That night, lying in the unfamiliar bed, Dom pulls me close. This room is far nicer than the motels we stayed in when travelling through states.
"You ready for this?" he asks.
"No, I feel nauseous."
"Stop being dramatic. We’re visitors, don’t forget that.”
"I'm more nervous about hearing people talk about me. Only you and Sarah have seen and commented on my work. What if they hate it? What if I want to punch them for being rude?"
Dom laughs as he knows this is the nerves talking, but they are genuine concerns.
"You’re going to stay silent and behave no matter what they say."
"Obviously I will, but the urge might be there.”
His hand tightens on my hip as he kisses my neck.
“Thats why I’m here, baby. To protect you and make sure nothing bad happens. We got this.”
I really fucking hope we do.
Opening night and I feel sick. Why did I want to come here again?
We arrive at Void Gallery at 6:30pm, thirty minutes after doors open. The space is already filling with people like collectors, critics, other artists, gallery regulars.
We slip in through the crowd, just another couple arriving fashionably late. I have to say we look nothing like ourselves. Dom looks like a fucking hot dangerous mafia guy dressed in a black tailored suit, with a white open collar shirt underneath. His hair is styled rather than his usual messy look and I want to grab him. I’m also unrecognizable. I feel so uncomfortable I’m finding it hard not to fidget. I’m wearing a full face of make up, my hair is curled and styled and I’m wearing an off the shoulder deep red dress. It’s not overly dressy but it’s classic and elegant. We fit right in amongst the other well dressed people here who have money to spend.
I take a glass of wine from the table near the entrance. Dom grabs a beer. We position ourselves near the back of the gallery, against the wall, where we can see everything. I’m in awe of how well the space has turned out. My artwork feels like it’s someone else’s with how professional it looks. Sarah did an awesome job.
People move through the space, studying each piece. I watch their faces, their reactions. A woman in her forties stops in front of one of the crime scene polaroids. "God, this is intense," she says to her companion. "Who is this artist?"
"RB. That's all anyone knows, the gallery says they're completely reclusive."
"Like Banksy?"
"Maybe. Or just someone who doesn't want attention."
They move on and I remain frozen against the wall, Dom's hand finding mine, squeezing gently.
A critic I recognize from art blogs stands in front of "Toxic Devotion" for a long time. Finally, he turns to someone beside him. "This is so intimate, like I’m looking at something you're not supposed to see."
"Do you think it's autobiographical?"
"It has to be. No one creates work this raw without living it, you can feel the emotion in it."
"So who is RB?"
"No idea. The gallery won't say, just that the artist prefers privacy."
Dom's hand tightens on mine again and I can feel his pulse through his palm, steady and strong.
We're right here. In the room. Listening to them dissect our work. And they have no idea it’s me.
Sarah Vance appears near the entrance, greeting new arrivals. I recognize her immediately from her online profiles. She is tall, elegant in a cream pantsuit. Her brown hair is pinned back to perfection where not one strand is loose. She’s quiteattractive, but you can feel how confident she is in her work. Her presence can definitely be felt. I watch as a collector approaches her, gesturing toward the crime scene polaroids.
"These are impressive and insightful pieces. Can I meet the artist?"
Sarah shakes her head with what looks like genuine regret. "I'm sorry, RB doesn't do public appearances. They’re a very private person."
