“Extraordinary.” The man pointed to the painting and gestured toward the lion on the canvas. “I’ve never seen a more astonishing creature. The use of light and shadow. The mixed media.”
The woman with him nodded. “I feel like the lion is going to jump off the canvas and rip my head off.”
I walked further down and neared a critic. I’d seen him at other artists’ showings. I was happy he’d showed up at mine.
He spoke into his phone, probably using a recorder app to gather his notes. “. . .Emily is one of the youngest artists to be included in the Met's new modern art collection celebrating Harlem.”
Yes! He’s doing an article on me. I hope it’s good. Shit. It doesn’t matter. He’s talking about me. That’s good enough.
My other bestie, Maxwell stood back from the group of exhibit attendees, nursing a flute of champagne and surrounded by gorgeous women. He’d take one or two home this evening.
Maxwell had those panty-dropping looks. Light brown skin. Hazel eyes. Tall, with a body to die for. Huge arms and a rock-hard chest. To most, Maxwell was hot. But for me, we remained in the friend zone.
We shared too many dark memories. Loving each other wouldn’t wash the filth away. And even if we didn’t share a haunted past, Maxwell was a man-whore after all.
Not that I was an angel either.
What happened last night? Just forget about it for now. Enjoy the moment.
I walked around, doing my best not to creep anybody out as I listened in on conversations. Many were enthused over the dozen large paintings displayed on the gallery walls. Others tried to guess why I’d chosen a lion as my subject matter.
A man with huge glasses on his head spoke to a group of four. “The lion must symbolize Africa and her journey back to her roots. Do you see how the shape of this lion’s pupils are the shape of the African continent?”
Wow. They are? That damn sure wasn’t intentional, but I’ll take that.
“Yes. Yes.” The woman next to him nodded. “I see. Remarkable. Tribal. I can hear Mother Africa humming.”
The others nodded.
The man with the glasses continued, “She’s telling us that we can never forget our heritage, no matter how much it was ripped away from us and covered in blood.”
Really? It’s just a lion on a cliff about to take a nap.
I continued toward the center and caught more conversation.
“This is so erotic.” A man held the hand of another. Both were tall.
The other kissed his cheek. “We have to get this one. It’s all about independence from the social constraints that society puts on sexuality.”
“Tell me about it.” He gestured to the lion’s long, thick tail. “And that is an obvious phallic symbol. This would go great in the dining room. Sexual, but not overt.”
I was glad no one stopped me to ask about the art. I was still new and unrecognizable in the art world, just trying to rise on the ladder. Anything to get out of Harlem. Anything to stop shoveling dirty money for dirty people. Plus, I wasn’t a fan of praise and attention. Anything more than a “Hey, that’s a cool painting,” and I would be stirring nervously and trying to get away from them.
My phone buzzed.
Maxwell had texted me.
Why didn’t you just walk over here and tell me what you had to say?
I read the screen and typed back.
Maxwell: We’ve got a problem.
Me: What?
Maxwell: There’s a bunch of shady characters in here.
Me: How shady?
Maxwell: Check the back of the gallery but be careful.
My heart hammered. Anytime Maxwell said be careful, it was a good time to run.
But why would something be dangerous tonight?
This was our night off from our usual activities.
Three years ago, Kennedy, Maxwell, and I had opened this gallery at the young ages of eighteen. Many said we were talented go-getters and a highly motivated youth.
But the ones on the street knew the game. The art gallery was meant for something else. We’d basically opened a laundromat in the hood, but we didn’t wash clothes. We cleaned money for a percentage. We dealt with dangerous people, but none of them were too big to fear our life. Low time gangsters.
What’s going on now? Can’t I get a break from the streets tonight?
I headed in that direction and drank in the people around me. While it was true that many appeared like the typical hipsters, there were some shady characters sprinkled throughout the crowd. Large, muscular men here and there were dressed in black suits and standing by the wall, not looking at the art, just scanning all the faces. Some had tattoos on their necks. Others had a few scars here or there.
None of the faces were recognizable, but all screamed one thing.
Russians. What the fuck are Russians doing here?
If one looked up the definition for gentrification, they would find two people-friendly meanings. The first would say that gentrification is the process of improving an area to conform to middle-class taste. The second would say that it was the process of making a person or activity more refined or polite.
But the street said that gentrification was about pushing minorities out of their homes to make way for affluent whites.
Regardless, gentrification had come to my neighborhood.
Harlem was a large area in the northern section of the New York City borough of Manhattan. These days, there were two types of people that lived in Harlem—the kind that rode the gentrification train over the George Washington bridge and the ones that had lived there all their lives. I was the latter, but I didn’t complain like my friends. Many wanted Harlem to stay the Black Mecca. Others embraced the change. I just wanted to sleep without nightmares and not worry about bills. I’d spent long nights in the library reading about the history of Harlem.
This neighborhood had always changed and was destined for continued transformation in the times to come. It had been formed as a Dutch village in the 1600s. After the Civil War, poor Jews and Italians dominated the area. The 1900s brought the Great Migration of blacks, sparking the Harlem Renaissance in the 20’s and 30s.
Recently, Harlem’s population of blacks had gone down to 40 percent.
And Harlem’s crime world was also experiencing a major shift. Gentrification had hit them too. The Russians were moving deeper into Harlem. Many of the Jamaican gangs were getting nervous and talking about war. I just hoped I’d be out of Harlem before things got hot.
But, why are Russians here? What do they want?
A few of the men remained scattered throughout the gallery, but every now and then they glanced to the back—right where I headed.
What’s going on?
And then I spotted the center of their attention. A man dressed in a crisp designer suit that was worth so much money, I bet twenties fell from the hems as he walked on by. Unfortunately for me, I didn’t see a trail of bills as I followed him.
Who is he?
Slowly, he walked around, drinking in the art.
I matched his speed and lingered five feet away.
He walked by each painting, stopping for a few seconds, and then moving onto the next.
Art enthusiast or here to start trouble?
I continued to keep my distance. When he stopped, I paused and turned in another direction. When he moved on, I inched a little closer.
I had no doubt that all his men knew I was watching him. But they didn’t stop me or say anything. There was no reason to see me as a threat. Where he must’ve been close to 6’4, I was 5’5.