The crime scene polaroids look different here. Harsher. More clinical against the raw brick. The environmental prints createa narrative of American abandonment that feels foreign and fascinating to the European audience.
People move through the space studying each piece. I watch their faces, their reactions, while keeping Roxy close against my side. A woman in her fifties stops in front of one of the crime scene polaroids from Utah. She speaks to her companion in German, then switches to English.
"Who is this artist? RB?"
"No one knows. The gallery in New York says they're very private."
"Its odd. Maybe their families don’t know what they do?"
"Perhaps. Or someone who cannot be public. Rumors online say it’s witness protection."
"Or famous already."
We're right here. In the room, listening to them try to solve the big question of who I am. It’s beyond surreal.
A critic I don't recognize stands in front of the environmental series for a long time. Eventually, he turns to someone beside him, speaking in accented English.
"This is captivating work. The American rot, it's like looking at the death of an empire."
"Do you think the artist is American?"
"Must be, judging by the locations, the perspective. But why hide? Why the anonymity?"
"Petra says the artist refuses all contact. Even she communicates only through the New York gallery."
"Fascinating. It makes it more valuable, I think."
Roxy's breathing has changed, becoming faster and shallower. I can feel her pulse through her wrist where my thumb rests against her skin. She's hearing them dissect her work, her choices, her identity.
And she's staying perfectly silent.
Petra Hoffman appears near the entrance, greeting new arrivals. She's mid-forties, sharp in a black blazer and designer jeans, her blonde hair cut in a severe bob. Professional. Sophisticated. European.
And she's looking at me. Not at Roxy. At me.
She crosses the gallery floor with purpose, her eyes locked on mine. I feel Roxy tense beside me, her hand tightening on my arm.
"Entschuldigung," Petra says, her accent thick. "I don't mean to interrupt, but I couldn't help noticing you, you stand out in this crowd."
She's standing too close and her hand touches my forearm, light but deliberate.
"Thanks?" I say, keeping my voice neutral, not sure whether to take the comment as a compliment.
"Are you an artist yourself? Model? I haven’t seen you at any of my exhibitions before."
"I’m a contractor. Just here for the art."
"Ah." Her smile widens. "A man who works with his hands. I appreciate that."
Roxy's gone completely still beside me and I can feel the tension radiating off her in waves. She should have a hazard symbol above her.
"This is my girlfriend," I say, pulling Roxy closer. "Roxy."
Petra barely glances at her. "Lovely. You have excellent taste in art." Then back to me: "If you're interested in the Berlin art scene, I know some wonderful places. Very underground and authentic. I could show you…"
"We're good," Roxy says, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.
She steps between us, her hand sliding possessively around my waist. The movement is subtle but an unmistakable warning.
