Chapter 12: Exhibition

It’s largely up to the exhibitors as to what kind of event the BFA exhibition is. Les and I wisely chose to let the women decide. As a result, the two of us stood side-by-side in the guest bath downstairs as we worked on tying our formal bowties.

I had to admire the way Les had filled out and matured over the three-plus years we’d been friends. When we first met, he was a scrawny, frightened kid trying not to be noticed amidst a school conflict. We were a lot alike. I remember thinking that I’d just ruined everyone’s college career and I would be hated forever. He thought he was a strike-breaker and would be hated forever. It proved not to be true for either of us. I discovered that I’d made some real friends and that many others were willing to back me up. Les became one of our inner circle with many others maintaining close contact. I could only wonder at the number of insanely cute girls in my class who had come to my studio or Kendra’s dorm room and undressed so I could sketch them.

And the number who had come to stay.

We examined each other’s ties and adjusted our cummerbunds so we could put our tuxedo jackets on. Then we left the bathroom to go face the women in our lives who would shortly come down the stairs. Dad examined us and checked our ties, straightening his own.

Mom had joined the girls upstairs and had opened the master bath to them in order to get all five ready. She was having fun, according to Dad, but he’d been sent away the same as us. Occasionally, we could hear a squeal from upstairs and knew someone had put on a dress or finished hair or did some other of the mysterious things girls do when they are getting ready to go out.

Dad poured a shot of bourbon into each of three glasses and handed Les and me each one.

“Gentlemen,” he said lifting his glass in a toast. We lifted ours. “I can hardly tell you how proud I am of both of you. And not necessarily because of that fine batch of young women upstairs. I’m pretty proud of that, myself. And you should be, too. I’m proud of you for the way you have matured into young men, responsible for yourselves and others. I’m proud of the way you’ve both overcome personal adversity to rise to your potential. Les, you were a frightened boy when I met you. Now you are a confident young man. Arthur, you have a darkness inside that no one can fully understand, yet you have risen to overcome it and to make it a part of your art and your life. I grew up in a good home with supportive loving parents. I had no physical or emotional hurdles to speak of. I had no excuse to fail in life. Yet, I teetered on the edge of doing just that until I met Sarah. It was like she could see into my soul and she showed me what she saw. I got myself squared away, married the most precious woman I’d ever met, and you and your sister are the happy result of that union, Art. Seeing the two of you complete college and collect such a fine group of artists and associates makes me thankful every moment for having let my Sarah look into my soul. I salute you.” We touched our glasses together and took a sip of our drinks. I’d often heard my father make eloquent speeches—he’s an English professor—but I’d never been the focus of his pride like I felt right then.

The women, dressed in gowns and flowers, presented themselves on the stairs for photos before we piled into four cars to go to the opening. Of course, Les and I had to pose with them, too, and then Dad set a timer on the camera and rushed up to join Mom on the top step. I was glad we had eaten an early dinner because there wouldn’t be anything but punch and cookies for the next four hours.

At six o’clock, the doors opened for the VIPs. First through the door was President Escher and her husband. None of us had any idea how we were supposed to greet people or arrange ourselves, but she put us at ease immediately. I guess she’d attended enough of these openings during her tenure that she just naturally took over and made suggestions as a photographer organized us in poses with our advisors, the university president, and the dean.

“I’ve been holding this in my office for three and a half years,” President Escher said when she shook my hand. “I hope you will allow me to display it here during your exhibition.” Her husband stepped forward with a collapsible easel and a hand-lettered protest sign that boldly said, “Support Art!” We all had a good laugh about that and they set it up near the little dais where Leonard had begun some soft background music. President Escher moved on to congratulate Kendra. Morgan came to take my hand. We just walked around and looked at my paintings, Kendra’s sculpture, and Mavis’s photos. We’d hung the painting that Mr. Wells bought next to the print of it that Mavis had made. That drew a lot of people as soon as they saw it at the end of the gallery.

“Mr. Étrange, I’m Denise Canon, art critic for The Examiner. May I ask you a few questions?”

