Work Text:
You look up at the large painting on the wall. Acrylic paints hold each brushstroke in a suspended image, frozen in time. Even the carefully blended sections hold the evidence of their creation. A sheet coating of varnish makes the colors pop into a stunning vibrancy.
You’ll be the first to admit, it’s a bit experimental. The colors are chaotic and poorly laid out when compared to artists like Piet Mondrian, with seemingly no limit to the palette used. Your agent had been hesitant to put it in the exhibit at all, but you’d insisted. Now that you’re in the thick of it, you watch people in suits barely give it a glance as they pass from one painting to the next, and hear the occasional snicker from art snobs who only really like art when the artist is dead.
The rest of the works are ‘safe’, staying within the realms of comfort for buyers and gawkers. But this one… It’s the only one that sings to those willing to listen.
“There’s not many people appreciating this one.”
You jump a little at the voice that comes from beside you. A man, dressed in a simple but expensive suit, stands with his hands in his pockets as he looks at the painting. His purple hair and relaxed posture make him stand out like a sore thumb in a place like this.
He tilts his head to look at you, smiling. “Do you like it?”
Stumbling over yourself, you nod. Nobody has spoken to you about your work yet tonight. You can’t let the opportunity go, lest your agent get on your case about it. “Y-Yes, it’s my favorite.”
“Really?” There’s a twinkle in his eyes as he looks back up at the piece, and then glances at the other, markedly more popular, works around it. “Huh, how come?”
You glance at the other works, too. They’re just as familiar as you remember them.
Looking into the eyes of a portrait, you can recall the struggles of getting it just right so the figure is easily recognizable. The realistic painting of a cat stalking a mouse brings to mind the mind-breaking efforts of painting fur strand by strand. Most of the works are like that; easy-to-grasp realism, depicting things people would be interested in buying. A koi fish distorted by the ripples in a pond. Water droplets on a foggy mirror. A sunset. Each one with their own agonies, recalling only the pain of their production. Your agent’s voice repeating time and time again that this is what it takes to get into a gallery and have people be interested.
You look up at the big painting and all you feel is pride, peace, and like a burden has been lifted off your chest.
You settle for a more sophisticated answer. Your agent always said not to ruin the image of an artwork by pointing out the rough details. “Well, while the others are all technically correct, this one has more emotion and passion behind it.” You look at him, biting your cheek, hoping you answered ‘correctly’.
He cocks his head to the side, taking in the emotion and passion you mentioned. “It’s my favorite here, too,” he finally says after a minute. “It’s more genuine, like you said. The rest are all surface level and boring. They exist to appeal to a wider audience, but they don’t feel true to the artist’s intentions. Here, it feels like the artist has transcribed their soul onto canvas with each color and brushstroke.”
Your heart flutters. He… He really sees past the exhibition. He sees more than the price tags and art collectors.
He turns to you with that same relaxed grin, though something playful dances at the corners, reflected in his eyes. “Their whole soul is here, but nobody seems to care about it. Ironic, huh?”
You nod slightly. You can’t deny it; the most important artwork to you has become reduced to amateurish abstraction by the other attendees. You’re more certain now that it will not be purchased tonight. “Yeah…”
A hand taps your shoulder. You turn to see your agent, an older woman with dyed brown hair pulled into a tight bun and thin-framed glasses perched on her sharp nose. “There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you!” Your agent huffs with barely-contained irritation. She smiles quickly at the man, no joy behind the gesture. “Madame Shrike wants to talk to you about commissioning a portrait! Come on, we can’t keep her waiting!”
A commission? Your heart skips a beat. You can’t tell if it’s from excitement or dread. Your agent grabs your arm to drag you over, but you stop to turn to the man. “Oh, I’m sorry, I have to go! But it was nice talking to you, Mr…?”
The man’s eyes widen slightly, the realization of who this art belongs to catching up with him. His smile doesn’t falter despite the surprise. “Rafayel.”
You smile in return. “Thank you for your observations, Mr. Rafayel. I hope you enjoy the rest of your night.” You turn and follow your agent with hurried footsteps as you struggle to keep up with her rapid pace.
Rafayel turns back to the painting. His eyes roam the colors, trying to seek out the layers to this self-portrait of the soul now that he knows just who it belongs to. Thomas sighs as he comes to stand beside him.
“Thought you snuck out again,” he says. He looks up at the painting with disinterest. The only reason they were there at all was to rub elbows with potential buyers for an upcoming exhibit. “Have you spoken to anybody at all since getting here?”
Rafayel smirked, like he’s just been told some juicy gossip. “I have, actually. I spoke to the artist being shown tonight.”
“Really? What did you say to them?”
“I insulted their art.”
Thomas’s face dropped immediately. “What?!” he hisses in a stressed whisper. “Do you have any idea what that could do to your image?!”
Rafayel’s eyes widen as he blinks dumbly at his manager, pretending to be shocked as he puts a hand over his chest. “I have no idea. How?”
Thomas shakes his head and turns back to the colorful painting. “You’re insufferable sometimes.” Rafayel chuckles to himself, all too proud of his little joke. “What did they say?”
There’s a bristle from the brush you were using caught in a stroke of red. He wonders what they’re made out of, where you got them, how long you’ve had them for. He wonders how many more bristles he’d find in the rest of your work.
Ignoring Thomas’s question completely, Rafayel says, “Buy this one for me, will you?”
“This one? Isn’t it a bit… ‘ rough around the edges’?”
“It’s the best painting here.”
“... I’ll never understand you.”
By the end of the showing, you expect all but one painting to be missing from the walls. Instead, once everything was taken down to be wrapped for various buyers, the walls were blank. Your manager gushes at her phone.
“You did really well for your first ever exhibit!” she praises. “Every single painting sold! Even your… ahem, experimental work. That doesn’t happen very often! You should feel very proud!”
You smile at her, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. She doesn’t notice. You can’t stop staring at the big empty spot where you’d spoken to that man.
“Okay! Now that you’re in, we need to start networking. There’s an exhibition next week for Rafayel that will be packed with more critics and connoisseurs than you could shake a stick at.”
You turn to her, eyes wide. “Rafayel?”