“I'd like to buy them. The whole portfolio.”
I paused a beat, then— “They're not for sale.”
“I understand.” He set the portfolio down carefully, but didn't move away from it. “But you should sell your work, Dusty. Maybe not these specifically, if they're too personal. But work like this… people would pay for it. I would pay for it.”
The words landed differently than I expected. Not flattering or abstract, but concrete. Real.
“I was saving for a gallery,” I heard myself say. “In Marfa. To show other artists' work.”
Lars leaned against the wall, studying me with the same focused attention he brought to difficult poses. “That's ambitious. Noble, even. But why other artists? Why not your own work first?”
The question hit like a well-placed adjustment, exposing exactly where I was out of alignment.
“Because...” I stopped.
Why not my own work?
The answer rose up, uncomfortable and clear: because it was safer. Because if I failed at opening a gallery for others, itwouldn't really be about me. My art. My voice. But putting my work out there? That was terrifying.
I'd been hiding behind the idea of helping others instead of being brave enough to help myself first.
Lars seemed to read something in my silence. “You're very good at making other people feel good, Dusty. Your yoga, your presence here, all of it.” He paused. “But when's the last time you did something just for yourself?”
The studio was quiet except for the faint sound of voices from the courtyard below.
I stood, brushing off my knees. “Lars, would you mind if we canceled today's session?”
He looked at me for a long moment, then smiled. Not disappointed, just understanding. “Because of the art?”
“Because I think I need to figure some things out. And I can't do that if I'm still going through the motions here.”
“I understand completely.” He reached for his shirt, pulling it back on with easy movements. “Though I'm curious what epiphany my terrible timing interrupted.”
“Not terrible timing. Maybe perfect timing.” I managed a smile. “There's a performance happening in the Dionysus building right now. Greek comedy that gets pretty raunchy by the second act. I bet you'd enjoy it more than a session with someone who's got his head somewhere else.”
Lars laughed, that warm Norwegian sound. “Raunchy Greek comedy? You know me well.”
“The performers are great. Very interactive.” I grabbed my keys. “Come on, I'll walk you over.”
The Dionysus building sat at the edge of the property, designed to look like an ancient amphitheater. Through the open doors, I could hear laughter and music.
The performance already underway.
We paused just outside the entrance. Through the archway, I could see the stage where three performers were enacting what looked like a scene from Lysistrata, or at least, The Ranch's version of it. Two men in short togas were arguing over a third man kneeling between them, his mouth occupied with one while his hands worked the other. The dialogue was sharp and funny, the actors hamming up the comedy even as the sexual acts were explicit and real. One of the standing men delivered his line about “withholding the sacred mysteries” while the man on his knees deep-throated him, and the small audience roared with laughter. The third actor stroked himself lazily, complaining in mock-tragic tones about the “terrible injustice of democracy” while visibly hard and grinning.
The actors moved seamlessly between actual sex and theatrical performance, breaking the fourth wall to invite audience participation. One guest was already being coaxed onto the stage by a performer in a satyr costume, the tail bobbing as he led the man forward.
“Second act starts in about twenty minutes,” I told Lars, tearing my gaze away. “That's when things get really interesting. The satyrs join in, and they pull volunteers from the audience for the fertility rites scene. Just go in, find a seat. The performers will take care of the rest.”
He clapped me on the shoulder, then leaned in to press a kiss to my cheek—warm, brief, no hard feelings. “Thank you, Dusty. For the recommendation. And for being honest today.”
“Thanks for looking at my work.”
“I meant what I said. You should share it.” He headed toward the entrance, then paused. “Good luck with whatever you figure out.”
I watched him disappear inside, then turned back toward the main building.
Time to talk to Ibrahim.
