“Wow, it’s up. With everything else, I almost forgot about this,” she whispered, moving to the curb and gazing up at herself in the windows. “Can you believe that? I spent a year working on this, and because of a guy, I almost forgot.”
“I’ll be sure to check it out when it opens next week.”
She turned to me. “Don’t be nice, it’s weird. It’s all right, I know this isn’t your thing.”
“No, I want to know what my mother is spending her money on, and if it’s good enough to be in my hospital.”
Her eyebrow twitched.
“What? You told me not to be nice.”
“Why don’t you see it now? Unless you have someone else’s ego to go trample on.”
“I can’t go back to work until tomorrow, so lead the way.” I stepped out onto the street. In all honesty, I wanted to understand why my mother felt so attached to Guinevere's work. Even after finding out who Guinevere really was, she still couldn't stop raving about her art.
That was the only reason I was going.
Guinevere
Even though I knew he knew nothing about art, I was still nervous. I was always nervous when people viewed my work. My art wasn’t just for me, but a part of me. Every time I had it on display, I felt like a spotlight was on my soul for everyone to see. If they disliked it, in a way, it was like they disliked me, too.
“Welcome, Lady Guinevere. I was not expecting you.” Mr. D’Amour met us at the entrance. He was a short, tan-skinned old man from Le Mans, France, with a hunched back and wrinkles as deep as the Grand Canyon. In his hand was an old wooden cane. He owned the gallery, along with a few others around the world. He had been one of my very first supporters.
He was like a mentor to me, and the only other person who refused to call me Gwen. Hugging him, I said, “I just stopped by to show this place to a critic of mine.”
“A critic?” he repeated when I let go.
I moved aside so he could see Eli, who stood with hands behind his back, gazing up at the changing photos on the ceiling of people from all races and walks of life weaving, giving peace signs, or thumbs up.
“Ah,” he groaned when I elbowed him in the ribs to get his attention.
“Eli, Mr. D’Amour. Mr. D’Amour, Eli Davenport.”
“Only a man with a defective heart would be a critic of Lady Guinevere’s art,” Mr. D’Amour boasted for me.
I nodded in agreement.
Eli’s blue-green eyes seemed to shine as a smirk graced his lips. “Lady Guinevere? You two seem quite close, sir. Are you sure you aren
’t just a tad bit biased?”
“Let’s see if you still feel that way once you go through it all,” Mr. D’Amour countered as an employee came up to get his attention. “Please feel free to take as long as you like. Keep in mind, they are still putting some pieces up.”
“Thank you!” I waved to him as he walked off.
“You have some very passionate fans. Are you sure someone won't stone me if I don’t like something?” He had already started walking.
“Just don’t dislike anything, then.”
“That’s a tall order. Well then, Lady Guinevere,” he mocked. “Please enlighten me as to what I have apparently been blind to.”
Rolling my eyes, I started at the beginning of the gallery. It was the largest space my work had been in to date. The ceilings were low and arched, which worked great for the photos projected on them. All the lights were dimmed slightly, except for the ones on my paintings. The floor was pure black, and so sleek I could see my reflection. Before patrons reached the first piece, they were offered wireless headphones to use as they walked around.
“Hmm…” He took a step back, stroking his chin when we reached my first painting.
I grabbed one of the headsets and placed it over his ears. “Stop trying to understand it and just see it…silently, if you can.” Jeez, he is a pain in my ass.
Eli