Chapter 1
Tristan
The best thing about a caveat-free affair is they don’t stick around long enough to know that I’m not really asleep. Once I hear the latch of the front door, I exhale. My arm that was resting on my chest now settles firmly across my eyes. How is it I can feel sated, yet riddled with this gnawing anxiety that sits so heavy I find it hard to draw a full breath?
The one thing that’s gotten me through is no longer working. When the muses are no longer speaking, I fall back to other delicacies. My fiery redhead, Katya, splayed out across my ivory sheets is usually enough to calm the most raging of storms. Not this time. Not today.
The steam hasn’t even dissipated from her shower and I’m back to where I started. I’m adrift in a sea of boredom and dispassionate about everything. It’s coming through in all forms. My music is shit. I can no longer force a sonata to sing. My painting has fallen to that of an amateur.
I usually can stare at a blank canvas and conceptualize to completion before I even begin. The colors appear in my head in a messy kaleidoscope that eventually smooths to a clear, clean image. The lines, the shapes, the form…it always becomes an homage to the most beautiful thing on this planet or any other. The female form.
I suppose there is a time and a place for those who like to memorialize bowls of fruit or a seascape. I am not one of those humans. There is nothing more exquisite than the long line of a woman’s back. The gentle curve of her neck with her pulse slightly throbbing below the skin. The globes of a voluptuous round arse.
Some artists of all genres will tell you that the way to gain inspiration is to immerse yourself in those who have come before you, or those who are so relevant that they will push you out of that comfortable, or in my case, uncomfortable place to find the world where the muses speak again.
My mate, Marco, has been begging me for weeks to come by his gallery for one of his many new artist showings. It seems like there is one every week or so. He’s wanted me to do a show for ages. I’ve found every reason not to. I hesitate to see what is out there. It either doesn’t live up to my expectations or it’s so wildly fantastic I’m green with envy.
My restless being would not be subdued tonight. Going back to my apartment was not an option. I would undoubtedly end up with Katya again at my side. That isn’t fair to her. After dinner alone at my favorite pub with a replay of the Liverpool match, I find myself walking the streets. My subconscious steers me toward the gallery I’ve been trying desperately to avoid.
The farther up the block I travel, the line outside his door comes into focus. The line wraps around the block. The moment I see that, my curiosity gets the better of me. I catch snippets of conversations as I walk by each small group patiently waiting to stare at the walls inside.
I heard about the artist. He enjoys mixing live art with that of the still. Live art. It’s where I met Katya. She was a muse for someone else until she became involved with me. She was draped in black silk and provocatively posed. Her fiery red hair was wild everywhere. The flashing lights surrounding her gave the illusion of a camera bulb. With each strobe, she would slightly morph into another image.
The hairs on the back of my neck begin to stand up one by one the closer I get to the door. Marco, my sometimes partner in crime and the gallery owner, is just inside, greeting every patron as they enter. He looks up once and catches me standing within the shadows. He points at me and motions for me to come right in, past the line.
“I wondered if tonight would end up being the night you’d show up,” he whispers in my ear with a smug smile and a handshake.
“I figured this was the only way to get you off my back. Don’t gloat. It doesn’t become you.”
“I’m just glad I was right. Quit being so surly and try to enjoy yourself. Drown your negativity in the champagne, I’ll come find you in a bit.”
“I make no promises.” Marco motions with his head toward a host carrying a tray of tall, slender glasses around the room. I immediately divest him of one glass, down it, and retrieve another.
It’s been quite a while since I’ve been inside these walls. I was unaware of the renovations he's made over the past few months, or rather I hadn't cared to notice. The once very open warehouse has been transformed into what feels like a maze to me. It’s leading the patrons like mice through twists and turns to a grand space in the back. I believe he’s going for the slow build into the master showcase.
The walls are decorated with this artist’s works in a carefully laid plan. I can see the progression begin at the start. It leads with mysterious abstracts. They seem to be disjointed pieces of color. They are bent, curved, and placed sporadically on the canvas. He’s trying to tell a story that the viewer should be able to discern quickly. The fact I can’t determine that from the start only makes me seethe inside. I’m the professor. I should see these things from moment one. There isn’t much I haven’t witnessed or tried myself.
Every twist and turn leads me to something new, something additional. The walls also fade in color, along with the light. The bright whites that were at the front are becoming grayer with each passing step. I know the general admissions around me haven’t a clue. I’m finding myself forced to go to the end. It’s like a mystery I need to solve. Everything inside of me is arguing who gives a fuck. My heart pounds a bit with each delve deeper into the building.
The cavernous end opens to a series of images. They’re lit on a matte jet-black wall. They pop from one to the next. The palette is muted but the contour is the same. The latte blush of what appears to be fabric floats up and over the ivory angles of what has to be a woman. An intriguingly beautiful woman. Her size and shape changes slightly with each frame. Her hair melts down her back in the most exquisite way.
I can feel inside of me the tingle of how it drifts over her skin. How I wish I was inside that image… my hand beneath the fabric touching every inch of what is there. The temperature in the room begins to rise, along with this completely listless feeling inside of me. I slide in between the groups of peasants mingling about to stand before the last in the series. It’s massive. My conscious mind blocks out everything but the painting.
Suddenly, I’m transported into another time and place. My fingers squeeze around the glass in my hand. I can feel the pressure inside me begin to build. I’ve rarely, if ever, drifted into this type of longing. I don’t have to. I tug at the tie around my neck, pulling the knot free just enough to allow me to breathe.
I’m losing my grip.
The rattle of a drink tray passing is my salvation. I set my empty glass on it before I shatter it to the floor. My paces take me past Marco once more and out the door into the night air. The cool breeze hits my face, but gives me minimal reprieve. The airy champagne being served could not quench this desire, even with a whole bottle on board.
A laugh.
I can hear it above any and everything around me. My eyes follow my ears on a search for the source. Across the street, in the middle of the block, is an upscale night spot, Nuova. I’d been there once or twice before, not by choice. It’s full of the wealthier post college graduates who are seeking networking or to let loose in a more don’t ask, don’t tell environment. It’s everything I despise and more.