Page 2 of Hard Rock Deceit
He nodded once, not turning to look at me. Staring at the photograph on the wall, his eyes were unfocused, as if looking through it, not at it. He wore black skinny jeans and a white shirt. Put a stereotypical French beret on him and he would have looked like a caricature of the stereotypicalartiste.
I was at a loss, not knowing what else to say. I didn't want to tell him it was mine. It always felt odd asking a stranger what they felt about my art when I was right there in front of them. How could I trust I'd get an honest opinion? Even if they didn't like it, most people would lie to spare myfeelings.
And then the conversation usually turned towards questions about myinspirations,and mythought process,and themeaningbehindmywork.
I never understood why everyone always cared so much about those things. The art should speak foritself.
The silence between me and the strange man turnedawkward.
"Why do you like it?" Iasked.
"It'srousing."
Rousing?The black and white cityscape at night certainly wasn't dull, butrousing?
"Why do you think that?" I hadtoknow.
"Do you want me to give a full art critique?" he asked. "I'd be more thanhappyto."
I almost said yes. I wanted to know what this man thought of my art. Something held me back. I had a feeling if I said yes, this man would tell me far more than I cared to know. Aboutmyart.
Aboutmyself.
"Do you like it?" heasked.
"Of course." I wouldn't have submitted it to my advisor if I didn'tlikeit.
"Why do you like it?" he parroted mywords.
Whydid I like it? I didn't know how to articulate it in words. I didn't like that photo any more or any less than the other dozen pieces I'd submitted. My advisor chose which to display in the exhibit. Yes, there had been something about it that made me choose it from among hundreds of others, but… the words to explain why justwouldn'tcome.
Turning my focus to the photograph on the wall, I tried to look at it with new eyes. The contrast between dark corners of shadowy alleys and fuzzy, bright streetlights; the soft streaks of nighttime fog interrupted by clean, jutting lines of skyscrapers. I struggled to put my thoughts into words, although why I even wanted to tell this man anything wasbeyondme.
"I don't think it's rousing,really."
"No?" His eyes were still slightly glazed as he looked at thephoto.
I hesitated beforespeaking.
"There's a stirring feeling to the image, yes. The electricity of a bustling city at night. But it's not hurried or rushed. The buildings look like they're being embraced by the fog. The streetlights are chasing away the darkcorners."
"Maybe I'm wrong," he conceded. "Rousing might not be thebestword."
"What else would youcallit?"
He pinned me down with a stare. "Passionate."
I stared back wordlessly. That was a concept no one ever applied to my art, or myself. I'd been told the opposite. My art was stark. Bleak. Often harsh andcutting.
How did this man see something so different fromeveryoneelse?
Blue eyes gazed into mine. All fuzziness was gone, replaced by something sharp and knowing. I couldn'tlookaway.
"The photo is full of passion. Full of desire." He gestured to the rest of my photos hanging on the gallery wall. "All these photos arelikethat."
Those words made myheadspin.
Passion.
