Epilogue

Plain white walls stretch a small eternity on either side of me, the albedo almost blinding in the noon sunlight, light bouncing from the floor; sleek modern and with no skirting to meet the walls at anything except a harsh right angle. Everything was sharp and sleek, modest and modern. Except the art.

Sculptures on cuboid plinths and pictures in minimalistic frames hung flush to the walls; abstract next to hyper-realism, impressionism next to technically perfect portraits. It was a little overwhelming, a wash of colour and emotion filled every sense, the smell of dried paint and treated canvases, the sweet taste of dust in the air, the sound of gentle whispering in a language I barely understood.

A similarly smooth, white desk sits at the front of the gallery, a woman with tan skin and lightly curled hair waves me over.

“Vuole un volantino?”

“Ah, Si…Grazie.”

“Ah, English,” I try not to wilt at the obviousness of my poor language skills, I am still an amateur still after all, “Enjoy the gallery, signore.”

I try to steel myself in the knowledge she at least thought I might understand Italian. Two years of dutiful studying has given me the swiftness and efficiency in conversation of a 4 year old which makes me twice as good as an Italian child.

I walk around the edge slowly, my gaze as forwards as I can keep it, although it darts around in between those moments with a nervous embarrassment; I know what I’m looking for, I just feel I shouldn’t be so…desperate about it. I give each piece of art the correct amount of attention before moving on, pace steady, reserved, deliberate.

The plaques are in Italian so I read the few words I understand and feel a little more proud about it than I probably should. It is enough for me to seem from the outside that I am a concierge of the finer things. And I would say I am, just not these things.

Finally I stand before the thing I came to see; 72 by 72 inches (according to the part of the plaque I can read) with an elegant use of negative space to emphasise the larger than life model; legs cut off on the bottom and right edges and arm cut off on the left side, framing a man reclining on a stony sea wall. Everything is bathed in a warm sunset that’s clearly in front of the artist, only a tinge of that warmth coming through in the sky behind him. His hair is almost ginger in the direct sunlight which highlights every feature of his handsome face.

The overall style is realistic but there is a looseness in the background that feels almost like bokeh than boredom, the wisps of hair blowing in the breeze becoming formless ideas of colour than strands. But it's his expression that is the most enticing part; a soft smile; knowing but boyish, it’s hard to tell what he’s looking at, maybe a boat on the ocean, or maybe the small purple notebook open in his hand just beneath his eyeline, but whatever it is delights him in a reserved way.

“Do you like the piece?”

“I’m not sure, pretty narcissistic to submit a self portrait to a gallery as a debut piece.” I keep my gaze forward, the painting filling even my peripheral vision.

“Yeah, well my favourite model wasn’t available.”

“Unfortunate…” I trail off, if I turn what will I see? Will I like it? Will it be the same thing as before or is change good? New? Exciting? Terrifying?

I turn and look him straight in the eyes; as beautiful as the painting behind me; more tan than I last saw, hair longer and maybe a little wavy at its new length. His face is the same, just as beautiful, just as warm enough to melt my heart completely.

“A shame, if you’re free would you like to try your hand at modelling for me?” Michael can’t hide his grin as he looks me over with an equal and obvious disbelief.

“I’m not sure I’d be good at it, I’m just a humble archivist.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll do all the hard work. You can just sit there and look pretty. Are you free today?”

“I’m always free on Wednesdays.”