Chapter 2 Reyna #2
Herein lies part of the issue.
The other problem being this guy’s attitude.
“To be understood is to know intimacy, as they say. The artist knows the subject; beyond all the symbols, and the pretty background, the people do not. It’s a one-sided relationship between a painter and an object.”
Now would be a good time for me to shut up. Our stares are clashing. His irritation is rolling off him in waves, and I can feel him burning holes into the side of my head.
Yet I continue, “Take Maria van Oosterwyck’s paintings for example.
They’re just bouquets of flowers, yet you can feel the connection with every stroke of the petal and each angle of the leaves.
She worships those flowers, adores them with every fiber of her being, and she wants you to as well.
Only a woman could love something inanimate like that. This?”
I narrow my eyes at the name on the plaque. I was, predictably, correct.
“It seems like Shaw is more interested in showing off his fine motor skills than making a strong connection. That woman is a subject, not his muse.”
It’s not always obvious if a piece of art was created by a man or woman, but back in the olden days—especially when artists ran in the same circles—it can be painfully apparent. But sometimes, throw in a bit of critical analysis, and it’s as clear as day.
“It’s a violent painting.” I hazard a glance his way. He’s so rigid, he looks carved from stone. “There isn’t meant to be intimacy,” he says through gritted teeth. “ ‘When it comes to art, it’s important not to hide the madness.’ ”
Maybe he deserves more credit than I gave him if he’s quoting Atticus. “That’s right. But what else? There’s blood and gore, and…?”
“Are you a painter?” he says abruptly.
I frown, taken aback. “No.”
He raises a brow. “Sculptor?”
“No, but—”
“Illustrator? Designer? Photographer?” he lists. “What about an art degree?”
I shake my head, my annoyance rising. “Not technically, however—”
“What qualifies you to be making any of these comments? You’re clearly not any kind of esteemed critique.”
Ass. Hole.
He shouldn’t have started a conversation about the damn painting if he couldn’t handle a difference in opinion.
I huff. “Maybe I should have been asking your earlier question: Are you offended?”
His eyes harden. “No. I don’t see any merit in listening to the baseless opinions of someone who has no skill, experience, or expertise in the area.”
So he’s just insecure. Got it.
“To put your art on display is to bear your heart open.”
That’s what my mom told me the first time I submitted a short movie for my school’s film festival and bawled my eyes out when the judges ripped into my work.
She sat me down, held my hand, and said, You’re a Sinaga, Reyna.
A naga. Dragon. You don’t wait for acceptance.
You take it, and you burn everything in your way if you have to.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be going to an art gallery if you’re going to get hurt on another person’s behalf,” I say.
“Or maybe you shouldn’t comment on things you know nothing about.”
My heart lurches when he rounds on me. The proximity of his towering frame feels like I have fingers wrapped around my throat, slowly seeping oxygen from my lungs.
I’ll be damned if I let him try to intimidate me. “If I’m not mistaken, Maddox Shaw isn’t a woman. So my observations are neither baseless nor incorrect.”
“Please,” he scoffs. “Your ability to read makes you as qualified as a grade-schooler.”
Fine. If he wants to talk shit, then I’ll talk shit.
“Look up Before the Mirror by édouard Manet, then Woman at Her Toilette by Berthe Morisot. Put them side by side, then ask yourself if you can tell which was painted by a woman. One comes down to the objectification of the subject; the other is the romanticization of it. A painting is a story condensed down to a single frame. The only thing Shaw is glorifying is his ability to use a paintbrush.”
The vein in his forehead throbs like he’s holding back from detonating. “Remembering the names of famous paintings doesn’t make you a valid critic. It makes you a nobody with too much time on your hands and no talent of your own.”
Wow. Low blow.
I can’t imagine why he’d take such personal offense to a critique on someone else’s work.
“Your inability to formulate a valid response to counter my observation is extremely telling of your so-called qualifications since the only comments you’ve offered are weak attacks on my person.
” This is reminding me of childish bickering.
“Come to think of it, the last time I used that tactic was in middle school.”
He stares at me like he’s trying to rip me apart in his mind.
I hold my breath, counting the seconds, waiting for the next attempt at degradation. Then I stand there dumbstruck, watching him storm out of the exhibition. Did he just… run away?
I blink.
What the fuck?
This needs to go in my imaginary book of bizarre encounters.
Whatever. He’s got some problems he needs to unpack with someone who isn’t me. Shaking my head, I check my phone to see Lawrence is still twenty minutes away. I wish I’d brought my laptop so I could make use of my time. I’ve already been here way longer than I’d intended.
At least I got to talk art with someone.
By the time he arrives, rain is battering down on the glass ceiling, and I’ve looked at all the installations and got in a good glower at Shaw’s Fallen Angel painting.
His face splits into a beaming smile that makes me uncomfortable on a cellular level because I feel nowhere near the same level of glee at seeing him.
Lawrence has a familiar face, one I feel like I’ve seen a hundred times before—the conventional attractiveness of an average man in his mid-twenties.
He’s someone’s type. Just not mine.
“I got you something.” Rainwater sprays from his bleached-blond hair as he shrugs off his backpack.
Excitement thrums through me as he pulls out a folder, and I resist the urge to snatch it from him.
I’ve been waiting for him to bring me another one of Bocklin’s Shadow’s kills for weeks.
If Dad were still alive, he’d lose his shit if he knew I was in cahoots with a cop so I could be a “copycat” killer who doesn’t properly kill anyone.
Even Mom would be mortified that I was probably the one and only person in the Shadow’s fan club.
It’s not like his kills… didn’t have it coming, as bad as it is to say. Every subject I’ve managed to identify has had reasons to have enemies, and a past worth dying painfully for—not that anyone deserves to die. But I can see why the killer thought they did.
I grab the folder from Lawrence before his arm has fully extended, and flip open to the first page. Yes. Finally, I can get some inspiration for—
“I, uh, got you something else too.”
Oh no.
I slowly turn my attention away from the photo of the dead guy up to Lawrence, who’s wearing a bashful expression that I might have called cute in another life, down to his outstretched hand. A part of me dies to keep my expression neutral.
Chocolate-coated almonds.
Again.
The one thing in this world that I’m allergic to. How romantic.
Lawrence and I met last year when I called the police after someone broke into Kimi’s and my apartment. We left it at that until I ran into him a couple of nights later at a fantasy-themed bar that Kimi dragged me to. He gave me his number, and for some unknown reason, I accepted.
I blame it on the three “lunar mating” cocktails I had, and the first positive interaction with a stranger since Mom died. One year later, I am solidly team platonic while he edges the line of “Why not more?”
It’s been a solid no from me since day one.
If I hadn’t based my entire project on his help, I would have cut ties the second he started giving me puppy eyes a couple of months ago. But it was nice having someone who could understand what I was going through. He had lost his mom recently too.
And he knew the one thing that would help: a distraction.
He gave me crime-scene photos and tried to look into my dad, and I dropped him so many lunches as a thank-you that he started to believe we’re on the path to be more.
I give him the warmest smile I can muster. “Lawrence, you shouldn’t have.”
“I wanted to.” If you also wanted me to die, you should have said so. “You were there when I needed someone last week, and it’s the least I can do.”
Guilt leaves a sour taste in my mouth as I offer him a supportive smile.
He’s given me the same thing how many times now? And how many times have I told him that I’m allergic?