Gabriel Bautista (xochipilli) wrote in paxletalelogs, @ 2017-05-08 14:57:00 |
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Entry tags: | loki, xochipilli |
ca ca picasso baby, ca ca picasso baby
Who: Nish and Gabe
What: Neighbours meet to take in an art exhibit before it closes.
Where: Los Angeles County Museum of Art
When: Backdated to the evening of May 2, 2017
Nish had ordered dinner in at her office so she could eat while working on her new client’s Defence. It didn’t make sense to go home and then head back downtown again to meet Gabe, so she ended up working late instead, absently taking bites of pizza between typing until her phone chimed to let her know it was time to leave.
She arrived at the gallery on time, coffee from a nearby Starbucks in hand, though Gabe was nowhere to be found. She checked her watch a few times, glancing at the building behind her and around the immediate area as if she could spot him coming and then finally heading just inside the building to where a small crowd was waiting to go in to see the exhibits.
He did finally show, ten minutes late, floating in on an air of apologies.
"Nish!" Gabe waved, though she'd already noticed him even before he did. "Sorry," he said, sidling up to her through the crowd. It wasn't wall to wall bodies, but there was a decent turnout for the event. "Got caught up in some discussions with my editor, and, well, it went about as well as it always does," he explained quickly, a smile tugging at his mouth. Glancing away from her, he peered out through at the exhibit from beneath his spectacles. "Have you had a chance to look around much yet?"
Nish shook her head, “no, I think I would get lost in there,” she said with a slight smile. She drained the last of her coffee and then threw it in a nearby garbage before they entered the exhibit. “I need you to explain all this, after all,” she added, attempting a joke that fell flat.
’gods, Nish, it's been two weeks, snap out of it,’ Loki scolded.
’I'm still not speaking to you,’ she shot back. There was a chuckle, and a sense of an eye roll.
Gabe shook his head, then nodded to the nearest painting. "It's not about explanations, it's about feelings," he retorted gently, motioning to the rectangular piece of artwork as they neared it. It looked like a man cut into squares, sitting at a table with a plate of fish, a cup of either coffee or milk in his hand. "I'd say we could make a game of this one and guess who did it, Picasso or Rivera, but I think it might be easy enough to figure out after awhile. Did you do any art classes in school? Otherwise I can give you a rundown of the art style these two are working with." Despite his respectfully quiet tone while within the art gallery, Gabe's exuberance and excitement to be amid the artwork was clear in his voice and his posture. Lights from above left a cheery glow on his glasses, which faded as he turned to look back at Nish. "Does Cubism ring a bell?"
Nish shook her head and frowned at the painting in front of them, trying in vain to make sense of it. “I took one class in high school,” she said with a shrug, “but it was just a basic art class to get the credit; I never took any of the more advanced classes,” she said with a sheepish grin. Her eyes were drawn back to the painting in front of them and she considered it. “I guess I tend more towards...less abstract work,” she admitted. “I always had trouble understanding what I was supposed to see in these,” she gestured towards the painting in front of her. “I guess that’s where you come in,” she said as another attempt at humour.
Gabe shrugged in response, flippantly waving a hand. "An art docent would be better, but I guess you'll have to make due, huh?" He grinned, but seemingly rose to the challenge regardless.
"OK, so cubism, it's basically what it looks like: squares, cubes. Very big in Paris in the '20s, very influential in artwork ever since. The idea is to break up the original concept, and analyze it from a different perspective. Not so hard, right? So, what're we looking at here?" He gestured back to the painting, from which one could easily discern a man at a meal, but beyond that, it could be anyone's guess. "You can kind of see waves in his body, and his hat is evocative of a Navy sailor's. We know he's French because of 'patrie' on his cap; it's French for 'homeland.'
"Most think Rivera did this as a sort of homage to Picasso's 'Student with Newspaper,' which..." He paused, glancing around the gallery to quickly appraise its contents. "Yeah I didn't think they'd have it here, but that's not surprising. Still, it's definitely an interesting way to come at the simple idea of someone sitting down to eat lunch, especially right before WWI. Now that I did not know off the top of my head, it's on the placard right there..." He pointed to the square of black next to the painting. "But now that you know more about it, what do you think?"
