Chapter 36
The next morning, I wake up as early as possible to prepare for the day. The sunshine and tropical vibes make me feel like I’m shedding a layer of anxiety as easily as I stored my coat in the closet when I arrived. From the balcony of my room, I can see the massive tents that have been set up for Art Week. Each one would cover almost an entire block in New York. Galleries from all over the world have booths in the posh, air-conditioned pavilions with cocktails bars and lounges. Everyone is trying to promote their artists and create a buzz.
After a quick breakfast in my room, I head down to meet Finn in the lobby. I thought he couldn’t look any sexier than he did in his swim trunks but he’s standing in the lobby in a tight-fitting suit with a T-shirt and no socks. It’s a spicy mix of formal and casual that takes my breath away. I’m wearing my ‘normal’ costume, which bears some distant resemblance to what he’s wearing – a boring blue shirt and dull khaki pants.
The day starts with Finn speaking at a panel on the role of the arts in activism. He has lunch with a curator from a museum in Dusseldorf after that and then there’s a screening of a short film he made last year and a talkback. He does a ton of interviews with everything from garage-produced podcasts to glossy international art magazines. The day is a great success but also exhausting. There are so many press obligations that I don’t get to visit the Carlos Wong Gallery booth until the afternoon, while Finn is still finishing interviews.
The main tent is even more crowded than it was in the morning. There is an enormous blue horse that reaches at least two stories above the beach to the top of the tent. When I get closer, I see that it’s made entirely of recycled materials – plastic bottles, wrappers, and old toys. I smile as I admire it and think about the lives the empty containers had before they became art.
I had my doubts when Robert gave me this assignment. I was hoping for a routine pharmaceutical campaign. But being in Miami surrounded by so many people living creative lives makes me think I might not need to always make the safe choice. Of course, being around Finn so much these past few months may have something to do with my change of attitude as well. Still, I’m safely on my side of the road. Changing lanes at this point might not be possible. I think I missed the last exit.
I walk past rows and rows of temporary white walls set up to create individual gallery spaces with abstract sculpture, vibrant painting and provocative photography. I see artists talking about their work to potential collectors, proud of what they’ve accomplished.
I have to look at my printed map to find the Carlos Wong booth. I take a few turns and then I see the most stunning collection of photos I have ever seen in my life. I’ve seen images of Finn’s work before but only in his portfolio or on a screen. This is entirely different. The portraits are huge – at least a few yards wide and tall. Larger than life with hyper-focused detail and a composition that draws you in and makes you want to understand the person in the picture. Immediately, I recognize Ekaterina with the Statue of Liberty behind her. I smile thinking about that fall afternoon watching Finn in his element. I stand a few feet from the glossy photo to take it in. The image captures her sense of freedom and energy in a way I didn’t think was possible. He has taken parts of the conversation and used collage to make her words a subtle but vital part of the image. The entire image has a network of lines and bursts of colors super-imposed on it that pull you in and help you understand. I could gaze at it for days, taking in details and appreciating the words. I focus on a smaller section and read the words I see out loud: ‘That is why I come here. To be. Just, to be.’ Then, in my head, I hear Luis talking about Art Barn – a room, a place to be.
I stand a few feet back from the glossy image and just take it all in when I sense someone standing very close to me. I don’t have to turn and look to know exactly who it is. ‘Finn, it’s beautiful. Your work is really gorgeous.’ I hope he knows how much I mean it.
‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘I’m proud of how everything turned out and Ekaterina loves it so that’s a good feeling.’ He looks at his photos hung across the white wall and I can tell it makes him feel good. I love how he’s able to take pride in his work and not be a jerk about it. So many of the artists I’ve met feel insecure and have the need to inflate their egos, which is so annoying. My reaction to being insecure is to deflate mine.
‘The catalog looks great. Carlos is thrilled with what you wrote and…’ He pauses and turns to look me in the eye. ‘So am I. It’s wonderful. You really captured that day.’
‘Just doing my job,’ I say, brushing off the compliment but inside I truly appreciate it. It means a lot to me that he liked it even if it is standard-issue press catalog copy. Writing about him was easy. Finn gives me a look that says he isn’t quite satisfied with my response but he doesn’t push it.
We back away from the image so that others can get a closer look. People wander into the gallery and most stop in front of Finn’s work to admire it. He watches the people looking but then turns to me and says, ‘We better head back to the hotel to get ready for Luis.’
‘Don’t you want to stay and enjoy people admiring your work?’ I ask.
‘I’ve done my part. The rest is up to them.’ He discreetly points toward the couple standing in front of the photo of Ekaterina. I put my finger to my chin and turn my gaze from the image to the artist. I’m not sure which is more fascinating.
‘Let’s go,’ he says and unbuttons his suit jacket before walking toward the exit. I get a glimpse of the tight T-shirt clinging to his body and it stops me in my tracks. My mind races thinking of excuses to stay in my room tonight so that I don’t have to leave my comfort zone.
‘Finn, Art Week is a lot,’ I say a step behind him. ‘So many people, so many galleries, so much color and sunshine. Everyone oohing and ahhing over things. It’s sensory overload. Maybe I’ve had too much art for today.’ I hope he will accept my excuse.
‘Today was about galleries selling. Tonight is a totally different scene. I promise. Everyone is looking forward to meeting you. Luis texted me to make sure you’re coming.’ He smiles but keeps walking, shutting down any further protest.
What can I say? I agreed to go earlier. I take a quick step to catch up to him and realize I want to go tonight. I don’t want to be alone in my room. I want to be at the party with Finn.
Back at the hotel I take a long shower to help me reenergize. While I’m letting the water wash away the work of the afternoon I can see my phone on the vanity buzzing. It’s Paul but I don’t want to dry off and answer it right now. I’ll call him later this evening when I get back from the cocktail party.
