Chapter Seven
Leon’s adjusting the sleeves of his suit jacket when Sara steps out of the bathroom.
He looks up and it’s like someone has stolen all of the oxygen from his lungs.
She’s clad in a sleeveless mini dress, adorned with a black and white Aztec pattern.
The black and white Medusa tattoo looks like it was carved from marble on her left bicep.
Stunning greyscale roses with eruptions of red that match her hair, give way to that laurel wreath on the right.
She’s paired the outfit with black Doc Martens and a leather jacket that she picks up off the back of the chair, slinging it over her shoulders.
His thumb runs over the silver studs in her ear, the first a tiny set of stars, the rest three small studs that decrease in size the higher they go.
“Very pretty,” he says, feeling something stir inside of him.
The whole thing is just so unapologetically Sara.
It’s outside the gallery that she falters. She steps up to the door, her gaze lingering on the people on the other side and she just stops. His hand comes to rest on her lower back, his thumb tracing a soothing circle as her hand grasps the handle.
“We don’t have to do this,” he says quietly.
She tilts her head towards him, her kohl lined eyes meeting his.
He sees the trepidation in them, the indecision.
This is a crossroads for her, she can either step forward and tell her story or she can run, the same way she has been since she was eighteen years old and newly turned out from the foster system.
Her grasp on the handle tightens before she takes a deep breath, allowing the oxygen to flood her lungs and walks inside.
She’s a hit, of course, Leon knew she would be.
He smiles, watching from a distance and sipping from a flute of Prosecco as she talks to a group of young people who accosted her on the way back from the bathroom.
They’re just like her, he thinks, creatives in the making.
They show her their work, explaining the concepts, and she takes interest, asking questions, pointing out the features she likes.
He continues wandering and he finds himself in front of her photographs, studying them. They’ve got a lot of attention tonight, from people in the industry, alternatives, kids from the programs the studio hosts.
There’s a rawness in the images, one that brings out the depth of the art style she’s documented.
No faces, just huge sprawling designs across skin, showcasing their individuality through the expression of the artwork.
They all capture a moment, a snapshot in time where the past and the present merge together.
All of the designs were created using Tebori, an ancient hand carving technique, it clashes with the new ink to create something real, something visceral.
In Japan traditional tattoos such as Irezumi are a secretive business, their wearers are often judged by the government and society despite the intense personal meaning behind the designs. The artists are notoriously hard to come by, their services passed on by word of mouth due to the stigma.
These photographs are about freedom, about expressing yourself despite the fact you are forced to remain anonymous in the throes of your everyday life.
Leon can understand the appeal to kids who feel like they have no agency or individuality, whose voices get drowned out in an over encumbered foster system.
This is her legacy, this passion project of hers. This is Sara in all her glory.
When he looks at her again, it’s in a different light because she’s far more to him than just the woman he fucks. She’s the one that owns a piece of him.
When she’s asked to speak, he can tell she doesn’t expect it.
A microphone is thrust into her hand, and she takes up residence alongside her artwork.
She clears her throat before her eyes come to rest on the kid in front of her, the one that’s been vying for her attention all night because he just wants to be seen, to be heard.
“People don’t realise how lonely it is being in foster system” she begins as she tilts her head to look at the photographs.
“How isolated you are. You feel like you don’t have anything to say and when you do, it feels like no one’s listening.
For me, photography became a way of expressing myself when I couldn’t use my voice.
My pictures showed the world how I saw it when I couldn’t speak the words. ”
“There weren’t art programs like this when I was in foster care, I stole my first camera from a guy who was paying me to model for him…
” She trails off and there’s an agony in Leon’s chest, a violent acute stab because he knows the kind of shoots she’s talking about, how they start and how they finish.
He wishes that hadn’t happened to her but that’s not her reality, it’s not his either.
“I’m thankful that things have changed, that there are programs to assist young people who have faced the same things that I did.
I hope that seeing my work shows you that there are opportunities for you out there, that your past doesn’t have to shape who you become. ”
Leon’s there when she hands the microphone back to the host, his hand taking hers as he helps her off the platform. This is the most real she been with anybody, and it takes courage to do what she’s just done, to speak her truth.
“I’m proud of you Mami,” he says, his fingers squeezing hers. Sara squeezes back before tucking herself under his arm and he gathers her up close, his lips brushing over her hairline. “I think you’ve made a difference here tonight.”