Excerpt

Paris Match

The gallery was located on the Left Bank. As an artist, I was eager to see this work, since it had drawn such high praise from the critics. Crowds of people gathered in the gallery, from the Bohemian to the well-dressed society matrons. I walked inside. The lingering smell of cigarettes made the air heavy. A waiter offered us a glass of wine and I took mine, grateful for something to hold while I attempted to make conversation with strangers. Without Matt’s comforting presence, I always felt a little awkward and shy in such situations, while I knew India would flit through the crowd like a cricket, kissing everyone, making loud exclamations of joy when she saw an old friend and dragging me along behind her. She said things like, ‘You look fantastic tonight,’ and ‘I’ve been meaning to call you, I promise. . . .How was the sea? I always find it so revitalizing to go there . . .’ She was a master of the art of small talk and it was truly a gift.

As usual, I lost India to a man wearing a black sweater and boots. Looking around, there appeared to be no immediate prospects for conversation so my attention was drawn to the wall-size canvases of an artist named Isu (pronounced E-soo), which sounded to me like the name of a car.

Above the quiet hum of conversation, I heard comments like, “extraordinary,” “fresh,” and “luminescent.” I studied the canvas and wondered at the gullibility of mankind. Did these people really know what they were talking about? Perhaps it was me, but all I saw was a black canvas with a lightning bolt cut through it. Each canvas looked the same as I squeezed my way around the room, wondering how the crowd could sustain such long conversations about work that seemed so uninspired.

“I see the mark of human suffering in this work,” said a Frenchman with a raised eyebrow.

“Really?” I reply. “Where?”

“It’s in the lines, separating dark from light. Reality from dreams. Hope from despair. Isu is a genius.”

A familiar voice whispered in my ear. “Who in their right mind would buy any of this stuff?”

“Paige!” I said with relief. “What are you doing here? I thought you had a date.”

“Oh him, he’s over there in the leather jacket. I knew you and India were coming, so I told him that I had to see this opening. This Ishew guy has a lot of nerve charging money for this junk. I wouldn’t even want these in my garage!”

I laughed, giving her a hug. “I’m so glad you’re here. I thought I was on my own tonight.”

“Where’s India? Wait a minute, don’t tell me. Our India is probably talking with the artist himself, promising to buy something. I personally think that all-black canvas over there would look great in her living room. I think I’ll go and offer Ishew double what it’s worth so India will spend more of Julian’s money.”

“It’s Isu,” I corrected her quickly, looking around the room for the artist.

“Whatever. His real name is probably John Smith. Oh wait, we’re in Paris. I’ll bet it’s Jacques something.”

I wandered down the hallway and turned left, seeking a break from the innumerable pseudo-art critics. A portrait caught my eye, and I was drawn to the clean lines on the canvas. The subject stared back at me, his face furrowed in concentration. Who was this man? What was he thinking about? I wanted to know more about him. Looking pensive, his hand tucked under his chin in concentration, he had a story inside the lines of his face. The use of color drew me to him, but once I was there I wanted to stay.

“Do you like it?” said a male voice.

“Love it. Who’s the artist?” I replied, focusing on the detail of the subject’s eyes.

“An American painter named Jean Whitfield.”

I looked over at the man standing beside me, dressed in dark pants and a white shirt. He looked serious, almost reminding me of the portrait in front of me. His hair was dark, his nose large, but attractively so, and his brown eyes had impossibly long lashes. I said, “To me, this is how art should be. I can see the person- I want to know more.”

“So I can assume you’re not going to be taking any of Isu’s work home with you this evening.” He took a long swallow of his red wine.

“I can’t afford it.”

“And if you could?” He questioned, watching me intently.

“I don’t think it’s really my style.”
“Is that your polite way of saying you hate it?”

I looked into his eyes, and felt as if he were someone I could have trusted. I didn’t have any reason to feel this way. I just did.

“The truth is I think it’s awful. It’s too trendy. This kind of work will make Isu famous for a time, but it won’t last. Now, something like this portrait will. It’s not as fashionable right now but it has a timeless quality to it.”

“I agree. That’s why I’m back here. What’s your name?”

“Lauren.”

“I enjoyed meeting you, Lauren. I hope we’ll meet again.”

I headed back to the party to look for India, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. The wine was making me feel light-headed, so I went in search of some cheese and crackers. Engaged in conversation with the man I had just met, Paige signaled me to join them.

“Lauren,” said Paige with a glint in her eye. “I’d like to introduce you to someone very special.”

I smiled warmly, “We’ve met.”

“You have?” Paige looked confused as the man and I exchanged glances.

“I just realized I didn’t catch your name.”

“This is the soon-to-be-world-famous Isu.” Paige announced proudly, waiting for my reaction.

My embarrassment was so intense that it felt as if someone had just ripped my clothes off. A blush started at my toes, moving swiftly up my body, taking root in my neck and face. Speechless, I stared at him, wondering what I should say. I had just told him that his work was awful.

“Are you all right?” questioned Paige, grabbing my arm.

“Fine,” I replied quickly, wanting to make a quick exit.

Isu smiled and handed me a glass of wine from the tray. “Are you enjoying the opening?”