Nish listened patiently, but she felt waves of boredom that she was positive originated with Loki. She grit her teeth and forced herself to concentrate on what Gabe was saying, trying to grab onto some of his obvious enthusiasm for the art form, but feeling her own attention starting to wander. “So…” she said, glancing down at the placard he was pointing to, “it’s a 1920s selfie of a French sailor having lunch?” she said with an amused grin. Now she knew why she never bothered to take other art classes.
She suddenly felt a twinge of remorse and looked away, biting her lip to try and push away the instinct to fall back on sarcasm when immediate understanding eluded her. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be disrespectful,” she said, frowning. “I’m just...you know so much about this and I...just see a bunch of cubes and some fish,” she said with a shrug, somewhat embarrassed at her lack of ‘culture’ and frustrated that she wasn’t ‘getting’ these paintings right away.
Despite her less than enthusiastic response, he grinned. "I don't think selfie would be the right word, but yeah, people have been taking pictures of themselves and their friends for years. Just, all of a sudden, now it's narcissistic to post a picture of what you had for dinner. Then again, there's a world of difference between spending hours laboring over a painting and the momentary click of a button," he replied, skirting them away from the painting and further into the exhibit.
"How about you pick the next one? Do any of these 'speak' to you?" They moved in sync at a slow pace, moving down the hall past numerous squares of similar paintings, though not all were in an abstract style. Gabe let his hands hang by his sides, waiting to see if anything caught his companion's fancy.
Nish favoured him with a little embarrassed smile but was somewhat grateful when they moved on. There were several paintings in a row that were primarily blue in colour that seemed to draw her too them. She moved towards them, her attention first caught by the image of a man playing a guitar with a look of pain and despair in his face, but then another image next to it stole her attention, and she stood staring at it. It was of a woman, but with two faces. The longer she looked at it, the more the division was apparent, and yet the faces would come together to make a whole. And both of them looked sad.
’Look, it’s you,’ Loki remarked, though she was too enraptured by the image to chastise him.
“I like this one,” she said instead, though she kept casting glances over to the man and his guitar, whose expression and posture reminded her somewhat of her most frequent nightmares.
Gabe fell into step beside her, one arm tucking around his middle while the other cupped his chin with a free hand in the quintessential look of consideration. He nodded.
"It's a good one; Picasso's 'Head of a Woman.'" He stopped himself there, glancing to Nish, and catching her glances at the other painting. He didn't question that, though, instead curious about her attention on the latter piece.
"What do you like about it?"
She sighed and let her eyes roam over the image, taking in the little details of it, crossing her arms as if protecting herself from being too exposed by what she saw. “It’s...like she’s two people,” she said, thinking out loud. There was a feeling in the back of her mind that she shouldn’t be saying these things to him, that she barely knew him, but there was another feeling that told her she could trust him. Something about him made her comfortable sharing this with him. “It’s one face...but two people inside that have to live together. I don’t think they always agree...see, one side is bigger than the other,” she pointed to the right of the painting with one finger, then wrapped her hand around her upper arm again. “One side is more powerful, but…”
’Is that side me or you?’ Loki asked, his voice suddenly devoid of humour, instead thoughtful and quiet. She grit her teeth.
“She’s trying to keep control of her sanity,” she stated, as if that was the only explanation. “Her rational self, constantly warring with the irrational inner self.” There was a beat, and then a sudden awareness that she’d said too much, that her words had revealed far more about herself than Picasso’s muse. A flicker of fear twisted her stomach and she glanced over at him, as if trying to gauge whether or not he now knew too much.
But Gabe hadn't been watching her during her explanation; instead, he'd kept his gaze on the painting, clearly trying to see the same.
"I like it," he said, once he realized she was done. "Very id and ego, a Freudian look. A glance inside the everyday mind, huh?" Gabe looked back to her, nodding. "So what about that one, then? You keep looking at it like it's drawing your interest." He gestured softly at The Old Guitarist, then gently arched a brow at Nish. "Or is it just distracting?"
