Drawn To You (10 page)

E
ven though I
adore the MAG, I never really come to their big exhibition events. I prefer to stop by in the morning before my shift at the bookshop. There are far fewer people, so I don’t have to feel intimidated by the usual contingent of super talented artists that hang around the gallery in the evenings, smoking cloves outside and having deep philosophical discussions in front of the latest pieces, many of which they themselves created.

No, I’m more of a come when it’s quiet and listen to Explosions In The Sky with my headphones on kind of gal. That way, I don’t have to make awkward small talk with real artists. Or anyone, really. What would I say to them?

This is what’s running through my brain as I pause with Ezra outside the gallery and glance over the clusters of people chatting outside. Inside, people mill about the upper section, sipping wine and eating canapés. I feel a mild but persistent panic well up in my chest.

Ezra brushes my arm. “You okay?”

I turn to look at him. With his hipster-handsome looks and relaxed confidence, he’s going to fit right in amongst the beautiful people. I force a smile across my lips and give a tight nod.

He traces his fingers down my arm until he’s holding my hand. I don’t know what kind of magic he’s working, but his comfort seeps into my palm and I start to relax.

“Shall we?” he says, and I follow him through the doors and into the throngs of people.

Portland’s MAG isn’t anything like the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. Instead of a sprawling museum, it’s a small gallery located beneath a record store. When it’s not full of artists, it’s full of vinyl devotees, mostly dudes older than my dad and 20-somethings obsessed with recapturing the true essence of music. The record store likes the increased foot traffic during these events, so they let the gallery crowd bleed over.

Ezra leads the way past displays full of CDs, though we stop no fewer than three times so he can talk to people he knows. It figures. No matter where he goes, he knows people. When I watch him illuminating the room, bringing smiles to the faces of everyone around us, I’m in total awe of his ease. That seems to be who he is – the light at the center of the room.

He’s becoming the light at the center of mine, too, and I try to ignore how much that scares me.

We reach the steps and walk down to the gallery below, weaving around a couple headed the other direction. When we reach the bottom, Ezra takes off to get us some drinks while I fidget in a corner, picking at my nails. There are so many pieces that catch my eye. A tall, metallic sculpture, with a mechanical arm that swings back and forth like a pendulum. Paintings that escape the confines of their frames and bleed color onto the wall. I even see the flickering lights of a video installation in the back room. I’m itching to go explore, to lose myself in the art, but all of the strangers overwhelm me. There are so many more people here than I’m used to.

Thankfully, the director, Angela, spots me and comes to say hello. She moves through the gallery like royalty, her bright floral dress making her glow in the sea of black and grey overcoats.

“Mia, it’s so nice to see you!” she says. “You haven’t been by in a while.”

I take her offered hand in mine. “I know, I’m sorry, I’ve been so busy with work.” That’s a lie, but it’s prettier than the truth, which is that I haven’t had much energy for anything lately. What’s not a lie is the fond smile we share. Angela has given me so much: a sympathetic ear, a comforting presence who never pushed too much, a safe space where I can ogle at art for hours like the huge dork I am. “I’ve missed this place,” I tell her. “Who’s featured tonight?”

“Belladonna Sraffa,” she says, waving her hand behind her to indicate the most prominently displayed pieces for the night. “She’s from Chicago. It’s gorgeous work. Mixed medium. You’ll love what she’s done with the color palette, I bet.”

Right then, Ezra returns with our drinks. He hands me what looks like an oatmeal stout and clinks his glass of amber ale with mine. “Friend of Mia’s?” he asks Angela.

“Friend and fan,” she says. “She refuses to admit that she’s an artist, but I can tell. Her eye is impeccable.”

“Don’t I know it,” Ezra agrees.

Being complimented by both of them at once is a little too much to bear so I divert my attention to my stout, taking a long pull. Yum. Definitely oatmeal.

Angela wags a finger at me. “One day, I’ll convince you to bring in some of your pieces, and then we’ll be having one of these events for you.”

Ezra stands straighter and looks at me sidelong with a smirk. “Oh, so it’s not just me she refuses to show her work to, then.”

