The clock on the wall said five o'clock when Evan returned. He'd cleaned himself up nicely. His face was clean-shaven, and the black button-up had been replaced by a white one. A thin, black tie hung from his neck, and he carried a coat draped over one arm.
"Wow, you look great," said John.
"Thanks. You look like hell."
"Is that it? I can leave?"
"Yep. You better grab a shower first, though. We've got a show to catch."
Evan led John to a black 1973 Caprice convertible sitting in the parking lot. He shuffled through his pocket for the keys as John lugged his bags toward the car.
"Wow. Is this yours?"
"No, it's a rental."
"Interesting rental."
"You can rent just about anything nowadays, you know. You just have to go to the right place."
"Well, good taste just the same."
Evan took his bags and set them gently onto the dark gray upholstery of the empty back seat, and then he and John climbed into the front seats and marveled briefly at the space. Considering the both of them had just recently, though separately, crossed the country in buses with cracking plastic seat covers and cramped spaces, the car was an unexpected comfort.
They stopped at a small shopping center several blocks away from the hospital with the intent of buying a new shirt for John. The white button-up he had was now completely stained with blood on one arm. Evan took the liberty of buying him a black sport coat, also, to make him a bit more presentable for the opening. Satisfied with their choice of accoutrements, they set off for the University of Southern California campus and the gallery tucked away within.
The building was larger than the boy expected. They parked the car in front, in the open space closest to the main entrance. Evan gathered up a handful of brochures like the one's John had found in Roswell.
"That's what they never tell you about art. You're also your own publicist."
Inside, the gallery was well-lit. Large, empty spaces of white wall and tiled flooring were scattered around the open hall, broken only by white pillars supporting dark urns and small projects left in the open to be admired not for the intricate details in every shape and fold, but in the simplicity of the thing, in the straight lines and rounded edges born of a human hand.
They followed a corridor past a room filled with oil landscapes that adorned the walls like windows, each opening to another world. Seascapes and pastoral scenes surrounded each other, as if offering escape to a hundred different scenes. All the viewer had to do was choose which one, and the colors would absorb him, leaving traces of brushstrokes in his dreams. In these places, these dream countries, there was peace and infinite hope that would survive even when the viewer moved along to the next escape. It was a room of windows. They were all waiting to be opened.
Through another corridor there was a waiting, open room. A long glass table stood in the very middle, stretching from one wall to the other, and on it was a series of vinyl figures, almost uniform in color and style, their shapes subtly changing from one to the next, like evolution caught in action. John noticed something else about the display, something that hadn't been in Roswell. Each piece had its own name, embossed in dull, metallic foil on small folds of cardstock. On one end was the mostly-amorphous blob, a vague shape with tendrils reaching from the body in four directions. It was labeled Primordial. John walked along the line, inspecting each figure as if looking at them for the first time. They looked somehow different now that they'd been named, as if a crucial piece of them had been missing before.
In the very middle of the row, John stopped at a figure of which he had absolutely no recollection. He would've sworn that he'd never seen it before in his life. Amid all the other colorful plastic figures was one shaped like a man made of flecks of black and white, like living static. It's name was Signal to Noise, something he'd heard before, though he couldn't remember where.
At the very end of the row was a figure John knew very well--black, wiry, with a hundred little specks like starlight radiating from its body. Its name was Conduit. It felt very appropriate. He began to think of the miniature vinyl version packed somewhere in his backpack and wondered why, of all the others, he'd chosen it. He knew there was some hidden significance there.
"What do you think?" Evan asked, breaking his concentration.
"I've seen them before, but I've got to tell you, man, they're amazing."
"See any you recognize?"
John looked up and nodded. "A few." He turned his attention back to Conduit. "So why vinyl? I mean, of all the possible media through which you can express yourself, you settle for soft plastic?"
"I didn't settle for anything. It's as valid an art form as any. You just have to look through your initial conceptions, that's all. It's like comic books, you know? Your average man on the street takes one look at a comic book and writes it off as kiddie shit, right? They don't even stop to read it, to take in the art and experience something you can't get from traditional literary forms or even moving pictures. It's got its own kind of beauty in the misunderstanding. Same thing with vinyl. I guess I'm just used to being misunderstood."
"I hear that."
"Besides, I tried my hand at all sorts of things. I knew that I had to create something, to get out all of these stories and images languishing in my mind. I tried writing, but I was never good at picking the right words. Traditional art was cool, but not my thing." He pointed at the picture being placed behind the figures by a staff member--the ring of machines, the opening light.
"I've seen it," John said, flatly.
The first guests of the evening trickled in. Most were college students or young artists, all dressed in suits and gowns. They flitted from room to room and down the corridors, never staying in one place for very long. John imagined the entire gallery was operating in fast forward, staff and guests scurrying all around while he and the artist stood still, watching to see how it all played out.
