IV.        

A Jemma opening is always an Event among our circle.  For one thing, there’s free food, and nothing draws out the freaks like a tray of cheese and crackers. 

Tam was there when I arrived, with her boyfriend Paul, tall and gangling in a tuxedo jacket over a Smiths t-shirt.  They waved.  I also spotted Fiona, our drummer, resplendant in piercings and punk-rock-grrl leather pants, talking to Tam’s housemate Anna, a short, roundish earth-maiden in huge round glasses and a long green dress.  There were lots of others there too, a lot of whom I only knew in passing or not at all.  Some of them were even looking at the paintings.  Of Jemma there was no immediate sign. 

For myself, I had, against all judgment and good sense, brought Molly along, convincing both of us there’d be lots of interesting people there for her to talk to.  I had hoped to steer her directly towards some social knot or other and bypass her needing to look at any paintings at all, but it was not to be.  We walked in and she went right to a wall, pulled by some awful magnetism, of the sort that puts bunny-rabbits in the path of huge black SUVs. 

She was sizing up “The Daimyos of Hell,” an enormous canvas showing samurai warriors with smoldering eyes dressed in armor made from human bones.  I stood behind her, waiting for the inevitable. 

“It’s not that she isn’t very good,” she said after a minute.  “I guess I just don’t get what the point is of all this.”  She looked back over one shoulder at me, big green eyes with just a hint of tilt to them behind her glasses.  “Do you know?” 

I gave her my best I’m-not-getting-into-it shrug and said, “Not everything has to be nice, babe.” 

“Y’know, I knew you were gonna say that.” Molly looked at the painting again, and her hair slid over her back, long and straight and red.  I was having the familiar feeling of knowing how nuts I really was about her in the middle of her setting my teeth on edge.  Go figure. 

“Okay, look,” I said, “You know you’re not gonna like any of the actual art here, so maybe you’ll have a better time just, y’know, socializing. Go get something to eat.” 

Her eyebrows went up, and my mind spun madly to find a way to follow up with something less bitchy, but she smiled and said, “Oh, alright, you big lug.  Go do your art thing.  I’ll be over here looking for someone with a sense of aesthetics.” She came up and kissed my cheek.  “Let me know when you’re done.” 

“Okay.  I’m gonna walk the gallery and find Jemma.  I won’t be too long.” 

I took my time making the rounds through the paintings, though.  There were only a few I hadn’t seen before, but it was nice to look at them all in this setting; it gave them a kind of legitimacy I felt they deserved, Molly notwithstanding.  I’d regretted not being able to help set the show up, since I’d been playing the night before, but I found I was just as glad to come in and see it all fresh, in untried patterns.  It was a little like discovering Jemma’s work all over again. 

I ran into the finished “A Lizard in Crimson” about halfway through.  She’s improved it since the week before.  There was more detail in the pebbled scales, more of a golden gleam in the crown.  It was spectacular.  I was ready for it to come crawling out of the canvas, spines and dewlaps and baleful eyes all sprung to life; it was a painting with that kind of power.  Whether I had the right to or not, I felt proud. 

As I stood studying the Lizard, I heard a voice behind me.  It was singing, softly. 

“Wake your reason’s hollow vote,
Wear your blizzard season coat.
Burn a bridge and burn a boat,
Stake a Lizard by the throat.” 

I turned around and found a man standing there, looking at me, smiling.  He had wild brown hair in need of cutting, and a bearded face I couldn’t put an age to; he could have been twenty or forty.  He looked like a café poet: too-big leather jacket, shabby gray sweater, faded jeans, well-worn boots.  His little oval glasses were tinted purple, and he had gold rings in both ears. 

“Pardon me?” 

“Nothing, nothing,” he said.  “Just a little synchronicity I was appreciating.  You a fan?” 

“A friend.  Both.” 

“Excellent.  Me too.”  He put out a hand.  “Ian Barrett. Pleased to meet you.” 

I did a double-take before I remembered to answer. “Adrian Ward.  Likewise.  Wow.  Oh, crap. I think I’m carrying your book around in my coat pocket.”  I went to fish it out, like a moron. 

“More’s the pity for me if you’re not sure.  No, no, it’s alright – you’re much too big to look like a deer in headlights like that.  Ah, Great Worm.  Another meaningful coincidence?” 

