There were no nerves, which surprised him. He didn't know why that was, but he was grateful for it as he walked into Pam's art show.
The gallery was still full of artists and patrons, though there were only fifteen minutes left before the show closed. They were milling around, conversing quietly with that air of seriousness that Jim always noticed at events of culture. Shouldn't fine arts be more joyful? Shouldn't it sound more like a 'Sixers game?
He walked through the displays, glancing at the artwork but looking intently for Pam. It seemed a maze of paintings and drawings; one leading into another somehow, taking him on what seemed to be a purposeful course.
He found her at the end of it, standing quietly, gazing at her own artwork and worrying her bottom lip in her teeth.
She looks near to tears. And no one is here. Where is everyone?
He knew it was selfish and he knew it was wrong, but he stood for a moment where he knew she couldn't see him, just to watch her for a little longer. It made him smile, how mindfully she was trying to look like an artist, with her purple turtleneck, smooth side ponytail, and black jumper.
She's an artist even when she's not thinking about it. Doesn't she know that?
Still, there were no nerves. Hands in pockets, he came up slowly from behind her. Quietly: "Hey."
She turned, her surprise at seeing him written all over her face. "Jim," she breathed, as if she was convincing herself that he were really here. He smiled down at her.
"So....." he said, "here it is." He stood, hands still in pockets, turning toward what was displayed before him. He could feel her next to him, twisting her hands, looking down at them. He was looking at her artwork, but he wasn't seeing it. Instead, he was trying to find a way to keep his hands in his pockets, to settle himself so that he would not pull her into his arms, put his chin on the top of her head, and hold her until this vulnerability and hurt that he could feel pouring out of her finally dissipated.
It took a moment, but he was well-practiced in suppressing his urges and reactions when it came to her. His vision cleared, and he focused on her work.
A stapler. A coffee cup. A vase of flowers. Their building. A bowl of fruit. A tall red brick building. Jim realized that he didn't know much about art, but he could tell that these were reasonably good renditions. They were realistic, decently executed.
And soulless.
He looked a little longer, a little more closely at the painting of their building, their parking lot. So much there, but nothing in her painting. Not her, and not him, and certainly not them-- just a cold reproduction of the actual structure. Even the sky in that painting looked cold.
He would have stood there for a long time, searching. But she spoke. "They're not really......." She seemed to falter, to hesitate over her choice of words. He couldn't look at her now. He wanted to just hear her. "They're not really who I am. They're just paintings."
He nodded his head. "Yeah."
Thank God. He's not going to patronize me.
She wrinkled her brow, considering. "I don't really know how to.....do that. I don't know how to put....myself....in my work." She shook her head, searching for the right words.
He nodded his head again, peering closer at the vase of flowers. "Yeah." He was starting to lose focus on her artwork, starting to focus on her, though he still did not look at her. "I know who you are, though." She went stock-still beside him. But he continued.
"And....I know who I am, when I'm with you, even though I've never really been....with you." He paused, looked down at his feet for a moment, then dared a glance at her. She was wide-eyed; her eyes did not leave his face. If I were an artist, I'd make a thousand paintings just of those eyes......
He looked back at her artwork. There were still some remnants, no matter how much he didn't want there to be, of a dark parking lot and a blue dress and her talking on his phone in the empty office. He had to take a moment to gather his courage. But he continued again,
"Just being around you makes me a better person, Pam. A better man." He hesitated. "Maybe you could find a way to paint that." He wished he were better with words, had all the right ones to say, but he continued anyway. It was important to finish this thought. "Because you're the only one who ever could."
The world shifted again, only this time it was full of colors and textures, lines and shapes-- she saw her art exploding behind her eyes, felt the materials under her fingers and the canvases under her hands as it flowed from her, and from him, and found life and form through her brush strokes.
It was the genesis of her artistry, of her real artwork.
She finally looked at him. Unbelievably, she was still standing, and he was looking down at her, waiting. Smiling, a little bit. "Yes...." she muttered. "I could paint that."
And she watched him as that answer satisfied him, as he smiled and turned back to her paintings. And she finally understood.
That little bit of something--a simple sentence, open to interpretation, has satisfied him.
Because that's all I have ever been able to give him, ever, though he means everything to me--
"Me too...."
"You have no idea....."
She closed her eyes. Courage. Honesty. Just like Gil and Oscar said.
She reached down to his forearm, bare with his sleeves rolled up, just like she liked them. She pulled his hand out of his pocket and set it in her own palm, tracing patterns along his fingers and the back of his hand with her fingertips. "I'd start with your hands," she began, "because they're beautiful. Maybe that's wrong to say about a man's hands, but they are." She covered his large hand with her own palm for a moment. "And they tell so much about you, did you know that?" She traced more patterns along them, as Jim closed his eyes and willed himself to stay silent and motionless, steady. But she didn't see it; she was still concentrating on those hands. "It's a start. Because I'd never be able to draw your face."
Courage. Honesty.
She looked up at him. It put her off, it made her hitch her breath, the way he was looking at her. But she continued; she would not be afraid, this time. "There are too many expressions on it. I know a lot of them, but I don't think I know them all....." Keep looking at him. Don't look away, don't look down. Courage. ".....yet."
"No," he finally answered, "....not yet. But you will."
Honesty.
Give him the words. All of them.
"I'm going to paint what I love, who I love..... what I know. Who I am." She swallowed, but did not falter, did not look away. "So I'm going to be looking at you quite a bit from now on, and I'm going to be painting us. Because I'm the only one who ever could."
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© 2006-2023 More Than That | Skin created by Kali