"Okay, I need to go. I'm not trying to ditch you or ignore you or anything, but I've got to schmooze the crowd. That's another thing they don't tell you about being an artist. There are more politics than you'd think. Will you be all right?"
John nodded and adjusted his coat. "I think I can manage."
A team of caterers quickly assembled a long folding table, covered it with a white sheet, and set down a number of large, metal platters of cheese and other small foods. At one end, an attendant stood quietly next to half a dozen full bottles of wine and a spread of long-stemmed glasses.
Pleased that he'd been the first to discover the food, John helped himself to the cheese and was surprised to find that the attendant offered him a glass. He considered taking just one glass of a nice red but thought better of it. He scratched absently at the bandage hidden beneath his shirt and jacket. It was almost time to take another pill.
He settled on just the cheese and snatched a bottle of water for later.
In the hour that followed, John spent a considerable amount of time staring at the same vinyl figures over and over, as if they were on the verge of telling their secrets. He eventually gave up and wandered off into the gallery by himself, with a handful of cheese cubes bulging in his pocket.
He spent a considerable amount of time in the room with all the landscapes, staring at them one at a time. There was so much to see, so much more than he'd realized. The pills were kicking in. The doctors had told him that one would be enough. He took three. His limbs began to feel weightless. The colors in the paintings grew dull, then intensified.
He felt something coming on. A tiny blue spark flickered into existence in the corner of one eye and danced across his field of vision to the other. It was all happening again. He could feel it in his bones, beneath his bandage.
Then he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Ready to go?" Evan asked.
The spark disappeared as quickly as it came, leaving the boy to wonder if he'd even seen it at all.
"Already? Is it a good idea to ditch your own party?"
"I have a feeling none of them would care one way or the other. Besides, we have someplace much more important to be tonight."
"And where would that be? Is that the surprise?"
Evan grinned and wound his way through the gallery and out the main entrance, to where the Caprice sat waiting. John quickly refilled his pocket with cheese and soon followed. Evan was waiting in the parking lot. He popped the trunk of the convertible and stepped out of the way.
"What is it?" John asked.
"You tell me."
The boy slowly approached the trunk of the car and peered inside to see a box. The sky had grown dark, but a nearby street lamp gave just enough light for him to make out the large words printed across the cardboard.
"It's an 8-inch Meade refracting telescope."
"Exactly. Tonight, we're going to see the stars, little brother."
"Wow, you look great," said John.
"Thanks. You look like hell."
"Is that it? I can leave?"
"Yep. You better grab a shower first, though. We've got a show to catch."
***
Evan led John to a black 1973 Caprice convertible sitting in the parking lot. He shuffled through his pocket for the keys as John lugged his bags toward the car.
"Wow. Is this yours?"
"No, it's a rental."
"Interesting rental."
"You can rent just about anything nowadays, you know. You just have to go to the right place."
"Well, good taste just the same."
Evan took his bags and set them gently onto the dark gray upholstery of the empty back seat, and then he and John climbed into the front seats and marveled briefly at the space. Considering the both of them had just recently, though separately, crossed the country in buses with cracking plastic seat covers and cramped spaces, the car was an unexpected comfort.
They stopped at a small shopping center several blocks away from the hospital with the intent of buying a new shirt for John. The white button-up he had was now completely stained with blood on one arm. Evan took the liberty of buying him a black sport coat, also, to make him a bit more presentable for the opening. Satisfied with their choice of accoutrements, they set off for the University of Southern California campus and the gallery tucked away within.
The building was larger than the boy expected. They parked the car in front, in the open space closest to the main entrance. Evan gathered up a handful of brochures like the one's John had found in Roswell.
"That's what they never tell you about art. You're also your own publicist."
Inside, the gallery was well-lit. Large, empty spaces of white wall and tiled flooring were scattered around the open hall, broken only by white pillars supporting dark urns and small projects left in the open to be admired not for the intricate details in every shape and fold, but in the simplicity of the thing, in the straight lines and rounded edges born of a human hand.
They followed a corridor past a room filled with oil landscapes that adorned the walls like windows, each opening to another world. Seascapes and pastoral scenes surrounded each other, as if offering escape to a hundred different scenes. All the viewer had to do was choose which one, and the colors would absorb him, leaving traces of brushstrokes in his dreams. In these places, these dream countries, there was peace and infinite hope that would survive even when the viewer moved along to the next escape. It was a room of windows. They were all waiting to be opened.