“Mmm ... Uh ... Y-yes,” I said. I held my breath. She could ask all she wanted, but I wasn’t sure I could answer any of them.

“How did the unusual black-on-black paintings first evolve in your art? Was that the result of experimentation or inspiration?” she asked.

“I ... It ... Sort of...” I felt a hand slip into mine. “Kendra.”

“Do you need me to speak, Arthur?” she said softly. The reporter looked at us curiously.

“Please?”

“Hi, I’m Kendra Williams, Arthur’s interpreter.” She held out her hand and Ms. Canon shook it.

“Interpreter?”

“Arthur has some difficulties putting words together when he is among strangers or in a crowd. We’ve been working together for our entire college careers and I have been allowed to interpret what I know Arthur wants to say when we’re in those situations. I even did his freshman review presentation with him in front of the faculty. I guess we get along well because he seldom talks and I never shut up. Sorry. Did you have a question?” God, I loved Kendra. It was the reporter’s turn to be shaken and hesitant.

“Uh ... Yes. I was just asking Mr. Étrange how the black-on-black paintings were inspired,” Ms. Canon said.

“Pretty incredible, aren’t they?” Kendra said. “Sorry, that was my own observation and not an answer from Arthur. Let’s take a look at the first two over here. This is one of Arthur’s many portraits of Susan Reynolds, who will appear to recite her poetry at eight o’clock. You’ll love it. Arthur had perfected the techniques of painting drapery that showed depth highlighting the smooth tones of his model’s body. He focused on the contrast between fabric and skin, noting how even the texture of the various drapes changed the way light was reflected and absorbed. This next painting is of the same pose and the same model and was the first painting that Arthur did in the darkness. This was not an evolution, but a complete demolition of Arthur’s world view.”

“I lost color,” I said.

“His vision ... literally, his eyesight ... ceased to function like yours and mine,” continued Kendra. “He could no longer see color and light. His entire world went black. And using the skills he’d achieved painting figures and drapery over the past three years, he went immediately to black paint and translated his new view of the world to canvas.”

“Arthur, you actually see the world black like this?” Denise asked. Kendra looked at me.

“Better now. A little,” I said.

“See this painting?” Kendra continued with the tour. “After two months of darkness, images began emerging in light and color. They were only of people. Imagine a life where you saw only the faces of your friends, isolated in a sea of darkness.”

“Disembodied heads,” the reporter shuddered.

“That’s what I thought at first, until Arthur encouraged me to look more deeply. This figure is clothed. The clothing, the drapery, the furniture—all are part of the inanimate surroundings of our lives. The detail of those items is still present in the black-on-black that surrounds the living and breathing light that emanates from a human being. Look at this next portrait of Susan. She is fully exposed with only thin strips of fabric pulled against her body. Her inner light shines so brightly that it can be seen through the translucent purple of the drape and actually illuminates a limited area around her before the inanimate trappings dissolve again into blackness.”

Our tour continued. I managed a few words here and there that Kendra would then talk about more at length. She was not only my interpreter, she was the docent of our collection. The reporter had to change cards in her phone so she could keep recording. We ended the interview after Kendra described my still life as ‘the artist bringing color into the world where it could not emerge itself.’

“Miss Williams, you are also the sculptor who created this fusion of bronze and glass, is that not so?” the reporter asked.

“Yes. We talk about it as fusion art, but of course there actually is no fusion between the glass and bronze. The glass is anchored into the casting,” Kendra said as they moved toward the sculpture.

I slipped away as Kendra transitioned to talking about her own art. That girl sure can talk.

“Are you exhausted yet?” Annette asked as she circled my waist with her arm. I nodded. “I have hardly anything to do but stand around looking like a beautiful intellectual until my reading at nine.”

“You are performing extremely well, then,” I laughed.

“You are good for me, Pen. I love you.”

“Love you, my Lady.”

“Speaking of which, we need to get our Dolly ready for her performance.”

“Her mom is here.”

“Yes. Mr. Dorn has her ... um ... well in hand. She’ll be front and center to hear Susan read.”

