"As a guest."
"As nobody in particular, just another person in the crowd, an out of town artsy lover."
He studies me. "You want to hear them talk about you."
"I want to hear them talk about the work, about who they think I am. What they think the mystery means."
"That's dangerous."
"So is everything we do."
I think he will be stubborn and refuse to take the chance. But he doesn’t.
"Okay. We go together, I’m sure with some fancy clothes we can blend in. But we don't talk to anyone and don't draw attention. Remember, we’re meant to be ghosts."
"We're always ghosts."
Three weeks later and Sarah sends installation photos. The gallery space is transformed. White walls, track lighting, my work hung with professional precision. They look so much better presented like this. I can’t quite believe it and have to pinch myself that this is my work.
The crime scene polaroids are clustered on one wall. The human sketches on another. The random location prints creating a beautiful transition between violence and grief. She understands my work and what I was doing as she has managed to present it as I wanted. A story of life.
And finally we have "Toxic Devotion" on the far wall, alone, commanding the space.
It's perfect,I email back.
I wish you could see it in person,Sarah responds.
Maybe someday.
The press release goes out five days before the opening. This shit is getting real.
VOID GALLERY PRESENTS: RB - "SACRED MOMENTS"
Void Gallery is pleased to announce "Sacred Moments," a solo exhibition by emerging artist RB. The exhibition features twenty-five works exploring death, grief, and decay as sacred moments of truth.
The artist, who prefers to remain anonymous, has created a body of work that is both unflinching and deeply necessary. Location photography of real life scenes, intimate sketches of human suffering, and environmental abandonment combine to create a meditation on mortality and meaning.
RB will not be appearing publicly. The work speaks for itself.
Opening reception is Friday, 6-9pm.
I read it on the Void Gallery website, my work displayed in professional photographs, my name reduced to initials.
RB.
A mystery.
Exactly what I need to be.
Dom and I fly to New York on Thursday, the day before the exhibition.
We dress carefully in nondescript clothes, nothing memorable. I wear dark jeans, a simple black sweater with boots. My hair is pulled back in a low ponytail. No makeup beyond the minimum, totally forgettable.
Dom wears black jeans, a dark gray henley, and his usual boots. His tattoos are covered and he looks like either a musician or a manual worker. We look like a couple. Young, artistic, the kind of people who go to gallery openings.
Not the artist. Not anyone important.
The airport security is routine. Our IDs scan without issue. James and Roxy Brennan, traveling to New York for the weekend. We land at JFK at 8pm and take a cab to a small hotel in Williamsburg. Not the hotel Sarah suggested if I wanted to change my mind, but somewhere else, somewhere with no connection to the gallery but popular with tourists.