Through another corridor there was a waiting, open room. A long glass table stood in the very middle, stretching from one wall to the other, and on it was a series of vinyl figures, almost uniform in color and style, their shapes subtly changing from one to the next, like evolution caught in action. John noticed something else about the display, something that hadn't been in Roswell. Each piece had its own name, embossed in dull, metallic foil on small folds of cardstock. On one end was the mostly-amorphous blob, a vague shape with tendrils reaching from the body in four directions. It was labeled Primordial. John walked along the line, inspecting each figure as if looking at them for the first time. They looked somehow different now that they'd been named, as if a crucial piece of them had been missing before.
In the very middle of the row, John stopped at a figure of which he had absolutely no recollection. He would've sworn that he'd never seen it before in his life. Amid all the other colorful plastic figures was one shaped like a man made of flecks of black and white, like living static. It's name was Signal to Noise, something he'd heard before, though he couldn't remember where.
At the very end of the row was a figure John knew very well--black, wiry, with a hundred little specks like starlight radiating from its body. Its name was Conduit. It felt very appropriate. He began to think of the miniature vinyl version packed somewhere in his backpack and wondered why, of all the others, he'd chosen it. He knew there was some hidden significance there.
"What do you think?" Evan asked, breaking his concentration.
"I've seen them before, but I've got to tell you, man, they're amazing."
"See any you recognize?"
John looked up and nodded. "A few." He turned his attention back to Conduit. "So why vinyl? I mean, of all the possible media through which you can express yourself, you settle for soft plastic?"
"I didn't settle for anything. It's as valid an art form as any. You just have to look through your initial conceptions, that's all. It's like comic books, you know? Your average man on the street takes one look at a comic book and writes it off as kiddie shit, right? They don't even stop to read it, to take in the art and experience something you can't get from traditional literary forms or even moving pictures. It's got its own kind of beauty in the misunderstanding. Same thing with vinyl. I guess I'm just used to being misunderstood."
"I hear that."
"Besides, I tried my hand at all sorts of things. I knew that I had to create something, to get out all of these stories and images languishing in my mind. I tried writing, but I was never good at picking the right words. Traditional art was cool, but not my thing." He pointed at the picture being placed behind the figures by a staff member--the ring of machines, the opening light.
"I've seen it," John said, flatly.
The first guests of the evening trickled in. Most were college students or young artists, all dressed in suits and gowns. They flitted from room to room and down the corridors, never staying in one place for very long. John imagined the entire gallery was operating in fast forward, staff and guests scurrying all around while he and the artist stood still, watching to see how it all played out.
"Okay, I need to go. I'm not trying to ditch you or ignore you or anything, but I've got to schmooze the crowd. That's another thing they don't tell you about being an artist. There are more politics than you'd think. Will you be all right?"
John nodded and adjusted his coat. "I think I can manage."
A team of caterers quickly assembled a long folding table, covered it with a white sheet, and set down a number of large, metal platters of cheese and other small foods. At one end, an attendant stood quietly next to half a dozen full bottles of wine and a spread of long-stemmed glasses.
Pleased that he'd been the first to discover the food, John helped himself to the cheese and was surprised to find that the attendant offered him a glass. He considered taking just one glass of a nice red but thought better of it. He scratched absently at the bandage hidden beneath his shirt and jacket. It was almost time to take another pill.
He settled on just the cheese and snatched a bottle of water for later.
In the hour that followed, John spent a considerable amount of time staring at the same vinyl figures over and over, as if they were on the verge of telling their secrets. He eventually gave up and wandered off into the gallery by himself, with a handful of cheese cubes bulging in his pocket.
He spent a considerable amount of time in the room with all the landscapes, staring at them one at a time. There was so much to see, so much more than he'd realized. The pills were kicking in. The doctors had told him that one would be enough. He took three. His limbs began to feel weightless. The colors in the paintings grew dull, then intensified.
He felt something coming on. A tiny blue spark flickered into existence in the corner of one eye and danced across his field of vision to the other. It was all happening again. He could feel it in his bones, beneath his bandage.
Then he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Ready to go?" Evan asked.
The spark disappeared as quickly as it came, leaving the boy to wonder if he'd even seen it at all.
"Already? Is it a good idea to ditch your own party?"
"I have a feeling none of them would care one way or the other. Besides, we have someplace much more important to be tonight."
"And where would that be? Is that the surprise?"
Evan grinned and wound his way through the gallery and out the main entrance, to where the Caprice sat waiting. John quickly refilled his pocket with cheese and soon followed. Evan was waiting in the parking lot. He popped the trunk of the convertible and stepped out of the way.
"What is it?" John asked.
"You tell me."
The boy slowly approached the trunk of the car and peered inside to see a box. The sky had grown dark, but a nearby street lamp gave just enough light for him to make out the large words printed across the cardboard.
"It's an 8-inch Meade refracting telescope."
"Exactly. Tonight, we're going to see the stars, little brother."
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