At the end, Adam gazes at the installation and murmurs, “The steel shapes the sculpture, which in turn shapes how we move in relation to it in an iterative process of engagement.”
He sounds like copy lifted from an art show catalog, but when he squeezes my hand, I smile. I still don’t love the installation, but I can try seeing it differently.
By now Florian’s returned. We chat for a minute, praise the installation effusively, and thank him again for the private viewing. He lets us out the back door and we walk through the alley to the street.
“Hungry?” Adam says.
“Starved.”
He leads me around the corner to a tiny place with a patio that’s hidden behind an explosion of magenta bougainvillea. We order a couple tortas, take our drinks outside, and sit at a picnic table to wait for our food.
A half-dozen cats come running and Adam scoops up a tabby. “Here,” he says, handing it to me. “This is Angelia.
“And this,” he says, holding up a large black cat, “this is Diego.”
“You must come here a lot,” I say.
“I live around here, so my ex and I would eat here at least once a week. Neither of us liked to cook.”
I fuss with Angelia while she nestles into my lap, so it looks like I’m smiling at her and not at how Adam let it drop that he’s single. I don’t have a lot of experience, but guys don’t tell you they’re single unless they like you.
Adam sets Diego on the table, and the cat stretches and purrs as Adam scratches behind his ears, then draws his hand along his skinny back all the way to the tip of his tail, showing me a nurturing side of himself I didn’t expect.
Then the cashier comes out with our food, and Diego leaps down and disappears. I go to bite into the warm torta, and carne and beans slop out the sides. When I reach for a napkin, I can’t help thinking this dish is messy and authentic, not styled for social media.
Adam names a bunch of galleries in the Arts District, asking if I’ve visited them, and I have to shake my head and confess that no, I haven’t. The hope I had that he likes me dims. Adam’s a grad student, light-years ahead of me, and now he’ll see how unsophisticated I am.
But then he says, “Don’t be embarrassed. Parking’s expensive downtown. I probably wouldn’t have gone to half of them if I wasn’t bartending at an opening.”
I smile and for the first time since we sat down I relax. I ask him about his favorite galleries, and when there’s a lull in the conversation, I say, “You haven’t told me what you’re working on.”
Adam glances from me to the street, then he dabs his mouth and offers me a sideways smile. “The theme is uncertainty. Things never play out the way we think they will.”
“Story of my life,” I mutter.
“Tell me more,” he says.
I wave him off. “Another time.”
He sips his limeade. “You know what you’re going to paint for the First-Year Exhibition?”
“I’m avoiding thinking about it. Is it as bad as they say?”
“Nothing you can’t handle.” Adam gets up. “I could use some sriracha. You want anything?”
I shake my head then follow him with my eyes, taking in his broad shoulders and how he draws himself up as he moves. He walks so straight and tall, so sure of himself, that even though I should look away, I don’t.
He comes back and as he douses his food with the sauce says, “I have a confession—I saw your portfolio.”
I peer at him over my drink. “The one I submitted with my application?”
“Yeah, I was cleaning the faculty lounge last spring and they had work by the Zoich nominees set out for the faculty to review. I remember seeing the encaustic portrait you did of the old lady.”
He’s not blowing smoke, I think. He really saw my portfolio. “My art teacher thought I’d get Krell’s attention if I submitted a painting in encaustic instead of acrylic.”
“It was gutsy. Not a lot of artists use encaustic. Acrylic’s much more forgiving. When I saw it I thought, ‘Whoa. This girl’s got talent.’”
I feel the color rise to my cheeks, and can’t help smiling. “Thanks, I needed that.”
“Another rough day with Krell?”
“I’ve had worse.”
Adam bends over and holds out a tiny bite of torta to Diego, who takes it and runs off. “You’re very good at capturing what you see.”
“I credit my mom for that. She learned to play guitar by listening to the greats, so when I said I wanted to paint she insisted I copy the greats. She memorized the free admission days for every art museum in LA and made sure I got there.”
“She must be really proud of you.”
My heart skips a beat, and I nod. I don’t want to ruin this moment by telling Adam that she’s gone.
“So you’re a transcribing veteran,” he says.
I sigh. “You know I’d never even heard that word until the other day when Krell ordered me to transcribe a contemporary piece.”
“What’s the problem? That should be a no-brainer for you.”
I push a bean around on my plate, because I’m almost embarrassed to answer. “The problem is, I can’t stop thinking about Krell’s painting. That’s what I want to transcribe.”
Adam laughs. “Duncan? You know Krell would never agree to that.”
“Right? Can you imagine me even asking permission to do it?”
He sips his drink, his gaze following something in the bushes above my head. “What if you didn’t ask Krell?”
“What are you saying?”
“What if I were to let you in at night and you paint when Krell’s not there?” Adam’s face is completely calm, which tells me he’s not joking, he’s really offering to do it.
“No. No, that’s nuts…” I say, even as the longing to paint Duncan swells in my chest. “I can’t afford the materials. The wood panel alone would be a couple hundred, not to mention the oil pigments and beeswax.”
“Yeah, I could probably scrounge you up some pigment, but even with your employee discount the panel wouldn’t be cheap.”
I knit my hands behind my neck as I search for another reason to give him. I can’t admit to Adam that I’m afraid I’d get kicked out if Krell caught me. I don’t want him to know how close I am to losing the Zoich.
I look at him carefully. “Why are you offering to help me?”
Adam has been fiddling with his unused fork ever since finishing his torta, rubbing his thumb over the tines, but now he presses down on them so hard the veins in the back of his hand bulge. Whatever Adam’s about to say, he doesn’t really want to say it.
“Krell’s doing the same thing to you that he did to a guy in my class.”
His face is a mix of anger and sadness, two feelings I know way too well. “How did he survive Krell?”
“He didn’t. The guy took it and took it until the day Krell told him he had no business being here, he’d never be an artist.”
“That’s horrible,” I say quietly.
“Guy dropped out. We never heard from him again.”
The food I ate is a rock in my stomach. “So that’s why you’re trying to help me. Because you think I could be next.”