I meet Finn in the lobby and he’s back to his effortless casual chic look. Despite the fact that we were inside all day and only looking at the beach, he seems to have gotten more tan. I catch myself in the mirror and think I’m maybe even paler but at least I am wearing something more interesting – a pair of black gauzy harem pants that Omar made for me and a bright pink shirt with orange swirls on it. It’s perfect for Miami. It’s not my usual style but I like the way it looks and I like the way I feel in it.
Since we’d been inside all day, we decide to walk to Luis’ place. We step out of the hotel and the atmosphere of South Beach embraces us. Candy-colored convertibles and souped-up hot rods cruise down Ocean Drive. Salsa music plays from a speaker somewhere competing with a few other speakers creating a cacophonous soundtrack of Latin beats for our walk.
‘I think your gallery will be pleased with today. I saw a lot of great coverage and heard a good buzz.’ I’m trying to keep the pretense of business.
‘Sam, it’s Friday in Miami. The sun is about to set. Can’t you feel the energy?’ He gestures toward the crowds of people around us laughing, dancing, and hanging out. Everyone is ready to let go. ‘It’s time for the business of art to stop. I want you to meet everyone from Art Barn.’
We pass by some shops and Art Deco apartment buildings until we get to a more industrial part of town closer to the intercoastal. ‘This is it,’ Finn says in front of a four-story warehouse with a flat roof and large multi-paned windows. The loft is far enough from the busy South Beach atmosphere to have a calmer vibe but still feel part of the action. On the side of the building, I see the remnants of an old ad for Santiago Cigars that must have been painted on the brick. I can hear pulsing music inside and the sounds of laughter and conversation spill out of the open windows. We head in and I recognize some people from the art fair today. The vibe is chill but intense, kind of like Finn.
‘You made it,’ Luis says, giving us both a kiss on each cheek. ‘I’m so glad. There’s someone I want you to meet.’
‘Who?’ Finn asks.
‘Not you, tonto ,’ he says playfully, bopping Finn on the nose. ‘You already know everyone. This one.’ He points to me. ‘I want you to meet Beverly – she’s looking for writers who want to be a part of Art Barn. In the new cabins.’
‘That sounds great,’ I say. ‘But I’m not really looking for a retreat. I could never get that much time off work and—’
‘Beverly!’ Luis shouts and then stands on his tiptoes waving to a tall woman with aggressive bangs and a long black ponytail. She comes over. ‘This is the person I was talking about. Finn’s friend .’ I think he says the word friend like there is something more but I’m not sure. ‘Beverly is one of the advisory artists at Art Barn. Like Finn,’ Luis says as I shake Beverly’s hand.
‘Oh yes, you’re the writer. Come tell us what you’re working on,’ she says and grabs my hand, leading me away from Luis and Finn. I look back at them. This is not how I thought the evening would start.
‘I’ll catch up with you later,’ Finn says and I follow Beverly. She leads me to where a few people are sitting on overstuffed cushions scattered across the floor. I grab a mojito, my new favorite, off a tray of drinks and plop down to join them. Beverly introduces me as a writer and they accept it. No questions. No third degree. There are about six of us on the floor. They each talk about what they’re working on, but it’s not competitive. One person is trying to solve a problem with advancing her plot when the action moves to a European city and another is trying to decide how a character might react when she gets a big inheritance. I haven’t been in a group like this for a very long time but I’m comfortable participating and sharing ideas because they make me feel so welcome. When I suggest Stacey, who is working on a historical novel about Trinidad, consider combining two of her characters, she’s thrilled with the idea.
‘Are you going to be at Art Barn this spring?’ Stacey asks, taking a sip of her drink.
‘Oh, no. I don’t think so. I’m not…’ I’m about to do my whole stupid monologue. I’m not a real writer. My same sad refrain over and over again. I’m tired of it. I simply say, ‘I’m not sure.’ It’s a sufficient placeholder for now.
Beverly pops in: ‘We still have a few spaces open. The committee would love to see your application.’
The very thought of having to submit a portfolio, have it reviewed and then be told I’m not good enough is the entire reason I don’t want to even tell anyone I’m a writer. The rejection is too humiliating.
‘It’s less about a portfolio review and more about engagement,’ Beverly says tossing her hair to her other shoulder. ‘Art Barn wants people who want to be a part of the community and respond and give feedback just as much as they want to create.’ Everyone in the group nods enthusiastically.
‘I see.’ I close my eyes for a brief moment and wonder what it would be like to spend a month writing and hanging out with other artists. I picture myself in some snow-covered cabin, my laptop open, sipping hot chocolate as I write each morning and sharing drafts with colleagues in the evening.
I open my eyes before I get lost in the fantasy and when I do I see Finn halfway up the metal staircase that hugs the brick wall. He gestures for me to join him. I haven’t seen him since we walked in. It’s warm inside the loft and his face is shiny with perspiration that makes his skin glow in the soft light.
I stand up and say goodbye to the people I just met. I begin to walk across the room toward Finn but it’s so crowded I can’t seem to find a path through. I look up and he tilts his head and rubs his chin in a way that makes me laugh. He waves both arms and then points to my left. I walk through an opening and then his gestures guide me through the maze of people. I’m under his command. I get to the bottom of the staircase and since I’ve had a few drinks, I steady myself with the railing as I begin to climb the steps, but I never lose eye contact with Finn.
‘I want to show you something,’ Finn says when I get closer. I’m high enough up in the loft to take in the entire party – a world of color and creativity so different from the standard-issue corporate office I go to in Manhattan. I look back at the spot where I sat with the circle of writers and smile before looking up at Finn who has his tanned arm stretched toward me. ‘Let’s go,’ he says and I put my hand in his, ready to see what’s next.