[cont.]
Alex put his arm around her, “Your work is wonderful and you should be proud to stand by it. But you are right – it’s a barbaric custom for artists to have to stand in front of their work for hours and hours and hours. You know it stems from the days when the aristocrats would go into the pet artist’s studio to watch the final varnish go on. Now, though, it’s more of a forced party with no music and no place to sit and not enough booze. It’s totally great when your friends show up and regale you with how brilliant you are but saying nice things for three hours to strangers who are simply pumping you to steal your technique, it’s not nearly as much fun.”
“You know I usually love my openings, Alex, but it’s hard right now and my feet hurt.”
“Poor poor baby. I do understand your pain,” said Alex. “My flat feet aren’t designed for standing either.”
“There’s always some pain involved in showing new work, isn’t there? You feel so vulnerable, like stripping naked in a mall.”
Alex laughed, “Tommy, that’s a great image. I can see you standing in front of the Pottery Barn or Best Buy hanging loose in front of the teenaged girls in braces and blue hairs, rocking their world. You know, that would be a perfect Hondo moment.”
Lori started crying. “I shouldn’t have come to this. I’m not ready for this.”
Alex wrapped her in his arms. “I wasn’t thinking. I’m so sorry,” he whispered as she sobbed on his shoulder. Tommy came over, placed his head against theirs, his arms around them both. After a moment, with the two young men flanking her, they half carried her out of the gallery beyond the staring crowd, passing Dennis and Maggie who were just coming in.
……………………..
Return on Friday for the next chapters of Just Like Suicide.
