Chapter 20 #5
"They're still trying to figure out who I am. The gossip sites are crazy," I say.
"Let them be distracted. They’ll never work out the truth."
"Reddit thinks I'm famous, in witness protection, or institutionalized."
He hangs a print to dry, of an abandoned building in East County, the light coming through broken windows like a cathedral.
"The second portfolio is coming together," he says. "Another month and we'll have twenty pieces ready."
"I love you," I say.
He looks up, his eyes meeting mine in the red light. "I love you too."
"Thank you. For making this possible."
"You made it possible. I just made sure you didn't have to do it alone."
Alone. A word that is now foreign to me.
Week 1 - Roxy
Dom's in the kitchen making coffee when I wake up on Monday morning.
"Petra emailed again," he says, handing me a cup. "She wants to confirm the Berlin timeline."
"Three months."
"She's already promoting it and says the European collectors are excited."
I pull up my laptop and find the email thread. Petra Hoffman's messages are efficient, professional but relentless. She wants ten pieces for Berlin, with the option to extend to Munich and Vienna if sales are strong.
The mystery is working in your favor, she wrote last week. European collectors love the invisible artist model. Very mysterious. Very compelling.
I scroll through the art forums Dom's been monitoring. The Reddit threads about RB have multiplied since New York. Same old shit, but the witness protection theories make me a little nervous.
"They're getting closer," I say.
Dom leans over my shoulder, reading. "Closer to what? They're just guessing."
"Some of the guesses are good."
"Doesn't matter. They can't prove anything." His hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back so I'm looking up at him. "You're good, baby. Don’t worry.”
"I guess."
"It’s good to be aware and cautious, but don’t forget to enjoy it, baby.”
By week three, I have eight new pieces:
Crime scene polaroid of a gang shooting in Silver Heights
Environmental scenes of an abandoned psychiatric hospital in Santis
Diner sketch of an elderly man crying into coffee at 2am
Crime scene drawing, a composite of three different scenes, layered violence
Polaroid of a dead coyote on Highway 94, beautiful in its stillness
Drawing of a homeless encampment under the Bernado Bridge, human suffering rendered in charcoal
Polaroid of an industrial fire aftermath, everything ash and twisted metal
Drawing entitled "Invisible" its a self-portrait as a ghost, barely visible against white paper
Dom pins them to the darkroom wall, studying each one.
"These are better than the first portfolio," he says.
"Different. Not better."
"No. Better. You're not just documenting anymore. You're interpreting."
I suppose he’s right, the work has evolved. The first portfolio was raw observation, but this is something deeper. More personal.
More dangerous.
Week 4 - Dom
The scanner crackles at 4:17am.
"Units respond to 3000 block of Thomas Avenue. Possible 187. Victim found in alley behind commercial building."
I'm already moving, pulling on my jeans and a hoodie. Roxy's awake instantly, her eyes bright with that familiar hunger.
"How far away?" she asks.
"Fifteen minutes."
We're in the car in three. Thomas Avenue at dawn is all shadows and graffiti and chain-link fences. The kind of neighborhood where violence is a background noise, where people learn not to see things.
We park two blocks away and approach on foot.
Police are already there with two units, lights flashing.
Crime scene tape going up. Roxy has her camera hidden in her jacket, the small digital one that doesn't draw attention.
She positions herself near a bus stop, just another early morning commuter waiting for a ride.
The body's behind the building, out of sight. But I can see the coroner's van arriving, the detectives conferring near the tape. Roxy takes three photos, before walking back to me like nothing has happened.
"Good?" I ask.
"Great. The light was just right with that blue pre-dawn glow."
“Let’s get out of here.”
We drive to a diner in Ten Park and she sketches while we wait for breakfast. Not the crime scene because that comes later, from memory. Right now she's drawing the waitress, a woman in her fifties with tired eyes and a mechanical smile.
"She's been doing this for thirty years," Roxy murmurs, her pencil moving. "You can see it in her posture. The way she doesn't really see the customers anymore."
"Sad?"
"Resigned. Which is sadder."
The sketch takes twenty minutes, and when she's done, the waitress is rendered in brutal honesty with every line of exhaustion, every hint of dreams abandoned.
"You're going to include this one?" I ask.
"Maybe. If I can get five or six more like it to make a series about invisible people."
"You're invisible."
