Page 90 of Brushed and Buried
The art world elite study him with curious eyes. They know his face from commercials and sports coverage, but his presence here adds an intriguing dimension to the evening.
I watch him move through the collection piece by piece, his expression carefully neutral but his body language telling a different story. The guests around him seem to sense something significant happening, though they don’t understand what they’re witnessing.
He pauses atBackstage, and I catch the slight curve of his lips. It isn’t quite a smile, but recognition. The painting captures that desperate teenage moment behind the theater curtain, all fumbling hands and stolen breath, the exact second we both understood what wanting really felt like. A nearby couple studies the piece with fascination, seeing the raw emotion in every brushstroke but most likely missing the autobiography hidden in the composition.
AtUnseen, his breath catches almost imperceptibly. The painting shows a solitary figure half-emerged from shadow, caught in the act of revealing itself, or retreating back into darkness. The tension between visibility and concealment is unbearable, a person who has hidden so long they’ve forgotten how to step into the light, even as they desperately want to be found. The abstract forms somehow convey the specific ache of wanting to be seen for who they really are while terrified of what that exposure might cost.
Vince stands there longer than politeness requires, and I can see him working through the layers of meaning, understanding what those painted shadows really represent.
“Remarkable technique,” a critic murmurs to her companion as they examineBefore, which shows a younger version of myself in a dimly lit school hallway, sketchbook clutched against my chest, expression caught between hope and terror. “Look at how he captures vulnerability without sentimentality. This is why Callahan was considered such aprodigy before he disappeared. That raw emotional honesty is something you can’t teach.”
It’s when Vince reaches the centerpiece that everything changes.
The painting dominates the far wall, impossible to miss or ignore. It’s him, caught in that moment at Azure Tides when he posed for me with such complete trust and absolute surrender. Every line of his body is mapped with the intimacy of someone who has memorized him piece by piece, capturing the curve of his shoulder, the hollow of his throat, the way shadows pool in the valley of his spine. This is my ultimate work, the piece that demanded everything I had to give. It’s painted in the style that made me famous as a child, raw and electric portraiture that captures not just what someone looks like but who they are in their most unguarded moments.
Vince stops cold when he sees it. His carefully maintained composure cracks, and I watch ten years of careful control simply evaporate.
The painting is titledUndonebecause it captures the precise moment control unravels. The walls Vince built, the careful mask he wore, every piece of the golden boy the world thought they knew fell away under layers of rich oils. Deep umbers and warm siennas shadow the contours of his skin. The soft gold of lamplight brushes across his shoulders. Faint hints of crimson mark where the night air kissed him. Each stroke holds desire and memory, the kind of intimate knowledge that comes onlyfrom a few minutes spent together, one night watching him pose in quiet surrender, every curve and hollow mapped with patience and reverence.
He is undone not by weakness, but by love. Everyone who sees it understands immediately that this is not just artistic appreciation. This is love made visible, laid bare in pigments and shadow, in the way light and color trace the shape of a man completely known.
“That’s quite a portrait,” the woman with expensive jewelry says, approaching him with the confidence of someone accustomed to getting answers.
“He’s extremely talented,” Vince replies, but his voice is rougher now, stripped of its usual smooth professionalism.
“This isn’t just about talent.” She studies the painting with a critical eye that sees everything. “This is about love. You cannot fake this kind of intimacy. Whoever this man is, the artist knows him completely. Every shadow and line was captured. This is someone who has been studied by hands as much as eyes.”
The words land like physical blows. Something hardens in Vince’s face, but I catch it. I catch everything where he’s concerned.
She moves on, but the seed has been planted. The truth is written in oils for anyone with eyes to see, and suddenly Vince’s presence here takes on an entirely different meaning for everyone watching.
He turns and sees me, the distance between us feels electric, charged with everything these paintings say for us.
He moves closer, but maintains the careful distance of someone who knows they’re being watched. When he speaks, his voice is quiet, meant only for me, but his expression remains composed for the room.
“Adrian.” There’s something in the way he says my name that makes my throat constrict. His eyes move briefly to the walls around us before returning to mine. “Ten years.” The words are barely audible. “You carried all of this for ten years.”
He pauses, and I can see him fighting to keep his voice steady, to maintain the facade of casual conversation while something much deeper passes between us. “I don’t know how to thank you for that…for keeping us alive when I really couldn’t.”
The restraint in his posture, the way he’s holding himself back from reaching for me, makes the moment even more intense. I understand what he’s doing—that this is my night, my moment, and he won’t let his presence overshadow what I’ve accomplished. It’s not shame that keeps him at this careful distance. It’s love, one that puts my art first and refuses to turn my gallery opening into speculation about his personal life.
His eyes say everything his hands can’t express, all the gratitude, love, and vulnerability that comes from seeing yourself through someone else’s art.
“This is incredible work,” he says, louder now for anyone who might be listening. But the way he looks at me when hesays it tells me he’s not talking about technique or composition. He’s talking about love made visible.
The evening flows like good wine, conversations deepening as inhibitions ease. I find myself relaxing into the role of artist-in-residence, explaining techniques and inspiration to visitors who seem genuinely moved by the work.
But I’m always aware of where Vince is in the room, the way he draws attention without seeking it, the careful politeness with which he deflects questions about his presence here tonight.
As the crowd begins to thin, he makes his way to where I’m standing near a quieter corner of the gallery. The last few guests linger near the wine table, their voices a comfortable murmur in the background.
“Walk with me,” he says, voice low enough that it doesn’t carry.
We move to the far end of the gallery, where the lighting is softer and the conversations feel less like performances. He reaches into a small white paper bag I hadn’t noticed him carrying, pulling out something wrapped in tissue paper.
“I brought you something.”
I unwrap it carefully, my hands trembling as I reveal a jersey. It’s not just any jersey, but his, the deep blue and silver of the San Francisco Tritons,Hollowaystretched across the back in bold letters, and his number, seventeen. But when I examine it more closely, I find something that steals the breath from my lungs.
