Chapter 1 #2
Since the video had been uploaded, “Devo” paintings were showing up all over the place.
Some had been authenticated, some had been confirmed as copycats—all featured a colorful explosion, paint splattered across a human-sized canvas featuring a female form—“the Muse”—in various forms of ecstasy.
No muse ever appeared in quite the same position, nor seemed to depict the same woman.
Devo had confirmed as much in a rare written interview for New York Magazine.
“All women are captivating, and their experiences are unique,” one of his curt answers had read. “It’s important to me that the world sees that.”
And this is why I love his work so much; why so many women love his work.
I know it’s salacious, and I quickly click away if anyone’s standing over my shoulder, but Devo’s art also centers on female pleasure.
It’s presented as beautiful and revered.
.. trendy, even. People want it in their homes. I want it in mine.
Maybe one day, I thought.
Pleas from women wanting to be Devo’s next “muse” have been posted all over the internet in recent months.
Some women pair their pleas with sexy poses in moody lighting, while others give renditions of their best When Harry Met Sally orgasm on camera.
I’d even seen one video of a slinky woman contort herself into some sort of pretzel shape—a silhouette not yet featured. Perhaps one that shouldn’t be...
But I’ve never seen Devo respond to any of these offers, not that he has any kind of known internet presence anyway.
His only confirmed digital footprint is the handful of interviews he’d acquiesced to, typically alongside coverage of a new painting.
At the beginning of his rise to fame, when pieces from Devo’s “Muse Series” first started being unveiled, his commentary had been mysteriously absent.
The last four months, however, had been different.
Devo has been on a continent-wide studio tour. Every week or two, he takes up a “micro-residency” at a little-known studio collective somewhere in the US, although he once spent time at a studio just outside of Toronto, and once in Playa del Carmen.
The public hadn’t been made aware of his first micro-residency until a member of the press had been invited to cover the unveiling of a new signature piece at a studio in Oklahoma City.
All Devo had shared at the time was that he wants to use his moment in the spotlight to highlight local artists, thus the traveling art studio tour.
This statement only endeared him to his fans more.
Some of whom had started very popular blogs fully dedicated to tracking Devo’s tour and analyzing corresponding paintings as they’re released.
Each of Devo’s micro-residencies is a surprise to the general public until the unveiling of a new piece, after which, Devo disappears again.
He supposedly only notifies the studio he’s coming to of his arrival.
Lucky for me, I grew up in OKC and a childhood friend of mine, Larisa, is a sculptor in the very first studio Devo had chosen for a micro-residency.
She’d passed me the email he’d used to contact the studio and told me not to share it under the threat of certain death.
Of course, Larisa wouldn’t hurt a fly. But Devo had clearly commanded some kind of respect and gratitude at that studio for her to advocate so strongly, even in jest, for the secrecy of an email address.
I’d waited a few weeks, enough to learn of Devo’s informal studio-hopping tour, before I worked up the nerve to send something.
I’d been coming back from a subpar date two months ago when I decided to type something out on my walk home.
The air was crisp and my tipsy breath had come out in tiny white puffs as I read it back to myself aloud.
I’d wanted to make sure my wine goggles weren’t too strong before hitting send on my phone.
Dear Devo,
I love your work. Unique, I know. I’m an artist too. Paint is also my preferred medium, although I don’t throw it about the canvas. I work out of the Copper Works Collective in Brooklyn. You should come see us. Maybe I could teach you a technique other than splattering.
With love,
Charlotte G. Faure
I fell asleep that night with thoughts of my piss-poor date, not of the random email I’d sent off to a mysterious celebrity on my walk home. So, imagine my surprise the next morning when I woke up with mussed hair, a fuzzy brain and an email notification:
Dear Miss Faure,
I’m flattered by your kind words. I do, in fact, know plenty of other techniques... However, I’d surely love to learn what you have to teach. My brush is at your command.
Besides, I’ve been meaning to visit Brooklyn. I will let you know if I head to Copper Works. What’s your address? I prefer pen to paper.
Your willing student,
Devo
I read the email twice over with bleary eyes and a deepening crease between my brows.
Is this really him? I looked back over what I’d sent late the night before and cringed.
Oof. I’d been sassy. I had sassed an artist I admire!
In our very first interaction, too. Assuming it really was him, said a tiny voice in my head.
Larisa had said that this was the email address he’d used to contact her studio before he’d come to visit… and I consider her trustworthy.
Who knows who the person on the other end of the keyboard thought I was, but I wasn’t about to let this potential luck of a response slip through my fingers. I replied with my address—a twenty-unit apartment building in Park Slope—and the following note:
In case you’re a criminal or an impersonator, I will have you know that you can reach me via “pen to paper” at the above address, but it is heavily guarded and may or may not be where I live. I have a doorman, and a protective dog or two. So… don’t do anything crazy.
Whoosh. Sent.
Oh my god.
Subject: Forgot my unit #!
#3D. As in, the third dimension.
And I mean it about the dogs!
I was sober and sending even zanier messages than the night before. Most of what I’d said was neither true nor sensical, but I wanted a letter! And at the same time, I felt vulnerable. Was I an idiot to send my address to a stranger? Maybe. My mom would kill me if she knew.
No immediate response.
An hour or two later. Still no response.
The next day? Nothing.
Whoever was on the other side of those emails, I’d definitely scared them off. I thought over my follow-up send, “As in, the third dimension.” Ugh. I shook my head and looked up at the ceiling.
It had been a shot in the dark anyway.
Coming back from my studio collective that Monday, I’d found a letter waiting in my mailbox.
