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Me: It’s okay. Just let me know when you’re headed here.
I hit send on my text to Matt, and when I see my sister is still balls deep in a conversation I know nothing about, I quietly shuffle away and walk around the gallery by myself.
Ironically, it’s so crowded and stuffy that it takes an insane amount of jockeying and work just to stand in front of one of Ansel Bray’s infamous paintings.
Good thing, as Matt once pointed out to me, I have extra pointy elbows.
Starting at the front, I work my way toward the back of the gallery, standing in front of each painting and trying to figure out what all the hype is about.
The first is of a window that frames the outside of the canvas, and the almost heavenly beyond that lies within it. I notice the attention to detail is intense, but none of the objects look like anything I’ve ever seen before. There are no roses or lilies in the garden; there are only vibrant flowers I’m almost positive couldn’t exist in nature.
The second is much less abstract. An image of a tattered woman lying at the base of a fountain. The water spills over her body and soaks the rags she has for clothes.
The third is a complex swirl of color only, dying in the center and fading into what seems to be a pit of darkness.
There’s an ease in the strokes of each painting, but the colors are complex. It’s like he’s layered a mix to make the end result, instead of just using the color in the first place.
I’ve never really understood this kind of art, though. It’s pretty, I admit. Pretty enough to validate the fact that my sister nearly comes in her pants every time she hears the artist’s name? I’m not convinced.
With each step I take deeper into the space, the whispered conversations get louder. The artist’s tragic absence from the art scene when a car accident turned him blind. His miraculous recovery.
And, every once in a while, a poetic rave about the art. Brilliant. Fragile. A beautiful mélange of softness and story.
The crowd in the back space is different, though—more intense—and I have to wait in line for a few minutes to see the painting.
At last, the crowd in front of me clears and reveals the canvas framed in gold. And this time, the illustration before me reaches out and grabs me by the throat. Three abrupt coughs come out unbidden, and I have to cover my mouth with my hand to prevent my saliva from spraying the expensive art.
Long brown hair with ribbons of gold, blue eyes, and two dimples pressed into the center of her cheeks, she’s nearly the spitting image of me.
Dear God, I feel like I’m looking in the mirror.
Jesus.
I blink my eyes several times to refocus.
Surely, the lack of sleep and the six cups of coffee I drank today have affected my eyes…
But the more I stare at the painting—a delicate visual of what looks like me from behind while I glance over my shoulder, bare skin all the way to the curve of my left hip—the harder it gets to breathe, and my heart all but hurtles out of my chest and onto the gallery floor. It’s so fragile and tender, and so goddamn distantly familiar that my hands begin to shake against my legs.
I can almost remember when I last looked this carefree.
I’ve never met Ansel Bray.
Never even heard of him until today.
So why does the girl in his painting look so much like me?
Seeing this woman…seeing so much of my old self in her today…it’s nearly too much to bear.
A young guy wearing a fedora bumps my hip as he tries to shuffle through the crowd behind me, and I’m stunned out of my silence.
“I’m so sorry,” he apologizes as I meet his eyes.
My voice—my very being—feels trapped in the tight hold of my chest, but somehow, someway, I manage to push out the words, “It’s okay.”
“It’s too crowded,” he says, but then pauses. His gaze shifts between me and the painting hanging in front of us. “Wait…” Excitement lights his eyes. “Is that you?”
My heart all but collapses in on itself at his words.
“No!” I snap with something that was meant to be a laugh. It sounds more like a small animal in distress. It may not be what I’m going for, but it perfectly embodies what I’m feeling.
“Are you sure?” he asks and keeps alternating between examining the painting and my face. “Because it sure looks like you.”
“I’m sure. I don’t even know the artist. Hell, I don’t even really like art.”
A wrinkle forms between his brows, and I realize my hysteria may have loosened my lips just a little too much.
“I mean…the paintings are great, but this is my first time at a show. It’s not me.”
