The Artist
He got dressed in the most ridiculous coat. As he put his one hand into a sleeve and thrust the other in another in front of the eighteenth century-fashioned mirror in his hotel room, the artist admired his framed reflection. He took a picture of himself with his camera phone and shared it on his Instagram of six hundred thousand followers.
“Showtime.” read the caption. Had he not been married before, many would have assumed that he had a preference for male partners for he had a taste for the spectacular.
It was half past six and he was going to be the star of the evening at a publicity event to celebrate his latest work. Another commercial achievement to add to his curriculum vitae, another paycheck into his now-halved pocket (our protagonist was divorced). He arrived, enveloped in his glorious coat, in a crowded room of trend chasers. The attention did wonders to his ego, as he found himself surrounded by followers of the arts - journalists, buyers, other artists and fans of his work. Camera shutters became a chronological marker, as one followed another in each second. That night confirmed his status as a celebrity – the coveted and fashionable title of the twenty-first century.
The unremarkable white room, curated with his works, did not exude any glamour on its own. It was obvious that this setting could only take place in contemporary Paris in which its society began to appreciate modern minimalism a little more and forgave the absence of classical luxury.
In his circle of (most female) conversation participants he noticed a silent young girl listening. She stood in the back, watching his dialogues with first an editor, then a buyer, then the gallery owner and his lady friends, nymph-like with an elegant amount of patience. He made eye contact with her, twice (he counted), both of which were returned with faint but gracious smiles. Soon after, she left the circle, presumably to explore the rest of the gallery.
Another artist’s works were also on display and he caught her advancing to that direction. That artist, whom he had no acquaintance to or much knowledge of, other than the artist being a male, was not present that evening. His exhibition was almost over. Yet the idea of the young lady being interested in someone else’s works invoked a vain sense of jealousy. He wondered if his conversations did not interest her enough to choose his works over another’s as a subject of inquiry.
The gallery assistant interrupted his pensive expression, which had a mild crescent smile he wore to remain socially presentable.
“Excuse me Mr. Peters, it is time for the book signing.” the assistant whispered in a French accent, which our protagonist’s American ears did not mind at all. He was a young brunette with fine features. Storm-coloured eyes and blush cupid’s bowed lips with a physique fit to be marble sculpted. In fact, upon inspection, fine looking features seem to be a prerequisite for the gallery’s employees. The receptionist was a very handsome young lady with blonde hair and nordic blue irises. Upon realizing this, the subconscious feeling of inferiority advanced towards the self consciousness. My reader, our artist is getting on his years.
“Yes of course,” he replied. He descended on the seat prepared for him, still cladded in his peacock feathered coat (I told you it was ridiculous). The girl returned to watch him sign autographs. She did not have a book with her, perhaps she did not buy one. Why not? he thought, does she not like me enough? Again, his publicity duties interfered with the affairs of his mind and the first fan approached him with a newly bought book of his and a baby strapped in front.
“It’s for this little guy. My husband and I are such fans of your work and we would love for your works to be little Jasper’s first cartoon characters to grow up with!” She pronounced in a crisp British accent. The girl stood on the side of the table. She was considered front row, and she watched him sign the book with an unforgettable curiosity. His ego called out to him and he decided to make an illustration for that autograph instead.
As he drew the young infant, the artist started to make small talk with the mother, with an agenda to eventually speak to the girl. The mother generously shared her background — British with a dash of Irish blood, she worked as a buyer for a concept store in London. The artist looked up every now and then, stealing a glance at the girl’s porcelain face, which acknowledged his glance politely with a nod. He smiled back, reassured of his charm as an artist, as a man.
The illustration as an autograph was quite a tedious project. But it made very good publicity as cameras surrounded him in reverence to document the process. The attention was most nourishing for our artist and he bathed in the warmth of the crowd’s exhaled air, which was donned in French perfume as they always are in Paris. Finally, he completed. Applause.
The girl stayed on for the second autograph. He knew he had to continue with the illustrations. Quite an ambitious venture in a book signing activity given the number of fans. But how else could a man in his fifties like himself maintain the attention span of a budding youth? This was his Humbert Humbert moment.
