Page 39 of The Top of Admiration
She put her arm out, offering it to me. “Would you like me to show you through the collection?” she asked sweetly. “I would love that. Do I need a helmet?”
She laughed, just as sweetly, and shook her head. “No, like I said, responsible event manager.”
We made our way to the first curtain, which Leticia drew open with dramatic flair, bowing as it drew back. “This is entitledFowl Siblings. It represents the love between siblings and the superiority of younger sisters,” she announced. I was faced with Lucy, who had somehow made it into the building, perhaps through the back door, and was now standing in front of a portrait. “This is us big bro,” she said cheekily, standing back so I could appreciate the painting. It was Miranda’s usual soft style, and depicted Lucy and I fighting over a turkey, as we had as teens. Lucy must have given her the complete version because we were even in the right outfit. The reproduction of our livingroom was perfect, prompting me to ask how she nailed the details so well.
“I rang your mom, and she sent me a photo of how the living room was back then.” She shrugged as though it was no big deal that she’d called my mother, spent hours producing an artistic rendition of one of my most humorous childhood memories, and created a whole exhibition to present it to me.
Suddenly, I didn’t care that Theo and Leah were only a curtain away, or that Leticia and Lucy were standing there. I leaned down and kissed her on the lips. It was short, but soft. “Thank you,” I whispered.
“No, thank you,” she replied, her face reddening slightly. “I’d love to tell you that this picture is yours, but your mom has claimed it,” she said apologetically. I took out my phone and snapped a pic. “I’ve got one now,” I reassured her.
“Moving on,” Leticia interjected gracefully, ushering us to the next curtained area.
As with the previous exhibit, Leticia drew the curtains open dramatically, revealing Damon dressed in his work gear, complete with tool belt. He stepped aside, motioning to the plaster sculpture beside him. I laughed and then I laughed some more. The piece was quite large, about half of my height, and sat atop a pedestal.
“This is calledCollateral Affection, by our in-house artist Miranda Bard,” Leticia stated. The sculpture depicted a man falling from a broken porch. She’d recreated the front porch perfectly, and had put amazing detail into my face.
“Collateral Affectioncaptures the uneasy harmony between affection and accountability. In this sculpture, the artist reimagines a moment of literal and emotional collapse, a man mid-fall, his balance lost not only to gravity but to misplacedtrust. Miranda Bard’s use of uneven supports mirrors the imperfect structure of human relationships: strong enough to stand, until they aren’t. The piece is both apology and confession, a playful, self-aware nod to the chaos she brings to love and to life.”
I couldn’t stop laughing, but at the same time, was proud of her amazing work. While she’d done it to thank me and be humorous, she was obviously a gifted artist.
“This work comes with a promise from renovation artist Damon Bentley to repair your front porch without the use of glitter glue,” Leticia managed to grit out with a straight face. Damon grinned at me and lifted his eyebrows several times.
“I love this. This is the best thank-you ever,” I assured Miranda, bending down to kiss her again. “You gave me the best gift ever, and you did it without wanting anything in return,” she whispered. “You want something in return?” I asked in hushed tones, winking at her suggestively. “I mean, I’m in. I just want to clarify.” She blushed.
I wanted to bask in this moment with Miranda, but knowing there were two more curtained areas, I was equally excited to see what else she had in store. Leticia, keen to move the showing along, again motioned for us to follow her. The third set of curtains were drawn back as dramatically as the first two had been.
“This is a special piece, though the artist claims it was one of her favorites to create. It’s entitledHowie’s Regret: Triptych of Minor Retributions.”
Cordelia stood proudly in front of a wide, landscape-oriented painting comprised of three panels. The first featured an excellent reproduction of Howie, the jerk who had punched me. He was standing in front of a car covered in bird shit. Thesecond panel featured him sitting on his front lawn, which was mysteriously white, head in hands. The final panel was an actual reproduction of a flyer pinned to a street post. It had “Free Cleaning by Howie. Please call between midnight and 6 a.m. because I work nights.” Knowing Miranda, I had to assume the number on the flyer was his actual number.
Leticia cleared her throat, ready to offer her critique.
“Miranda Bard’sHowie’s Regrettransforms the low art of petty revenge into an almost spiritual study of cause and consequence. Comprising three panels, the work explores the tension between justice and immaturity with the deadpan wit of someone who knows she’s crossed a line—and enjoyed it. The first panel,Seed of Consequence, is deceptively bucolic. A gleaming sedan beneath a soft drizzle of sunflower seeds. The viewer soon realizes that what begins as nourishment becomes punishment, the car of the offender buried under a Jackson Pollock of bird droppings. Bard captures the absurd symmetry of karma: small acts, messy outcomes.”
Cordy smiled proudly. “I did that one,” she said shyly. Leticia regarded her with a haughty look and continued her commentary.
“In the second panel,Rain on Potato Grass, the aftermath of revenge takes root … literally. The man sits at the edge of his ruined lawn, hands clutching his head, surrounded by a gelatinous sea of instant mashed potatoes. It’s both grotesque and hilarious, with the color palette oscillating between suburban despair and comfort-food nostalgia.”
Cordy smiled again but motioned to Miranda, who was obviously the mastermind of that act. She’d actually scattered instant mash across this man’s lawn and made good use of the constant rain. Leticia pushed ahead.
“The final panel,Midnight Cleaning Special, reveals the full absurdity of vengeance in the digital age: the man’s phone, glowing in the dark, flooded with calls from strangers responding to an ad for his ‘free house-cleaning service.’ Here, Bard’s brushstrokes are chaotic, phone cords twisting like snakes—an ode to chaos made modern. Together, the panels suggest that revenge is its own ecosystem: part comedy, part catastrophe. Bard neither condones nor condemns her acts—she documents them. In doing so, she turns humiliation into humor and guilt into art, proving that sometimes justice doesn’t need to be poetic to be satisfying, and that—”
Leticia paused and put her hand gracefully to her head. Though exasperated, she regained her poise. “And that the subject shouldn’t have … messed with one of her people.” She ground out the last words, seemingly annoyed at the sharp turnaround in her sophisticated critique.
Her people. The two most magical words in the world. I was now Miranda’s people.
“See? I can pull off pranks!” Cordy insisted, rocking back and forth on her heels. This was seriously the greatest gift anyone had ever given me. I would hang Howie’s Regret on my wall proudly. I grabbed Miranda’s hand and squeezed it gently. One more piece in the exhibit. Every gallery staff member, aka all of Miranda’s family and my sister, appeared outside the last curtain. My heart pounded in anticipation.
Chapter 33: Miranda — The lives of trees
And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.
William Shakespeare, As You Like It
The last curtain was still closed, and I was so nervous. My first three pieces had an edge of humor and were a gesture of gratitude and apology. The last was … Well, the last was a gesture of hope and despite debating its place in this exhibition in my head for days, I’d opted to put it in, desperately hoping I wasn’t overstepping or embarrassing myself. If this went badly, it would definitely make it to the top three most humiliating moments of my life. Public rejection. That was kind of a new one.
Leticia smiled in an uncharacteristically excited and inelegant way. This piece had thrilled her, even more than the original had.