“She’s a lot like Susan.”

“I think that’s what caused the rift in the first place. Mrs. Reynolds tried to suppress her submissive nature while raising Susan to be strong and independent. When Susan came under Zen’s influence her mom thought she was doing it to throw shame on her. I think now that she is out, it will get better,” Annette said.

“Zen’s here, too.”

“That’s a positive sign, I suppose. I don’t believe they’ll reunite, but they need to accept each other in a new light. As submissive as Susan is with us, she can be an absolute tiger if she is crossed. I don’t ever want to be on the receiving end of that. It would break my heart. Just like it did Zen’s.”

“It’s almost eight.”

We led a blindfolded Susan to the dais. She’d changed into the diaphanous harem outfit for her performance but had acceded to wearing a bra and G-string under it. She carried a copy of her book, Bound for Freedom, but the poems she would perform were memorized.

There was nothing calm about her as she approached her performance. Susan was shaking like a leaf, scarcely able to keep hold of the little book. We led her to where the strips of silk were hung from the hoop above and Annette raised Susan’s right hand to show her where to grasp the fabric.

“What a good little Dolly,” I whispered as I pulled one strip around her waist and let it fall in folds to the floor. “An artist’s model who will perform her poetry for her Lady and her Sir. We might have friends come to watch you—maybe even touch your beautiful body—pose you as they would like to see you—stretch you and peer into your secret places. You will never know who is here to watch and listen. That is all up to us.” Susan was panting, her chest heaving. I wondered if she would even be able to speak.

“But, little Dolly,” Annette whispered next to her. “No matter what—no matter who we share our little treasure with or what touches her precious body—we will take care of you.”

“Tell us your poetry.” We stepped away from Susan, but did not leave the dais completely. She took a deep breath, then held out her book as if to read from it. She spun in a circle, wrapping her arm and her legs in the hanging silk.

You set me free.
You closed my eyes and opened my heart.
You bound my body with silk
And let my soul soar
Across the plains of my desire.

Susan had once described our posing sessions as performance art, but she had taken it to a whole new level with her poetry. She positively glowed as she moved from pose to pose with the silk draped around her. She kicked at the fabric and made it float around her like a lowering cloud while still holding the book out away from her as if she were reading from it instead of reciting.

My love is the mistress of my being.
She comes to me in the darkness
Singing songs of devotion—caring for her slave
Transporting me to pinnacles of ecstasy
And dropping me into the depths of my fears
Only to rise again on her wings
Into the crystal sky.

Susan’s performance was twenty minutes long. It was beautiful. On the opposite side of the little stage, I could see Annette smiling at her little Dolly. I was pretty sure that a person could read Susan’s entire book in half an hour, but mixed with the performance she was giving, I knew she had only read a fraction of the poems. And in the book, Mavis’s pictures of Susan in many of the poses she created on stage—but often not so completely clothed—enhanced the images her words created in the reader’s mind.

Annette moved to untangle Susan from the loosely wrapped bindings of the hanging silk as the guests applauded. I felt a presence beside me as I helped and saw Mrs. Reynolds standing on the dais in front of Susan. I wasn’t sure how this would play out, but I slipped an arm around Susan’s waist to support her.

“I will take care of you,” I whispered.

Mrs. Reynolds lifted a hand to Susan’s face and softly stroked her cheek beneath the blindfold. She opened her palm and Susan automatically relaxed into it, letting her mother cradle her face. Susan shook in my arms.

“I am so sorry, my precious little girl,” Mrs. Reynolds said. “I never meant to hurt you. I was so ashamed. I hope one day you can forgive me.”

“Mommy!” Susan cried. She threw the rest of the fabric off and collapsed against her mother in a tight embrace. I removed the blindfold from her eyes and for the first time in four years, Susan looked at her mother. Mr. Dorn stepped up onto the dais and I saw him run a finger down Mrs. Reynolds spine. She straightened up.

