Page 15 of One Year Ago in Spain
“Your paintings remind me ofHighlightsmagazine,” another of the women said.
“I’m sorry,” Matías said. “I am not familiar withHighlights?”
“Oh, right, of course!” she said. “You probably don’t have that in Spain. It’s a darling magazine for children. Every issue comes with a hidden pictures game, which looks like an ordinary illustration, but then there are always wacky, unexpected drawings in them. Like, it’ll be a scene of two children playing a video game in front of a television, but when you look closer, you’ll discover there’s the outline of a spatula sketched into the girl’s hair, or that the curl of electrical cords on the carpet is in the shape of an octopus. It was one of my favorite things about the magazine when I was a kid!”
“That sounds…enchanting,” Matías said, his smile a little more forced now.
“Just like you are,” yet another of the women said. “I bet everyone in this room would love to take you home after this party.”
Matías laughed politely. “Well, unfortunately for them, the only things in this gallery going home with anyone are my paintings.”
They giggled, but at least it started them chattering about how they’d rank the pieces.
Which was not a discussion Matías wanted to stay for, because no artist wanted to hear how his work was graded on a curve. He put everything he had into each painting, and they were all different. Patrons were welcome to have their opinions, of course; Matías just didn’t need to hear them.
Thankfully, Jason was waving at him from near the front door.
“It was wonderful to chat with you all,” Matías said to the circle of women, “but the owner is summoning me, so I’m afraid I must take my leave. I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.”
Matías wove his way through the crowd, which was thicker in this part of the gallery because it was near the bar and the band. The majority of the guests had already walked through the aisles looking at his paintings and were now just enjoying the free drinks.
A short distance in front of Matías, a young man shouted over the flamenco music to his companion, another blond man in his late twenties. “The gallery’s choice of artist is a surprise. Classical realism is so outmoded.”
“Maybe the owner is trying to be daring,” the second man said.
“Or stupid,” the first replied. “Nobody is going to buy this antiquated shit. Abstract art is so much more elevated.”
The second man caught sight of Matías and froze. Then he said, as if still in conversation, “Oh, you’re so funny when you’re sarcastic, honey. Um, why don’t we go get some more booze?” He whispered something hastily to his partner, then they fled to the bar.
Matías simply shrugged. He was more than familiar with the uphill battle of painting in a classical style, even if he did add an imaginative element to it. What they’d been saying wasn’t wrong, exactly; global tastes did lean toward the contemporary. But as his mom, Soledad, always told him, “That’s how you stand out, Mati. Because you’re different from the rest.”
His art wasn’t for everyone. Matías just needed to find the kind of person who appreciated it, who understood what he was trying to say.
The musicians finished their song, and as the audience clapped, the crowd parted.
There, in front of him, stood Jason, along with a woman in a white blouse and beige pencil skirt. Her brown hair was neatly pulled back into a bun, just a few loose tendrils curling to frame her face like satin ribbon. She looked more like she belonged in the hallowed halls of a university library than in the middle of an extravagant gallery opening.
She stood out because she was different from the rest.
“Matías de León,” Jason said, “I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Claire Walker.”
“Un placer. A pleasure,” Matías said, bowing a little as he reached for her hand.
Claire’s mouth parted, but no words came out.
Yolanda, Jason’s wife, appeared out of the crowd with two drinks. But when she saw Claire standing there—and snuck a quick, assessing look at Matías, which he did not miss—she winked at Jason and said, “Why doesn’t Matías give Claire a personal tour of some of his paintings in the back of the gallery? You know, since she arrived late and missed the introductory speech?”
“What a fantastic idea,” Jason said. Smoothly, he steered Claire and Matías through the throng of guests and deposited them near the path that would take them deeper into the gallery. But before Jason left, he leaned into Matías and said, “Sorry about this. Just humor my wife. This is her best friend.” And then he and Yolanda disappeared back into the crowd.
Claire laughed under her breath in a way she probably thought Matías couldn’t hear. But even if he hadn’t, he would’ve known she was nervous just by the way she subtly worried herlower lip—her teeth tugging, but barely, on the inside of that full, pink mouth—and the slight flush at the base of her throat, right where a simple pearl pendant rested. She was the opposite of the women from earlier, who’d wanted to take him home with them and devour him.
“I am so glad you could come tonight,” Matías said as they made their way deeper into the Rose Gallery. He didn’t, of course, know anything about her other than that she was Yolanda’s friend, and what he could read from her body language, but hedidknow that he didn’t want Claire to be nervous.
“You are? Why?” she blurted.
“I was worried no one would attend my gallery opening,” Matías said honestly. He didn’t like men who put out a facade of bravado; Matías preferred to lead with his heart, in both his art and his life. “But Jason has done a wonderful job with it. Are you having a nice evening?”
“Not until now.”
