Aficionado

I went back to the gallery again, after quite some while. I stood outside for a moment contemplating the guy who runs the place. I do so want to get to know him.

I always think about a number of things before I enter the gallery. One of it concerns the retail syndrome. It’s where you simply don’t want to stand around for too long because you’re not going to buy anything. Quite a stupid way to feel in an art gallery of course, because no one buys paintings every time they enter, but it’s just something that’s been drilled into me subconsciously, somehow. The other is the fact that (yes, I’ll admit it.) I have a crush Him. Oh, it’s terribly mild, but he’s just someone I absolutely had to get to know.

A friend of mine had been telling me I was being absolutely silly in thinking he wouldn’t want to talk to me. Guys are guys, whether they report the news, sell software, or run an art gallery. Basically, Guys talk to pretty girls. I know that sounded terribly egotistical, but it’s simply the way things are. I am pretty, and I know people can’t help but like me because of that; we are all beings chained to the aesthetic after all, and in any case, its an asset, so I am not complaining.

I entered the gallery and he peeked out from the gap between the office (that’s located facing the entrance) I thought what the hell, and gave him a nice, medium sized smile endowed with a sweet breakfast blueberry muffin sort characteristic (as opposed to a maple-syrup mannerism). And he smiled quite pleasantly back.

I wandered around for a bit and fell in love with a painting that featured a boy selling a wheelbarrow of fish, with wild curly hair and blue eyeliner eyes.

Then He came out and walked leisurely past me, towards a back room to fill up a coffee cup. I couldn’t help it and stole a glace. I could barely remember how he looked like, because he’d never given me a chance to. (But already I had a crush on him, now how is that possible?)

We were shoplifting each other’s graces. He was equally as guilty, so more blueberry smiles to go around. My pulse increased, and my fingers felt a little jittery. There was a painting with two milk bowls on them, and I could see nothing but an erotic imagery of vague definition. My mind simply kept on trying to eroticize the milk-bowls. Milk-bowls-blueberry-smile- Milk-bowls-blueberry-smile, so on and on.

He wasn’t going back into the office. Instead, he started talking to an old man who sounded rather pompous, like one of those modern art-snobs that had visited virtually every gallery in Europe but had nothing better to say about them then what was in the brochures. He wasn’t even talking about the paintings, he was talking about the galleries.

But I suppose some can liken it to a conversation about a provocative author instead of his writing. In which case it would make sense, and I am being an art snob myself for saying what I just did.

My heart was still fluttering. Out of the corner of my eye, I felt him continually stealing glances. And it was a completely different sort of emotion, far flung from the sensation I was used to getting while flirting in a bar. It felt silly, and childish, and truly novel. I hadn’t felt like that since thirteen. I was flirting with a guy I couldn’t possibly touch.

The old man walked away and He made his way to the entrance of the office, but did not enter. My eyes were glazing over the painting beside the entrance. Walk past him, smile, say hi, do something, Damnit!

‘Are you having a good day?’

I broke out into a big smile,

‘Great! I love the new collection. Especially the Larrieu, however you pronounce his name.’

He returned the big smile.

‘Did you get to meet him? He was here two weeks back to launch the exhibit. You did get the invite, didn’t you?’

“Oh yeah, I met him from a distance. I wasn’t invited, and didn’t have the desire to crash such a chic function.’

I can’t quite remember what he said at this point, but he basically hinted that he’d talked to me before (he might have. From what I recall, I was with an inept art student -not being narcissistic, but I genuinely think she had no flair for illustration art-, and he had probably been talking to her continually while looking at me, equally as frequently. That is unfortunately simply what I’d like to believe now and cannot possibly be the entire truth of the matter.)

But I had a feeling he remembered me. He kept on insisting that he couldn’t believe I didn’t get the invite because he’d seen me around so many times, someone must have given it to me tot ou tard.

I started asking him to pick out paintings he really liked, and not uncannily, we both had a taste for all the most beautiful paintings. In the gallery. Go figure. We talked about Kaplan, and he mentioned that it was a pity I didn’t meet him when he was here to launch his exhibit, since I did seem to be very enamored of his genius.

‘Kaplan has fabulous composition. Fascinating techniques for focus.’

Being terribly incompetent when it came to the more technical aspects of painting, I could only talk about the subject matter. Some retarded diatribe about the way Kaplan was so incredible because was able to mingle very civil elements of human society that focused on the fundamental tenets of human culture –romance, love, pleasure through the depiction of numerous cafes (which make me think of words like serendipity, because who hasn’t thought of meeting their soul mate in a clandestine coffee bar.) with perfect, unsullied nature.

‘He combines everything and everything just looks like they should be together. The juxtaposition of the human and the natural’

When I thought about it later, I realized by saying that, I have the intrinsic belief that humanity was no longer natural.

We had a rather pleasant conversation over the new collection, which I doubt anyone would care to hear about. Then he pointed out this one particular piece that I had been glazing over while still waiting for him to make the first move. My back had been facing towards it, and he touched my shoulder lightly to turn my focus. It was brief and unsure, and I am almost convinced I imagined the entire thing. The tension was incredible. I can’t possibly know what he felt, but on my part, it steamed (not sizzled). This was so much better then all the times I’d cozied up to people I didn’t know at Cayote. Better then being sandwiched between perfect strangers, beautiful though they could have been. A million different scenarios ran thought my head based on ‘what if I kissed him. Right Now.’

The painting was a riot of colours and looked like something out of a pop-out children’s book. But it was gorgeous.

‘Don’t you think the flowers look like marshmallows? I love that one, because I’m a fan of marshmallows.’

I was quite surprised –and mildly please at this strange, personal revelation.

‘I’m more of a donut-with-the-jelly inside kinda girl. But those flowers make me think of candy pop-corn.’

He said something, and I felt like it meant that the world was so grey it needed paintings with riotous colours and ordered disorder to abate some of the blandness. And as he said it, I really noticed him. How he looked like. And I thought he was simply gorgeous, and distinguished, and possibly much older then me, but why should that matter? There was a call for him, and I’d like to think he was almost disappointed he had to leave me and I had to go. There were many promises of an invite to the next exhibit.

So I finally managed to talk to the French guy at the gallery.

And I can’t believe I forgot to ask for his name.

xoxox