“Pet, why don’t you invite your daughter to sit with us for a few minutes and have some punch. Her voice must need some soothing after that wonderful performance. It would be better than standing on the stage.”

“Yes, sir,” Mrs. Reynolds said. Susan followed her mother’s unspoken invitation off the stage to her table of books where a line had already formed to buy the little paperbacks and have them autographed. Mr. Dorn retrieved the glasses of punch and set one next to Susan. She looked up at him and simply mouthed, ‘Thank you.’

Susan’s mother and Les’s father sat behind Susan for the rest of the evening as she signed books.

“Mavis, you’ve advanced your art again,” Dr. Lowenstein said. “The color artwork is lovely, but the print of Arthur’s work truly breaks new ground.”

“We’re filing patents on the chemical formulae that make it possible,” Mavis said. “We had to break into some new areas of photosensitivity.”

“We’re a University of the Arts and Design,” Dr. Escher said. “I had no idea we had chemists in our program.”

“I’ve had help. This is Dr. Norman. My father introduced us to each other and the lab work has been all hers,” Mavis said.

“I’d never have delved into the areas of photosensitivity had I not visited Mavis in her home photo lab. It’s quite impressive,” Dr. Norman said. She seemed awfully young to be a PhD, but when I’d first met her I found out she’d gone far into post-doctoral work as a chemist. “I believe this new area is going to have a far-reaching impact beyond photography. We believe there may be a way to reproduce spectral images that are beyond normal human eyesight. That is what led our company to establish a grant for The Grail Associates. We want to encourage the exploratory work of these artists.”

“And we want to thank you, as well, for the generous grant to the University,” Dr. Escher said. “It was unexpected and came at a critical time in our endowment fundraising.”

“It is a recognition of the contribution that the arts can make to hard science as well as the other direction,” Mr. Wells said. “I’m proud that my daughter is one of these artists, but no less proud of the others. I believe Miss Williams’ process patents will also be significant in the further development of 3-D printing and imaging.” Wow! I hadn’t realized that. Way to go, Kendra!

“Artistically, Kendra’s fusion castings are as ground-breaking as the scientific patents,” Dr. Lowenstein said. “I have, however, advised Morgan and Les to get more legal counsel regarding the contractual issues that The Grail Associates will encounter as they continue to cross boundaries and work with established corporations.”

“We quite agree,” Dr. Norman said. “We have honorable intentions, but it is often all too easy for a large corporation to trample the rights and stifle the contributions of unprotected individuals.”

“I’m not proud of that fact,” Mr. Wells said.

“The inspiration,” Dr. Robinson, my advisor, said, “is standing with us. Arthur, congratulations on a spectacular BFA exhibition and on gathering this talent around you. You have cherry-picked the top talent that our University has produced in a decade. An artist, a sculptor, a photographer, a novelist, a poet, and two top business minds. I’m expecting great things in the future.”

“I’m ... uh ... not really ... like the leader,” I said. “I just paint pictures.” They all laughed.

“Arthur, I’m sure you see it that way,” Dr. Escher said. “I look at you, though, and see a young man who inspired a student revolt on a campus that hadn’t seen activism since the ‘60s. A man who can count nearly every member of his graduating class as a friend. Leadership is sometimes confused with the ability to stand up and give speeches or run for political office. But true leadership comes from within and people are inspired to follow. By your presence, Arthur. Not by your words.”

I felt like I was kind of getting a swelled head. It was embarrassing to be singled out like that, even at my own exhibition. Except it wasn’t just my own. We were all involved.

And it was time for Annette’s reading. I wasn’t sure I was looking forward to this. Dad had told me how good it was, though. For that alone, I was proud of Annette.

Her destruction of the presumptuous fool was complete. She had spotted his weakness the moment he was introduced and was immediately certain she could build him up and tear him down. What the goddess had created, the goddess could destroy. He’d fallen head over heels in love with her. And he’d been good in many ways, a devoted servant to her desires. But the time had come. When he had the temerity to kneel before her and ask her to marry him, surrounded by those sycophants he called friends, she knew it was time to dismantle what she had built and move on.