Arts Portfolio

After months of not being seen out and about in the southernmost city, I found my way down to happy hour at my neighborhood watering hole. Taking my seat on a stool beside my old friends Captain Finbar and Harry the Dutchman, bartender Angus cracked open a round cold ones and commented on my absence, “hey man, haven’t seen you around much lately! Got yourself a new woman?” Without answering, I took a long slow serious swallow of what was my first cold draft in ages. The Captain and the Dutchman just looked at each other, shrugged and shook their heads. The lovely Smithers, not a shy girl and also working behind the bar, reminded Angus, in her most braggadocios brogue, “That boy’s got no time for a new woman, he’s been living with his art!”

The bar went so quiet we could hear Finbar’s gold tooth fall from his agape mouth into his rum and coke. It was true! I knew it and so did most of the big dogs around the outdoor waterfront bar. I was shacked up and hell-bent for who knew what. Angus served up another round and as we all sat around drinking, talking and listening to Moose play the blues onstage, the sun sank into the sea. Soon enough, I was feeling my Mexican toilet water with lime, singing along, smiling and feeling, as always, at home. But in the back of my head, that little voice kept whispering, “you ought to get back”. I couldn’t refuse the urgent urgings, “you’ve been away too long”. I slammed back my last mouthful, quietly slid from my stool and skulked back down the boardwalk toward my studio.

We had started out as childhood friends, just noodleing away the time as children do. . .
Through two weeks with the mumps, countless sleepless nights after bedtime and through the mind numbing boredom of grammar school we were together. As teens we shared flirtatious summer afternoons alone at the Jersey shore, nervously experimenting an exploring the new post-pubescent feelings we had for each other. Then, as young adults, influenced by the demons and demands of the “real world” we drifted apart only to pass occasionally, like ships in the night, on our way to the material rewards of successful careers. But here and now, in later in life with our worldly revels ended, we’d found each other again and this time came our new commitment. The promise to stay together no matter what the cost.

Most often, our relationship was bliss and went along swimmingly and swell. But once in a while, there were those times that lasted longer than i liked, when we wouldn’t talk at all. (and it was always my fault). It was a high maintenance relationship, demanding so much attention that there was very little time for anything else.
Spending days, often weeks, sometimes months at a time together alone, we’d barely stop to eat or sleep. At one in our communion, we were co-conspirators, dreamers of new ideas, planners of our perfect future together. I was bewitched, entranced, a complete and submissive captive. There was nothing I wouldn’t do or sacrifice to hold on to the sacred, secret love we’d found.

One particular night, while we were alone for hours in the studio, I remembered that my wife had invited guests to the house for dinner. I recalled my promise to be home, but still I lingered. Basking in the glow of our creative reporté, I couldn’t tear myself away from our acrylic bliss. When finally, in the early morning hours of the next day, I stumbled in blind exhaustion up the dark staircase to our bedroom, my clothes stained with alizarin crimson, hookers green and cerulean blue, I found my bride awake and awaiting. “Where have you been?” she demanded to know; I knew I’d have to come clean but thought I might charm my way through. But my usual eloquence escaped me and “working late”, was my feeble reply. The poor woman broke into tears and cried through that afternoon, then packed her belongings, took the car and drove home to her mother in Jersey City.

It seemed a weight had been lifted from me. Now, finally, we were alone at last. There was nothing and no one to stop us. We carried on like reckless children in complete bliss. I was oblivious, obsessed. We were always together, “night and day, day and night” (as the song goes). Our new found freedom to be as one consumed weeks at a time, spent all my energy and cost most of my money. But I couldn’t get enough, there could never be enough. It was joy, blessed bliss in the intimate magic that danced between us in our own private expressionist universe.

And then, one day, it happened, the intrusion of the outside world that I’d always feared would come and yet, suppressed the beneath a blanket of fear and delusion in the back of my mind. The call for us to at last be seen together in public.
The invitation had come in the day’s first class mail. I knew what it was and refused to open it. I tried to hide it and ignore the invasion into our secret sanctuary. But, in the end, it was no good. We’d been found out, caught in the act. Denial was pointless, resistance was futile.

My mind ran wild, at last it had come, our inevitable public debut. I was thrilled and terrified at the same time.
. . .were we really ready? . . .how would we be received? The blanket of fear had been lifted, the questions, what ifs and doubts soared to new heights.
But, at the end of the day, the questions and doubts didn’t matter, the decision had been made by a higher power. It was out of my hands. Our show date was just weeks away and we were committed. There would be no turning back for us now.

We lived in the studio more intensely than ever before. No longer with our focus on each other for the sole simple joy of being together but driven by intention and purpose. We were swept up in a fever of preparation as collaborators, conspirators, partners in crime. We were deliberate and determined to have our day.
The time flew by, hours became days and the days became weeks. Miles of canvas, quarts of paint, gallons of coffee and an extra carton or two of cigarettes later, we could do no more.
Stepping back from our frenzy, our passions spent, all I could do was get a good night’s sleep and hope against hope that we were ready for tomorrow.

I took a deep breath of the air of excitement as I stood, fashionably late, at the doorway. The gallery was a buzz of small talk, laughter and light. There was a scent in the air, patchouli I thought and a soft jazz piano whispered behind the din. Dressed to the nines, I felt completely naked as the boatload of butterflies scrambled for safety in the pit of my stomach. I thought about turning away, retreating to the secluded security of the studio. But no, I would not abandon my love.
My little voice moved me forward. . . “embrace the experience”, it whispered “step into the light”.
I crossed the threshold.

As I made my entrance, it seemed that every eye had turned my way and a hush fell over the crowded room. It seemed to last forever and then some. I felt a change in the temperature and then slowly, so softly, the silence surrendered to a sea of smiles and applause I will never forget.
We were a hit.