Chapter 20 #2
It's perfect, I email back.
I wish you could see it in person, Sarah responds.
Maybe someday.
The press release goes out five days before the opening. This shit is getting real.
VOID GALLERY PRESENTS: RB - "SACRED MOMENTS"
Void Gallery is pleased to announce "Sacred Moments," a solo exhibition by emerging artist RB. The exhibition features twenty-five works exploring death, grief, and decay as sacred moments of truth.
The artist, who prefers to remain anonymous, has created a body of work that is both unflinching and deeply necessary. Location photography of real life scenes, intimate sketches of human suffering, and environmental abandonment combine to create a meditation on mortality and meaning.
RB will not be appearing publicly. The work speaks for itself.
Opening reception is Friday, 6-9pm.
I read it on the Void Gallery website, my work displayed in professional photographs, my name reduced to initials.
RB.
A mystery.
Exactly what I need to be.
Dom and I fly to New York on Thursday, the day before the exhibition.
We dress carefully in nondescript clothes, nothing memorable. I wear dark jeans, a simple black sweater with boots. My hair is pulled back in a low ponytail. No makeup beyond the minimum, totally forgettable.
Dom wears black jeans, a dark gray henley, and his usual boots. His tattoos are covered and he looks like either a musician or a manual worker. We look like a couple. Young, artistic, the kind of people who go to gallery openings.
Not the artist. Not anyone important.
The airport security is routine. Our IDs scan without issue.
James and Roxy Brennan, traveling to New York for the weekend.
We land at JFK at 8pm and take a cab to a small hotel in Williamsburg.
Not the hotel Sarah suggested if I wanted to change my mind, but somewhere else, somewhere with no connection to the gallery but popular with tourists.
That night, lying in the unfamiliar bed, Dom pulls me close. This room is far nicer than the motels we stayed in when travelling through states.
"You ready for this?" he asks.
"No, I feel nauseous."
"Stop being dramatic. We’re visitors, don’t forget that.”
"I'm more nervous about hearing people talk about me. Only you and Sarah have seen and commented on my work. What if they hate it? What if I want to punch them for being rude?"
Dom laughs as he knows this is the nerves talking, but they are genuine concerns.
"You’re going to stay silent and behave no matter what they say."
"Obviously I will, but the urge might be there.”
His hand tightens on my hip as he kisses my neck.
“Thats why I’m here, baby. To protect you and make sure nothing bad happens. We got this.”
I really fucking hope we do.
Opening night and I feel sick. Why did I want to come here again?
We arrive at Void Gallery at 6:30pm, thirty minutes after doors open. The space is already filling with people like collectors, critics, other artists, gallery regulars.
We slip in through the crowd, just another couple arriving fashionably late.
I have to say we look nothing like ourselves.
Dom looks like a fucking hot dangerous mafia guy dressed in a black tailored suit, with a white open collar shirt underneath.
His hair is styled rather than his usual messy look and I want to grab him.
I’m also unrecognizable. I feel so uncomfortable I’m finding it hard not to fidget.
I’m wearing a full face of make up, my hair is curled and styled and I’m wearing an off the shoulder deep red dress.
It’s not overly dressy but it’s classic and elegant.
We fit right in amongst the other well dressed people here who have money to spend.
I take a glass of wine from the table near the entrance.
Dom grabs a beer. We position ourselves near the back of the gallery, against the wall, where we can see everything.
I’m in awe of how well the space has turned out.
My artwork feels like it’s someone else’s with how professional it looks. Sarah did an awesome job.
People move through the space, studying each piece. I watch their faces, their reactions. A woman in her forties stops in front of one of the crime scene polaroids. "God, this is intense," she says to her companion. "Who is this artist?"
"RB. That's all anyone knows, the gallery says they're completely reclusive."
"Like Banksy?"
"Maybe. Or just someone who doesn't want attention."
They move on and I remain frozen against the wall, Dom's hand finding mine, squeezing gently.
A critic I recognize from art blogs stands in front of "Toxic Devotion" for a long time. Finally, he turns to someone beside him. "This is so intimate, like I’m looking at something you're not supposed to see."
"Do you think it's autobiographical?"
"It has to be. No one creates work this raw without living it, you can feel the emotion in it."
"So who is RB?"
"No idea. The gallery won't say, just that the artist prefers privacy."
Dom's hand tightens on mine again and I can feel his pulse through his palm, steady and strong.