It was inside in a rectangular white envelope addressed to “Miss Charlotte Faure.” I flipped it over to the back and, much to my amusement, noticed a soft violet paint splatter across the flap.
To a different recipient, this might have looked like a mistake.
I, on the other hand, had a feeling it was a calling card.
My heart thundered in my chest, beating with anticipation.
I looked both ways in the mail room vestibule as if someone was going to spot me with contraband.
When I finally got up to our apartment on the fifth floor, I ripped open the envelope to find a thick piece of white paper, nicely folded. Once laid out, I scanned the few lines of black angular script, ending on the flourishing signature at the bottom: DEVO
It was him. Right?? Oh my gosh. My hands were building up nervous sweat as I went back to fully read the note.
Miss Faure,
I hope this letter finds you and your 1-2 protective dogs and kindly doorman all well. To try to help prove myself, I’ll play a round of two truths and a lie with you:
My eyes are two different colors.
My first painting in the so-called “Muse Series” was an accident.
I haven’t looked you up.
Your future student and fellow third dimension dweller,
DEVO
P.S. Send your next letter to:
Mark R.
1224 Taylor St, Columbia, SC
Room 301
(Please don’t respond to the email address moving forward.)
P.P.S. I like your dimple.
Of course, that letter sent me spiraling.
What was my internet presence like?? I was googling myself late into the night, trying to find anything and everything associated with me—going all the way back to a picture of myself in my high school newspaper.
I was featured holding up a painting of a flower vase I’d entered into a county contest (and lost!).
To my dismay, I also found an old blog I’d attempted to start when I’d managed to study abroad in Florence for a semester.
Nineteen-year-old me had spent months trying to sketch and paint like the great Renaissance artists to little avail.
I suppose my social media wasn’t as guarded as I’d suspected either. All my profile photos were at the ready on Google search! So much for privacy settings…
Which pictures had he seen? Which of my cringey art pieces had he homed in on?
Or what was I kidding? There’s no way he spent more than a brief glance on anything he’d found.
I’m overthinking this. But how could I not?
! I am maybe talking to one of the art world’s most notorious artists!
He’s taking the time to write to me! I mean…
assuming this really is Devo. If so, who knows how many women he’s speaking to through the postal service?
I wrote out a response explaining that his little game of two truths and a lie proves nothing about his real identity.
Although, in my obsessive research, I had uncovered a rumor about the creation of his first Muse Painting that did allude to it being an accident.
Before overthinking it, my classic downfall, I sent my letter off to the location indicated in the postscript.
Every letter I’ve sent so far went to a different address, at his request. He never seemed to stop moving, even within the same city.
But he had been making his way up the East Coast lately…
leaving newly revealed pieces in his wake—each one a “Muse” painting.
Some got more attention than others. The most erotic received the most coverage.
I analyzed them all. Each painting reveal correlated with the general location of where I’d been mailing my letters.
His next response came four days later, which means he’d replied to mine and posted it almost immediately.
Miss Faure,
The game will prove something when you meet me. I’ve been in touch with your studio. Thanks for the recommendation. I’ll be looking for a collaborator in Brooklyn. Know anyone available? Brunettes with dimples welcome.
Kind Regards,
Devo
P.S. Send your next letter to:
Sam G.
301 South 12th and Spruce Street
Philadelphia, PA
Room 111
Omg, I remember thinking, does that mean he’s looking for his next muse? Of course he calls them collaborators—it was the thirsty netizens who had dubbed them muses. Devo hadn’t named the series, the audience had.
The Present
Mariah left me in our common space about fifteen minutes ago to meet an early bedtime.
She holds 8:00 AM office hours on Mondays as a TA for Psych 101.
Her parting words to me were, “Don’t stay up too late”—paired with a pointed stare at the envelope in my hand.
In other words, stop overthinking it, Charlotte.
I fan my face with Devo’s unopened letter as I look out the window over my desk.
The moon is bright—she's in her waxing phase, and almost full. There’s not a star in sight, thanks to the light pollution escaping from the bustling metropolis that is New York City.
My skin is heated, but when I put my fingertips to the window, I can feel the chill and the glass fogs.
How would Devo respond to my offer? Would he let me down gently? Would he be cruel? I get up to pace again, taking deep breaths. I pour more wine. What if he accepts? Do I just arch my back against a wall and smile?
I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes, halting my movement.
Despite being a part-time artist myself, and therefore keeping the company of many over-the-top and eccentric people, I see myself as more reserved.
How had I gotten myself into this position?
But here I am, going over my written offer in my head yet again.
Devo: I’ll be looking for a collaborator in Brooklyn. Know anyone available?
Charlotte: I volunteer. But what’s in it for me?
It was the shortest note I’d ever sent. I hadn’t even been sure it was worth the postage.
I roll my eyes as I remember sending those words. As if “a million girls wouldn’t kill for this job,” like Stanley Tucci says in one of my favorite movies…
You know what?
That’s what I’ll do to distract myself from whatever this letter says. I’ll watch The Devil Wears Prada.
Finally, I set my glass down and slip my fingertip under the envelope’s flap. I ease open the paper and withdraw the letter inside. My eyes dart to Devo’s even shorter response: “I’ll see you in Brooklyn.”
Oh God. I set the letter down on my chipped coffee table with trembling fingers. Does that mean—I bite my lip—does that mean he accepts?? I don’t know. My mind is going in circles.
I settle onto the couch with the last of my wine and prepare to get lost in someone else’s world and choices. Plus, Devo’s last letter came from Pennsylvania. I have time to mull over rescinding the offer.