He runs his hand through his hair. “Thank you.”
Chase mentioned that his father hated his art. With me, Chase always seems so self-assured, but in one quick flash of his gaze, I feel like I can see the history of a lifetime behind his eyes.
Chase has spent his whole life being told that his art wasn’t a talent worth sharing. I can see it in the way he shrugs everything off, downplaying the beautiful things he makes. He likes his own work quite a lot, but he doesn’t expect anyone else to like it.
He looks all around the room and I can tell how nervous he is, which is a very new thing for me to see.
Whether he admits it out loud or not, this is a big deal for him.
I scan the room, making sure I don’t currently have anyone gawking at me who recognizes me from TV.
And then I take a step closer to Chase, putting my hand on the small of his back. I rub slow circles there as both of us face toward the crowd.
I don’t say anything, because I have no clue if any words would actually help Chase relax right now. But I know he’sresponding to my touch. I feel the tenseness in his back start to melt as I touch him, grounding him back in his body.
Finally, he speaks.
“If this happened to me over a year ago, I would have been so trashed on liquor or pills right now I wouldn’t even be able to remember it,” he murmurs. “Or I’d be stepping outside every ten minutes to chain smoke, because I’d feel like I needed a break or an outlet. But now it’s just… me.”
“And me,” I tell him quietly. “I’m here.”
He exhales and I feel his hand come over to my hip, giving me a squeeze. “I cannot fucking believe you’re here. Thank you, Logan. It means more than you could possibly be aware of.”
“Wow. Are these taken with a Holga?” a young woman asks, coming up to look at Chase’s photos.
“Not a Holga, but another medium format camera,” Chase explains, his face lighting up. “I used a Mamiya TLR.”
“I’ve read about those. How do you get it to have that contrast?”
“It’s all done in the darkroom.”
I let my hand slide away from Chase as he gets caught in a conversation with her, all about photography techniques.
I slip off into the crowd, making the rounds and looking at the rest of the art on display. Everyone took photos of ‘Old New York,’ but it’s shocking to see how different everyone’s end result was. Some artists went to Coney Island. Others photographed only the interiors of old buildings. One man only took shots of abandoned buildings, and another, only of crumbling sidewalks.
I loop around, making my way to the bar at the back. It turns out they’re also serving fresh-pressed juices, which are my current favorite and something even my nutritionist approves of, so I get something they call a “pineapple mango greenie” and sip slowly, sitting at the bar.
“Holy fuck,” I hear from behind me a handful of minuteslater, and when I turn on my swivel chair, Chase sits down next to me, looking shellshocked.
“Everything okay?”
“Somebody came and bought all of them.Allof them. The rest of the photos are spoken for.”
“Another ginger with strawberry?” the bartender asks Chase.
“Yes. Absolutely.”
I can’t help but smile as I watch Chase toy with a coaster on the bar, then grab a napkin and start ripping it up.
“You look like you just got horrible news, when in reality you just sold your fucking art, Chase. That’s amazing.”
The bartender slides his drink over and he takes a big swig.
“I feel like… I’m faking it, or something.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Ever heard of impostor syndrome?”
He exhales. “Yeah, but I didn’t thinkIfucking had it. Everything I’ve ever made, I do it because Ihaveto. I don’t know who I would be if I couldn’t paint. It’s so personal. It’s always just been for me.”