We're right here. In the room. Listening to them dissect our work. And they have no idea it’s me.
Sarah Vance appears near the entrance, greeting new arrivals.
I recognize her immediately from her online profiles.
She is tall, elegant in a cream pantsuit.
Her brown hair is pinned back to perfection where not one strand is loose.
She’s quite attractive, but you can feel how confident she is in her work.
Her presence can definitely be felt. I watch as a collector approaches her, gesturing toward the crime scene polaroids.
"These are impressive and insightful pieces. Can I meet the artist?"
Sarah shakes her head with what looks like genuine regret. "I'm sorry, RB doesn't do public appearances. They’re a very private person."
"Not even for collectors?"
"Not even for collectors. But I can pass on messages if you're interested in purchasing."
"I am. This one, Japatul Valley. What's the price?"
"Four thousand."
"Sold."
I watch a red dot appear next to the piece. My first sale.
Four thousand dollars for a photograph of a crime scene. I’m not sure whether to be impressed or disturbed that a photo would cost so much.
Dom leans close, his mouth near my ear. "You did it."
I don't respond as I’ve lost my voice, so I just squeeze his hand tighter and take a huge gulp of my wine. Over the next half hour, more people arrive and the gallery fills. Conversations swirl around us, increasing in volume as people relax.
"Who do you think RB is?"
"Maybe someone famous using a pseudonym?"
"Or someone who can't be public. Witness protection or something."
"I heard they might be institutionalized. Creating art in therapy."
"That would explain the morbidness."
I listen to every theory, every speculation and the attempts to solve the mystery.
But I stay silent.
Dom's arm slides around my waist, pulling me against his side. To anyone watching, we're just a couple enjoying the exhibition. Clingy, and affectionate.
Much to our relief, no one looks at us twice.
I'm studying a group of collectors near the environmental decay prints when I notice her. Mid-twenties, blonde, wearing a black dress that's just tight enough to be deliberate. And the bitch is looking at Dom. Not at the art. At Dom. My man.
My hand tightens on my wine glass, I want to smash it and use the broken glass to slice her throat. Without shame, she approaches him while I'm standing ten feet away, pretending to study one of my own crime scene polaroids.
"Excuse me," she says, her voice bright and interested. "I couldn't help but notice you have such an interesting look. Are you an artist yourself?"
Dom glances at her, his expression neutral. "No. Just here for the art."
"Really? You certainly stand out from the crowd here,” she says as she touches his arm lightly, her fingers lingering. "I'm Melissa. I work at a gallery in Chelsea. What’s your name?"
Melissa is fucking dead. My body heats with nothing but violent intent. I watch Dom's face, waiting for him to pull away, to shut her down, but he's being polite. Distant, but polite.
"Dom," he says. "And this is my girlfriend's kind of thing, not mine."
"Oh, you're here with someone?" Melissa glances around, not seeing me. "Well, if you're interested in the art scene, I could show you some other galleries. There's an opening in Chelsea next week that…"
That’s it. I'm moving before I realize I've decided to move. I cross the gallery floor in six steps, my wine glass still in hand, my expression carefully neutral.
"There you are," I say, sliding my hand around Dom's waist possessively. "I was looking for you."
Melissa blinks, surprised. "Oh. Hi."
"Hi." I don't smile as I press closer against Dom's side, my hand sliding under his shirt to rest against his skin. He’s mine, you fucking bitch. Dom's arm comes around me immediately, his hand settling on my hip.
"This is Roxy. My girlfriend."
"Right." Melissa's smile is tight and not the friendly woman who was hitting on my man. "I was just telling Dom about some other galleries."
"And I suggest you back the fuck off, he’s not interested," I say, my voice flat.
“Excuse me? I’m just making conversation.”
I’m about to step forward to get in this slut’s face, but Dom puts me in a tighter hold, not allowing me to move.
“Thanks. But we’re good. Enjoy your evening,” he says like some kind of gentleman that he sure as fuck isn’t. She looks between us, confused by what’s going on. Playing the innocent.
"Okay, I didn’t mean to offend. Enjoy your evening," she says, giving Dom one last glance before she disappears into the crowd, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor.
The moment she's gone, Dom's hand tightens on my waist.
"Nice to see you play it cool. Jealous, baby?"
"She was touching you."
"I noticed."
"And you didn't stop her."
"I was being polite, trying not to make a scene."