I force a laugh, studying the tops of my shoes intently. “There’s really nothing to show,” I insist, “but I appreciate your faith in me nonetheless.”

“When someone has your appreciation for art, it’s not faith. It’s fact,” Ezra says as he raises his glass to take a drink. He brushes his free hand over my lower back and sends tingles up my spine.

Angela pats him on the cheek and says to me, “I like him. Keep him, he’ll be good for you.” She tells us to enjoy the show and moves off to mingle with other guests.

After she leaves, there’s a long pause where I try to suppress the hysterical giggle bubbling in my chest. There’s something about Angela approving of Ezra that’s got me a little moonstruck, like I didn’t realize how much that would mean to me until right now.

Play it cool, Mia.

“So?” Ezra says, peering at me over the top of his beer. “Will you keep me?”

His hand’s still resting on the curve of my back, warm and welcoming. My heart jumps in my chest, but I manage to muster an aloof expression. “Hmm. I’ll seriously consider it.”

We move on to the photography and lithograph displays before we approach the main exhibit. The artist, a handsome woman with black curls framing her head, shakes hands and chats with people about her work. I pause in front of the first painting, taking it in. The director was right. The use of color is incredible to behold.

The artist employs the negative space with incredible skill, using acrylic paint, burlap, and metal to bring out the spirit within the canvas. Bold colors grab the eye and distract from the real core of the work. Subjects occupy the empty space, their bodies twined with flowers or covered in brushstrokes of the Milky Way. Material twists to represent buildings, history, interference. It surrounds the subjects, forms their bodies, but they’re not tainted by it. Their purity shines through.

Ezra’s breath is hot against my ear as he leans in to say, “Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are when you’re losing yourself in art?”

My breath catches from the wave of desire that courses straight down to my toes. I turn my head and find myself an inch from his lips.

The barest dusting of freckles scatter across his nose.

My voice is a whisper. “No, they haven’t.”

His eyes don’t leave mine. “It’s the truth. Will you tell me what you see?”

I can do that. What I can’t do is look away from him, or wipe this huge dorky smile off my face. Without turning away, I gesture toward the painting.

“It’s a commentary on not letting the chaos that surrounds you affect you,” I explain, and regretfully, tear my gaze away. I point out the empty white silhouette of a woman. “We’re all surrounded by society, our past, and our demons. They’re a big part of shaping who we are, but they don’t define us on the inside.” I spread my hands out to indicate the messy tangle of wire and burlap all around the white space.

He looks back at the painting for a moment and breathes a small “huh.” Then he says, “It’s incredible to look at this again through your eyes. I was focusing on the technical work, but now that you’ve pointed it out, I can see the message. The silhouettes are our souls, untainted by all the shit that gets thrown our way.”

“Exactly,” I say a little too fast, excited we’re on the same page. “She’s incredibly talented, and her technical skill is impressive. The thing about technique is that with enough practice, most people can master it. Skill alone isn’t enough to make your art sing, though. That comes from in here.” I put my fist over my heart. “She’s nailed it. When I was at art school, I saw so many incredibly talented artists turn out work that had no heart behind it. It was flawless, but sterile. Nothing like this.”

Ezra raises his eyebrows. “You went to art school?”

My smile fades and I mentally kick myself for letting that slip. I look away from him and lick my lip. “Only for a little while. I left. It doesn’t matter.”

I worry for a minute that he’s going to push for more details, but he doesn’t. After that, the tension in my body fades and we continue moving through the rest of the exhibit. There’s another piece that really gets to me – the silhouette of a young girl surrounded by purple and red lights that burst and smear her with bloodlike splatter. This girl isn’t untouched. The world has hurt her, made her bleed. It’s impossible not to think of Iris when I look at it. I wipe a tear from my eye when Ezra’s distracted, and once we’ve seen all the paintings, I make sure to find the artist and let her know how much it moved me.

When someone’s art changes you, you should let them know.

Ezra takes my hand again and I wonder if there will be a good time tonight to tell him how much I’ve changed since that night he tagged my store’s building.