“Actually, it’s Jemma’s copy.  I’m afraid I, uh, haven’t read it all yet.” 

“I’m afraid you’re not the only one.  Of course, if I’d meant it to be easy, I’d’ve written something else.  So I hear I’m partially to blame for this ferocious character here?” He gestured at the Lizard on the wall. 

“She tells me your play inspired her to paint it, yeah.” 

“Along with an especially groan-worthy pun, for a particularly narrow audience.  Well, that’s how it goes.  One takes the compliments where one can get them.  In whatever medium.” 

“Hell, it’s more than I could do,” I said.  “A box of crayons is like the Advanced Class for me.” 

Ian’s eyebrow went up behind the tinted frames.  “Oh, really?  You’re not an artist?” 

“Jemma would say no.  I’m a musician.  I’m a bass player in a punk band.” 

“Any good?” 

I shrugged.  How the hell do you answer that? 

“Ah, well, then,” he said, nodding a little.  Then he leaned forward and said, “But there’s art, and then there’s Art, if you take my meaning.” 

“I’m afraid I don’t.” 

“Right. Look.”  He put a hand on my shoulder, gently, and led me around.  I’m not really a touchy-feely person, and normally this would make me nuts, but somehow Ian made it not be invasive or weird.  I was finding I liked him quite a bit. 

He took me over to the next painting, which was a new one for me: a cityscape at night, with a nude woman flying or floating in a luminous bubble high above and looking down.  Swarming through the streets were hellish monsters, like mutant dinosaurs and hybrid deep-sea creatures, coming up out of the sewers.  But their ravening seemed somehow muted and far-off.  The title was “Perambulations of the Adept I.” 

“Now have a look at this,” said Ian.  “Is it a dream? A vision? A metaphor? If it becomes one, does it stop being any of the others?” 

“I don’t know.  Is it a trick question?” 

He laughed.  “There you go.  Maybe you know more than you think after all.”  There was a strange moment then, just a moment, as he looked at me and his eyes gleamed brightly, and I felt weirdly exposed, like he could look in and see who I really was, naked and unprotected and small. “Look,” he said, and the feeling dissipated, “all of this, all Art, is part of a huge, elusive language that must work on more than one level at once.  A house is, more or less, only a house, in and of itself.  A painting of the house is the painting and the thing itself as well, and potentially many more things besides.  If it’s done with great Art, it can unlock something of what the house is beyond being only a house.  Do you see?” 

I didn’t know how to answer.  My head struggled to get a hold on what he was talking about.  This wasn’t the normal pretentious garbage I was used to hearing in galleries; I’d heard artists talk about capital-A Art before, but not quite in the way Ian was doing it.  When he said it, it was the way some people say “God.” And there was something about his manner that made me completely unsure whether he was dead serious or pulling my leg, or somehow both. 

“Ian, are you feeding him a load of crap already?” 

We turned at the same time.  Jemma was wheeling up in a Chinese-style brocaded silk shirt, black on black. Her nosering tonight was a garnet, and her eyes were traced in dark Eye-of-Horus lines.  She looked her best, beautiful and ferocious.   

“But never, ever ask the artist to interpret their work,” said Ian.  “They’re notoriously evasive.  Shockingly, they may not even want you to understand.” He bent, and she kissed him on the cheek.  “Hello, Maestra. Congratulations on the spectacular opening.” 

“Hello, Master Barrett.  Hello, Adrian.  Oh my God, you own a shirt and tie.” 

“Hey, Jemma.  Nice to see you too.”  I indicated the painting we’d been looking at.  “Care to prove him wrong and show your hand?  I’d love to know where the hell this came from.” 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, sweetie.  Did you bring the Ray of Sunshine?” 

“Actually, yeah.”  I scanned the room for dark-rimmed glasses and long red hair, and found her chatting up some earnest-looking young fellow in a turtleneck – God, there was always at least one – next to the buffet.  “She’s guarding the food for us.” 

“Good for her.  Hey, sorry I missed the band last night.  I hear it was kickass.” 

I felt myself blush a little.  “Yeah, well, so’s this.  It’s good to see so many disturbing things all in one place.” 

