“Oh my God, Cassie, in here!”
“Heyy, boys,” a woman in a shimmering gold dress chirps.
“Oh my,” another coos. “I can’t believe he has a private art room!” She’s already too drunk for this early in the night. “Complete with eye candy.”
“Too bad they’re all gay.”
Do they not realize we can hear them?
“Hello, ladies!” Marcus steps forward, far too excited by the interruption.
“Hello, you,” one of them says, while another purrs, “What happened to the rest of your suit?”
Her comment makes me notice his suit pants are slim-cut and tailored to perfection with a subtle satin stripe down the side. They’re far more elegant than I gave him credit for, and I try to fit Marcus into the few things I understand about how Alistair’s patronage works.
The rules are unspoken, but they’re obvious in the room: Alistair collects attractive, gay men and supports their art in exchange for… availability. Presence. Being part of the decor whenever and wherever he wants. Some guys would kill for the chance. Marcus’s eagerness to play host to six drunk women tells me exactly how far he’s willing to bend.
He catches one of their hands hovering near his back and folds her fingers into his with a practiced smile. He introduces the women to the artists, each of us offering the usual answers about our work.
My canvas stays wedged against my chest, the empty hooks on the wall behind me ringing like little alarms.
“And this is Kael,” Marcus says.
“Heyyy, Kael. What have you got there?” The drunkest of the group leans hard on her friend’s shoulder.
I did want practice explaining it. A drunk girl is as good a test audience as any. I flip it and hide behind it while they double take, bracing for stunned silence, confused frowns, and raised eyebrows.
“Oh, oh, oh!” Marcus says, ever the attentive host. “I’ve seen this. Um… um…” He snaps his fingers, then stomps his foot. “Futurist Illusionism!”
“Yes,” I say, trying not to sound too shocked.
“What is it?” one of the women asks.
“You tell them, Marcus,” I deflect.
“You’re the artist.”
I look at the canvas, then back at him, feeling the thread between us pull tighter. “I’m honestly shocked you’ve heard of it. Go on. Impress these beautiful ladies. Tell them what you know.”
Without missing a beat, Marcus gestures toward the canvas. “It’s, uh, about the collision between futuristic technology and traditional art, right?”
“Exactly,” I say, and start improvising before anyone notices Marcus just dropped my work into an art movement I’ve never even heard of. “People look at a blank canvas and think nothing’s there, but that’s not true. The materials are already doing half the work. Fabric, wood, tension, labor, all of it shaped by machines and systems and the invisible structures holding the thing together.” I step closer, hearing the idea sharpen as I say it. “Then the canvas gets stretched almost to breaking over a frame. That’s the illusion. The violence disappears, and what’s left is something pristine enough to hang on a wall.”
“Damn, boy!” one woman exclaims.
Another leans closer, squinting at nothing like she might suddenly see something.
“I don’t get it,” a third whispers, before her friend shushes her.
“To each their own,” I say lightly.
Marcus seizes the opening to pivot toAnguish in the City, and my body unclenches as they turn away.
Once the women drift back into the hallway, the room’s attention settles on me.
These artists actually brought work made of watercolors, oils, and acrylics. A glass mosaic catches the light. Their silence feels hot on my skin, but this is also where Alistair likes us: shoulder to shoulder, measuring one another, wondering who he’ll favor next.
It’s disgusting. It’s also my rent, and I muzzle the voice in my head that’s screaming that an empty canvas is the same as admitting defeat.
