Page 52 of Here We Go Again
As soon as she steps into the Expatriate Gallery, a gust of air-conditioning hits Rosemary like a very pleasant semitruck, making every bare inch of skin erupt in goose bumps. She gasps with pleasure at the rippling cool, and Logan turns to shoot her a look, her perpetually parted mouth extra parted.
“What?” she asks, self-consciously patting down the sweaty baby hairs along her forehead.
Logan stares at her face for a beat too long before she finally tears away her gaze. “Nothing.”
Then they’re all distracted by the fact that Odie has devoured an entire bowl of complimentary dog treats by the door. “Sorry,”Rosemary says to the gallerist who is glaring at the Pup-Peroni crumbs on Odie’s snout.
The Expatriate Gallery seems to specialize in collections featuring artists from around the country, with landscapes of everything from Shenandoah to the Alaskan wilderness. It’s a nice break from the inundation of local landscapes. Joe has stopped in front of a display labeled “The Gulf Coast,” his hands frozen on the wheels of his chair, his eyes burning holes into a collection of paintings featuring pelicans, bayous at sunset, magnolias in bloom.
“These are lovely,” Rosemary whispers as she comes to stand beside him. The paintings use color and texture in surprising ways, perspective often blurred, so you get the essence of a pelican instead of the actuality. There’s some indefinable quality to the paintings that remind her of a Mary Oliver poem: sparse but resonate, an ode to nature.
“This collection is by a former local artist,” the gallerist says in an accent that’s vaguely European and distinctly fake. She looks like a gallery owner sent down from central casting. Big sunglasses pushed up into her flowing gray hair, a gauzy brown dress that sweeps the floor, bangles on both arms, a too-strong weed smell.
“His name is Remy St. Patin.” She flourishes a bangled wrist toward the collection. “And these pieces are quite valuable.”
“He… I mean, the artist… isn’t local anymore?” Joe asks. His voice sounds distant even as his gaze is so firmly fixed on an impressionistic painting of two brown hands cupping the ocean as it escapes between the interlocking fingers.
The gallerist drops her gaze to Joe in the wheelchair, like she’s noticing him for the first time. “You look very familiar….” She studies Joe’s sweaty face. “Have we met before?”
Joe shakes his head. “Probably not. This is my first time in Santa Fe. The artist… you said he used to be local?”
“He lived in Santa Fe for about a decade before he moved back to the Gulf Coast to take care of his aging parents,” the gallerist explains. “He’s a Black Creole artist who grew up in Mississippi.”
Joe is still staring at the hands in that painting. “Joe…” Rosemary hedges. “Is this why you wanted to come to Santa Fe? Do you know this artist?”
Before Joe can answer, the gallerist snaps her fingers. “Yes! Of course! That’s who you are!” She doesn’t say another word but turns toward the register and beckons them to follow. They all do, a revived Odie leading the way. The owner disappears into the back and quickly emerges holding a frame wrapped in brown paper.
“St. Patin first emerged on the New York art scene in the early eighties, and we recently acquired a series of his early work. Mind you, they are nudes.”
The gallerist carefully peels back the paper, untapping the Bubble Wrap beneath, until the painting is free. Joe seems to know which painting it is before she holds it up, because he suddenly covers his own eyes.
There, on a swath of canvas inside a gaudy frame, is a painting of a naked young man sprawled inside a bathtub, head leaning back against the porcelain edge, while his eyes remain fixed on the artist, staring at whoever is bold enough to look upon his nakedness.
Rosemary wishes she wasn’t looking.
“Laura fucking Dern,” Logan gasps.
“St. Patin did a series of paintings on this subject over the course of fifteen years.” The gallerist points to the naked twentysomething in the painting. “Is this you?”
“Absolutely not!” Joe sputters.
But it absolutely is. There is something so distinctlyJoein those thick eyebrows and that tousled dark hair, Rosemary recognizes him instantly. The same single dimple in his left cheek, the same small birthmark just below his right ear. Broad shoulders and huge hands. He looks maybe twenty-five or so in the painting, his brown skin taut, his cheekbones high and proud, and his hair falling across his forehead in dark curls that look soft to the touch in the brush strokes.
Logan releases a low whistle. “Damn, Joe. You could fuckingget it! You look like a flamboyant Oscar Isaac. And that is one glorious cock!”
“Logan!” Rosemary screeches.SeeingJoe’s youthful penis is bad enough; they don’t need todiscussit. “Please do not talk about his penis!”
“Please don’t ever say the wordpenisagain!”
Rosemary positions her body in front of the painting to block everyone’s view. “Joe, did you know this painting of you existed?”
Joe looks like he might deny it’s him again before his shoulders slump forward. “I consented to the artwork if that’s what you mean. I knew these were out in the world somewhere.”
“Can I please take a picture of this painting?” Logan already has her phone in position.
“Don’t you dare!”
“Just one quick photo!” Logan begs.
