it,” Ro says, laughing. “But yeah, Paul’s the one who got me to take all this seriously. Brought me out for his shows, lined up some gallery consultancies so I could pay for a place I had no business renting. That part’s true. Everything else…”
“You come ready to work?” Paul asks, switching focus. “You know half these artists came out to see you.”
“Nah, man,” Ro says, inviting me back in with his eye contact. “We’re just here checking out what everyone else has goin’ on tonight.”
“Come on,” Paul says, pressing him. “Give ’em something easy.” Before Ro can turn him down again, Paul goes in for the kill. “I know you got your bag around here somewhere.”
Ro reaches for the back of his neck sheepishly. A little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
He nods toward the entrance. “Coat check.”
When Ro looks at me, the dimple popping on his cheek gives him away—he wants to do it.
“You cool if I throw a little paint at the wall? Just to get this guy off my back.”
“Of course,” I say, surprised by the change in our itinerary, but without a moment’s pause. “Do your thing.”
“I’ll keep her company while you’re gone,” Paul promises. “We won’t even miss you.”
Before he runs off, Ro pulls me into him and whispers, “I’d tell you to watch out for this guy, but if anything goes down, smart money’s on you.”
Without Ro between us, Paul and I struggle through a few attempts at surface conversation that all end with him telling me, “That’s what’s up.” I’m relieved when he steals two unnamed cocktails from a passing tray.
“Thanks for comin’ out,” he says, handing me a glass. “It’s good for Ro to have somebody with him at these things again. This industry’s wild, man. Watching him do it alone for so long was rough.”
I’m not usually much of a bourbon fan, but I’m grateful that sipping the drink offers an excuse for my silence. I’m here with Ro, but I’m not herewithRo.
Before Paul excuses himself to help set up Ro’s workstation,he hands me his jack-of-all-trades business card should I ever “need anything.” Though I’m not sure what I could really need from a Gallery Consultant/Community Outreach Specialist/Financial Adviser. Not that I’m in any position to judge. If I printed off business cards of my own, my hyphenate would be something likeProfessional Deflector/Recent Day Drinker/Future Pyramid Scheme Bottom.
I start an aimless lap around the main room, for fear that if someone takes pity on the lonely girl biting her nails in the middle of the gallery, they’ll know I’m an outsider as soon as the conversation turns tomediumsand I tell them I’m usually a small. But when I’m only a few portraits into my perusal a funny thing happens: Pretending to focus on the artactuallyshifts my focus to the art. I forget to feel like I don’t belong.
There’s a natural flow to the room that I’m swept into. Momentum carries me past some, while I stop at others that refuse to be overlooked.
A still of an old Black woman alone at a bus stop leaves me rooted to the floor for what could be minutes or hours. Had I not been paying attention, I might have considered her expression passive, blank even. A simple image of a simple moment in time. But thanks to Ro’s lesson outside, Iampaying attention, so I see her, fully. I see a longing in her eyes and sadness folded into every crease above her barely perceptible smile. It’s a window into the life of a stranger, but it also feels like a mirror I can’t look away from.
Commotion on the far side of the gallery pulls me from my trance. I move toward the crowd forming at an installation on the opposite side of the room and freeze in my tracks when I’m close enough to find the source of the excitement.
Ro.
He’s facing the wall—the shirt he’d been wearing earlier leftcrumpled in the corner near his black leather tote. His strong back and broad shoulders heave as he catches his breath in what used to be a white undershirt, now recklessly splattered with the spray from his brush. There’s a layer of fresh sweat on his skin that leaves him glowing under the studio lights. He’s art in his own right—a molten sculpture of liquefied bronze, taking its final shape.
It’s only when I finally force my eyes away from Ro that the canvas behind him comes into focus. The instant it does, I forget everything and everyone else. Just like he said, it’s impossible to pinpoint any discrete shapes or discernible figures, but IknowI’m looking at our moment from the street outside. I feel it. The energy and the texture of it. And now I can see it too. Ro’s showing us the world through his eyes. He’s showing me. And the beauty in his generosity and in the work itself steals the breath from my lungs, screwing a tightness in my chest.
It’s stunning, this thing he just created out of thin air. A painting that didn’t exist an hour ago, a painting I’ll know forever. Raw inspiration splayed against the wall with as much honesty as there is grace. A piece so perfectly Ro, on full display.
When the crowd offers its boisterous approval, Ro spins to face us, as if our presence surprises him. Like he’d forgotten he’d been working with an audience all along. For the briefest moment, I worry we’re intruding on something private, meant only to be shared between the art and the artist.
But then Ro finds me in the crowd, and the joy on his face does me in. His joy at sharing his world with me. His joy at my receiving it.