She looks up, her eyes meeting mine. "Exactly. That's why I see them."
The email from Petra arrives on Wednesday.
RB,
Gallery promotion is going well. We have significant collector interest already.
I'm proposing we price the Berlin pieces higher than New York, I’m thinking €6,000 to €12,000 depending on size and medium.
The European market responds well to the mystery.
Several collectors have specifically mentioned wanting to "own a piece of the invisible artist."
Thoughts?
Petra
I forward it to Dom, who's in the living room monitoring police scanners.
"She wants to raise prices," I say.
"You're worth it."
"Six to twelve thousand euros. That's seven to fourteen thousand dollars."
"And?"
"And that's insane."
He looks up from the scanner, his expression serious. "No. That's what happens when you create something people can't find anywhere else. You're not just selling art, Roxy. You're selling mystery and a uniqueness. The truth."
"You really believe that?"
"I've watched you work. I've seen what you create. Yeah. I believe it."
I sit down next to him, my head on his shoulder. "What if Berlin doesn't work? What if the European collectors don't respond the way Petra thinks?"
"Then we adjust. But it's going to work."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're extraordinary. And eventually, people recognize extraordinary when they see it."
That night we hunt in East County.
Dom's been scouting an abandoned dairy farm near Descanso which is miles from anything, the kind of place where buildings collapse slowly and no one notices.
We arrive at sunset, the sky bleeding orange and red across the mountains.
The main barn is half-collapsed, the roof caved in, everything rotting and beautiful.
I spend an hour photographing the demise of the building, the way light comes through broken boards, the patterns of rust and mold, the sense of time passing and leaving nothing behind.
Dom keeps watch from the car, scanning the access road for headlights. When I'm done, I have thirty-seven photographs and a deep sense of satisfaction.
"This is it," I tell him, showing him the camera screen. "This is the centerpiece for the second portfolio."
The image shows the barn interior, light streaming through the collapsed roof like a cathedral, everything golden, dying and sacred.
"I love it," he says.
We make love in the back of the car while the sun sets, our bodies moving together in the fading light. He's rough and equally loving, marking me all over as he usually does.
"Everyone's going to see these in Berlin," I gasp.
"Good. Let them see."
"Possessive."
"When it comes to you? Always."
I cum with his hand around my throat, choking me into a delirious state as we both climax. This is our life and I wouldn’t change it for the world.
Week 8 - Dom
The second portfolio is nearly complete and Roxy has twenty-two pieces now:
8 crime scene polaroids
6 environmental photographs
5 diner/bar sketches of strangers
3 composite drawings layering multiple scenes
She's working on the final piece which is a large charcoal drawing she won't let me see yet.
"It's not ready," she says when I ask.
"When will it be ready?"
"When it's done."
I leave her alone in the darkroom and focus on the Berlin logistics. The flights, accommodation and transportation of the artwork is now complete, all planned out and ready to go.
I go online to check for updates and see the Reddit threads about RB have exploded.
What if RB is actually multiple artists working collectively? That would explain the range of styles.
The gallery won't confirm or deny anything. Very suspicious.
I heard from a friend who works at Void Gallery that the artist communicates only through anonymous email. No phone. No address. Nothing.
That's not sustainable. Eventually someone will figure it out.
I screenshot the threads and show them to Roxy.
"They're getting more aggressive," I say.
"I can’t worry about that right now, I’m too focused on Berlin to care. They’ll get bored eventually."
Later that night, she finishes the final piece. I'm in the kitchen clearing up after dinner when she calls me to the darkroom.
The drawing is massive, three feet by four feet, charcoal on heavy paper. It shows a gallery opening. Crowds of people studying artwork on walls. And in the corner, barely visible, almost transparent is a woman watching, but she’s faded.
"It's you," I say.
"It's me at my own exhibition. The ghost in the room."
"It's amazing."
"It's the truth."
I pull her against me, my hands sliding under her shirt, touching her soft skin. "You're going to show this in Berlin?"
"No. This one's private. Just for us. If I sell this, then it will give away that I go to the exhibitions."
"Thats true."
"Four weeks until Berlin," she says.
"Then the world."
She turns in my arms, her eyes meeting mine. "I'm ready."
We pack the second portfolio carefully over the next week. Twenty-two pieces, each one wrapped and catalogued and stored safely.
Ready for whatever comes next.
Ready for Berlin and for everything coming our way.