We swing through the sculpture and digital art displays, and I don’t even mind that we’re surrounded by too-cool-to-care people who are more invested in perfectly draping their scarves than appreciating the incredible work around us. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed being surrounded by art.

Once we’ve had our fill and Ezra’s made his rounds through the gallery three times, we head back upstairs. Outside, the air smells like clove smoke and rain. Ezra brushes along the inside of my forearm before taking my hand. My whole body warms at his touch. Handholding has never made me want to get horizontal this badly before.

Good god. I only had one beer. Calm yourself, body.

“Have you eaten?” Ezra asks, and I snap back to reality.

My stomach growls in response. I think that ice cream was the only thing I’ve had for the past two days.

“I could eat,” I admit.

We find a nearby café and sit under the awning outside. The heat lamps keep me warm enough, and we order espresso and a charcuterie board complete with housemade pickles and fancy mustards.

“I had no idea you could add banana to mustard,” I say after a particularly weird bite.

“They should have left that recipe wherever they found it,” he says, wrinkling his nose.

“Maybe in the deepest portal of hell?” I propose, and Ezra laughs, snorting into his espresso cup.

I watch him run his hand through his hair as leans back in his chair. Framed by the golden light and mist, he exudes this inexplicable coolness, even in spite of the plate of gross pickled watermelon rinds in front of him. He always looks so effortlessly comfortable that I can barely stand it. It fans the flames of my attraction to him about 500 times higher. He stretches his feet out below the table and brushes against mine. I want to run my toes up his leg.

What is the matter with me? I’m not even into foot stuff.

“Thank you for bringing me out tonight,” I say to distract myself. “I had an amazing time. The way to this girl’s heart is through art shows and cured meats, and you’ve provided both.”

“I’ll do my best to leave out the watermelon rinds next time,” he says. Then he leans forward on the table and a strand of his hair falls loose against the side of his face. It’s very alluring.

“I live near here, actually,” he adds. “If you wanted to come by for a little while, I wouldn’t complain.” He taps his espresso cup against its tiny saucer, ignoring the glares he receives from the people beside us. “Actually I’d do the opposite of complain.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice. Being near him makes the emptiness go away, and I don’t want to lose that feeling anytime soon.

“One hundred percent yes,” I say.

“The full hundred percent?” he laughs. “Hot damn. Right this way.”

We walk past a half dozen more galleries and shops before we reach a newly renovated residential building. After punching in a security code, Ezra pulls open the front door, bowing me inside with a flourish and a cheeky grin like he’s a proper gentleman. There are four flights of stairs between us and his place, and by the time we finally reach it, I’m almost too winded to comment, but not quite.

“Whoa,” I manage to say.

It’s a beautiful loft. Exposed brick and ductwork give it an industrial look without detracting from its warmth, which comes from furniture and accent pieces in rich reds and yellows. A large floor-to-ceiling window frames the area behind his bed. The lights of the Pearl District dance down below, restaurants and entertainments spots brimming with people. When I look beyond the streets, I can see a strip of the Willamette River, black and silver in the darkness.

I turn in a slow circle and gasp at what I see. Ezra isn’t like me, squirreling his art away in sketchbooks that he hides under his bed. His art is tagged directly on the walls, covering any available surface. The woman from his other paintings makes several more appearances, and I wonder why she plays such a prominent role in his art. What—or who—does she represent? I recognize the skyline of New York City and the trees of Central Park. His work is bold, colorful, and flowing. But I see that underlying darkness everywhere, too. It’s in his subjects’ expressions and the shadows they cast.

Ezra is completely at ease, leaning against one of the exposed posts and watching me admire his space.

“You like it?” he says.

“How do you afford this place?” I blurt. Surely he can’t be making
that
much in tips, can he?

Ezra laughs, the surprise taking him off guard. “That’s what I like about you, Mia,” he says, pushing himself across the room to stand right behind me, so that we look at his work together. His breath is warm against my neck. “You always keep it honest.” He slides a hand to my waist and I lean into him. “And to answer your question, there’s no way I could afford this full price. I worked out a deal with the building owner. I get a decreased rent for moonlighting as an on-site maintenance guy.”