We took a taxi across the Lake Pontchartrain Bridge towards Covington – the largest bridge over water in the world. The city on the other side was sprawling and sparse, and I soon directed us back across to see the magnificently large lake again. It was easy to imagine that I was actually crossing an ocean, as the distant shorelines receded out of sight.
At my behest, Riley took me to see some of the museums in town as well. Although she was far more hesitant about that particular prospect, I insisted on it – and on her promising that we would visit galleries that held her art.
“Are you sure?” She asked tentatively as we stood outside a nondescript building, wedged tightly between the others. A modest sign jutted from the bricks – Valliere Museum of Art.
“Positive,” I smiled radiantly.
“Well… okay,” she conceded, taking a deep breath. “Come on in, then.”
I followed her up the steps and stepped through the doors. As soon as we were inside, the atmosphere instantly changed – the museum was contemporary, playing soft, upbeat chillstep as the otherwise dim rooms flowed with splashes of blue lighting.
“This is beautiful,” I commented warmly. “Are all American museums like this?”
“Like what?” She asked thoughtfully.
“So unassuming on the outside, but so magnificently full of life and culture on the inside,” I remarked in response. “I can’t say I remember the last time I’ve been in a museum, but I understand most of the ones back home to be rather… stuffy. Stuffy and drab.”
“That would make sense,” Riley replied. “England is much older, naturally. I imagine that the vast majority of the museums there have been historic, cultural staples for many, many decades… perhaps centuries, a lot of them. Things that old tend to be fairly resilient to change.”
“I would expect an institute such as a museum to adapt to the times, perhaps,” I retorted as we took in a room full of vases and ancient tools.
“You might think that, but there’s a certain prestige and elegance to the traditional method of representing things,” she told me. “Sometimes, the old ways are better.”
After thirty minutes of strolling from exhibit to exhibit, we finally came across a small room, filled with at least a dozen paintings. The styles clashed a bit, including artwork reflective more of older art styles, paired with contemporary landscapes, and several portraits of animals in various painting modes.
“Well, here we are,” Riley chuckled nervously.
“These are yours?” I asked, stepping forward to admire the work.
“They are.”
I glanced around the room, taking in the various pieces. Although there were a couple that seemed like rather… interesting choices, the vast majority of the paintings were crafted with such talent and care that it took my breath away.
“These are fantastic, Riley,” I whispered to her, trying to keep from gushing.
Of course, she had told me herself that she was a talented painter with artwork featured in various museums around the country, but a part of me reserved interest for actually seeing this with my own eyes.
My gaze fell upon a small sign near the doorway, featuring her headshot and a short biography.
It was unmistakably her.
Riley Ricketts.
“You… don’t need to read that,” she quickly tugged me away, her arm looped through mine. “Anyway, you’ve seen my art now. Satisfied?”
“The other museums, do they carry different paintings than these?”
“I sell them my originals,” she responded. “Some of them have taken it upon themselves to license reproductions, but yes, virtually all of the museums here in town that carry me have different selections of my work.”
“Can I see more?” I asked.
“You… really want to?” She seemed surprised, and I couldn’t imagine why.
“Of course I do, Riley,” I told her. “This part of your life is one you haven’t shared with me yet, and I want to see more of it… but only if you’re comfortable with the prospect.”
An approaching young man interrupted us. He was dressed immaculately with his hair tucked behind his ears, a pair of thick glasses over his eyes, and feminine charm in everything from his strut to his facial features.
“Oh, dear me, it’s really you, isn’t it?”
Riley stiffened up slightly, but put a mildly charmed smile on her face. “I assume so, yes.”
“Oh, Miss Ricketts, it’s an absolute pleasure to meet you,” he emphatically told us. “I’m a huge fan of your work. I don’t want to bother you for too long… but could you take a selfie with me?”
She blinked a few times, then laughed.
“You… want to take a picture.”
“Of course! If that’s not too much trouble, that is. My friends and I, we’ve followed your skill for some time. My older brother bought one of your paintings a decade ago, long before all this!”
He nervously chuckled, throwing his arms up to indicate the room. “Not that, I mean, you completely deserve the recognition, I wasn’t saying–”
“Your brother,” Riley commented, putting his star-struck stammer to a stop. “Who is he?”
“Jackson Wilcox,” he replied with a wide smile. “I think he said you two went to school together a long time ago–”
“Jax? I remember Jax!”
Riley beamed with pleasure. “I think I remember you, too. I recall a younger Wilcox, the one time I was over at his house.. a little rambunctious thing in a Cookie Monster onesie, watching cartoons the entire time. Was that you?”
“Guilty as charged. I used to love that thing.”
Riley chuckled, moving into position next to him. “Alright, then. One selfie. Let’s do it.”
He smiled like a goofball, then whipped out his phone and flicked to the camera app. Holding it outstretched in front of them on portrait mode, he threw up a thumbs up with his free hand as she slipped her arm around him and summoned up a smile.
I was used to this treatment, but I hadn’t realized that she was this popular here. Sure, it wasn’t quite the levels of a World Cup football star… but there was an incredible validation in a stranger off the street, recognizing your skills, and wanting to freeze forever in time the moment that they bumped into you.
My willingness to pose with fans had really worked in my favour, although I’d always been fine with it. It was less an ego thing, and much more a flattery thing.
Well… maybe it was an ego thing anyway.
After it was done, they examined the picture together. “Not too bad,” she observed. “Anyway, I’m about to get going, but it’s nice to bump into you after all this time. Tell Jax I said ‘Hi’ the next time you see him… and that I’m still the better arm wrestler.”
“Will do!” He grinned, before looking from her to me, and then back to her again. “Listen, Riley… if you’re not doing anything tonight…”
“I’m busy,” she robotically answered, “but flattered.”
“Right,” he quickly chuckled through the rejection, suddenly aware that I wasn’t alone. “Right… well… it was great to see you again. You take care now, alright?”
“Will do,” she nodded. “You too.”
We took our leave of
the museum. “That’s the chirpiest I think I’ve seen you yet,” I commented to her.
“Yeah, that was exhausting,” she confided. “It’s rare that I bump into a fan, but it usually drains me to keep up the cheeriness for more than a couple of seconds.”
“Is that so?” I asked.
“Definitely. I don’t have the energy for that. It’s a part of the reason why I keep to myself… the longer I’m on the streets, the more that people recognize me.”