“Thanks.  It’s good to be responsible for them.”  She spun her chair towards Ian.  “You like the new stuff? I don’t think I told you I was working on that one.” 

Ian stood back from “Perambulations of the Adept I,” framed it in squared thumbs and forefingers. “’My God, Elliot, it was a photograph from life!’ Yes, you keep outdoing yourself, my dear.  It’s a wonder you’re not dead of exhaustion.” 

She gave him a look, like she was trying to size up how to take that, and finally said, “I don’t drop that easily.  Hey, I hate to run, but I’ve got to make the rounds of my other adoring fans.  I’m glad you two are hitting it off.  Give me a call, Adrian.  We need to go to lunch soon. Ian, you know where to find me.”   

“I do.  And the ‘Lizard’ is gorgeous, Jemma.  I’m very honored.” 

I swear I actually saw her flush and look embarassed for a moment.  “Aw, cut it out.  You’re too kind.”  And then she looked pensive, as if she was going to say something else, but then the moment passed and I wondered if I’d imagined it.  “Thanks for coming, guys. You’re beautiful people.  Gotta go now.” 

When she had gone, Ian turned to me and said, “Well. Make anything of that?” 

“Was there something to make of it?” 

“Now, Adrian. What have we learned tonight about artists and subtext?” 

I threw up my hands. “That every damn one of them is infuriatingly vague?” 

“Ha! I’m sure I deserve that, but no, there’s something else.  Too many correspondences to ignore, and she’s trying not to talk about something.  Maybe just because she’s in public, but I’m not betting on it.” 

What? Why did I get the feeling he felt like I was in on something? “Okay.  I give up.  There’s something you’re not telling me, Ian.  It’s making me a little nuts and it’s making me worry.  What the hell is really going on with Jemma?” 

He stood and looked at me a long, uncomfortable moment, while my skin started to crawl.  I wasn’t sure he was going to answer, or if I should ask him again, but he finally sighed and took off his tinted glasses, rubbed his eyes, and said, “You’re right.  There are a great deal of things I’m not telling you, and I’m sorry.  And I can’t let you in on everything all at once, and I’m sorry for that too.  You’re worried about your friend.  You’re not necessarily wrong to be.  I’ll make you a deal.  Read the rest of my book.  I’ll come to your show the next time you play and we’ll talk.  And maybe then I can start to show you what you need to see.” 

I pulled the book out of my coat pocket again, and looked at it.  It didn’t seem like much: a sheaf of obscure text bound in cheap black paper, full of acid-trip pen sketches.  But there was something in it that I’d tasted, a hint of something glorious, strange knowledge half-hidden in riddles and nonsense . . . . 

“Deal,” I said.  “But I have a feeling you’ll have to do a lot of explaining for this stuff.  I’m having a hell of a time getting any of it.  We’re playing next Friday at the Cutup Club.  Nine.” 

“I’ll see you there, then.” He put out his hand, and I shook it.  “Good to meet you, Adrian.  I look forward to talking with you.” 

“Likewise.” He smiled at this, and then without saying anything else turned and walked off.  I went to leave too; I felt the start of a headache coming on. 

Molly came to meet me as I walked to the buffet.  She was beaming, and gorgeous.  Some of the tension of the last few moments started to melt. 

“You’re not gonna believe this, Adrian.  Jemma came up to me a minute ago and thanked me for coming, just out of the blue.  She said, ‘I know this isn’t your thing, but it’s good seeing you here.’ And she told me how glad she was for your being around.  Wasn’t that sweet?  I was blown away.” 

“Wow, that’s excellent, babe.”  She came and took my arm, and we walked together towards the doors.  “I noticed you had a new boyfriend, too.  Should I be worried?” 

She rolled her eyes.  “Guy named Peter.  Went on and on about a lot of pseudo-intellectual postmodern crap, in an attempt to be cool and impressive.  Completely trying to get in my pants.  When I pointed you out to him, he went a little white and shut up.  He was kinda cute, though.” 

“Not really my type.  I like the way he thinks, though.  Let’s get out of here.” 

We went, waving to friends and aquaintances on the way out.  Out on the corner, I thought I caught a glimpse of a bearded face in a leather jacket, but we were walking too fast for me to be sure.

Previous

Index