She met his eyes and smiled at his assessment of the painting, grateful that he didn’t seem to really get just how much it had bothered her. Looking at that woman, it was like seeing herself, her inner struggles blown up on canvas and hung out for the whole world to see. It made her feel naked, in a way. But there was comfort in his reply, his assessment that it applied to everyone. She let out a little private sigh of relief when he moved on to the next painting.
This one was easier, and yet no more revealing of her. “It’s just...it looks sort of like part of a dream I’ve been having…” she said, shifting a little so they stood in front of that one instead. “I’ve been trying to paint it, but I can’t get the face right,” she said with a little smile, “so I’ve just been avoiding painting his face.”
’Doesn’t really matter, does it?’ Loki asked, ’I’ve had so many faces, after all. That’s probably why you can’t see it clearly.’ She considered that for a moment, and then turned back to Gabe.
“I’m not really that good at any of it, but faces are hard...especially when they’re cloudy even in the dream.”
Gabe motioned back to the former painting. "Are you talking technically speaking, or they just don't...look right, compared to what you remember from the dream? Because doing things 'correctly' in art is subjective at best. Maybe try a few different styles, see where it takes you?" He glanced back at the guitarist painting; rather than just old, the man looked tired, sad. Worn down day by day by life overall.
"Though, you know, avoiding the face can be a powerful statement in itself. It could mean that the man is nothing, or everything. It all depends on what the viewer makes of the piece. Take the one that stuck out to you," he continued, motioning again to 'Head of a Woman.' "We don't know that Picasso even meant to give her two faces. It could just be how he perceived the shifting artwork, how he gave it a new visual. It could be two warring personalities inside, or it could also simply be all the various ways you can look at one person, melded into a single view. No one is as simple as a first glance; everyone has hidden depths that make up a whole, but we only ever truly see what's presented to us, what others want us to make of it.
"We can try to make as much sense of it as we like, but we're still only ever scratching at the surface, because our own desires and wants and needs cloud our vision. We think we have a decent grasp on the world, but in a way, we're all struggling for a grip on what we call sanity." He glanced at Nish, shrugging. He grinned. "Or, you know, we're reading too much into it and it's just a face."
Nish had been listening intently to what Gabe was saying, considering each painting in turn as he spoke about them, nodding in agreement at his observations. It felt comfortable, natural to her to be here, listening to him, speaking as if they were friends even though they barely knew each other. His voice, she decided, seemed to have some power in it, like hers did. But where she used hers to manipulate, he seemed to be able to soothe, to comfort. The longer she was with him, the further away her own hurts seemed to her. The pain of losing Rafe, the uncomfortable and awkward state of her and Chris’s friendship, her own depression and internal struggles, all seemed dull and muted when she was with Gabe.
She smiled at his last comment, and it was a real smile, probably the first one since Rafe had left her alone in her apartment two weeks ago. “Could be,” she said, “‘Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar’, right?” she said with a grin; his widened to match hers, a slight nod agreeing with her words. But her eyes lingered on the paintings, seeing more in them than perhaps she would have an hour ago. She looked up at him, met his eyes. “Thank you, for this,” she said, gesturing to the gallery around them. “I guess I needed to get out...to somewhere that isn’t a bar,” she added with a bit of a self-deprecating chuckle.
His nod turned a little more enthusiastic, easily understanding the feeling behind her words.
"I won't say I know what you mean, because I don't, but I'm glad that I could help, even just a little. There's a lot to be said to re-energize yourself, creatively." He slid his hands into his pants pockets, turning his gaze back to the paintings they'd been perusing.
"How're your own coming along?" Gabe asked; Nish smirked at herself.
“They're not Picasso,” she chuckled softly, crossing her arms and considering the woman's face again. “It's weird, I never used to have so many vivid dreams before I moved here, but now I seem to have one every night. Of places I've never been too, things I've never done. But the dreams are so…real, that when I wake up, they stay with me. Every detail.” She paused, hesitating, and then finally turned to catch his eyes again.
“If...you wanted,” she hesitated again, warring with her desire for privacy and need for answers. “If you're not busy after...you could take a look?” It was a huge step for her. She'd only ever shown them to Rafe, and while he'd liked them, it had also been the night they'd broken up. Not exactly the best emotional association she could have with her art. Maybe, she thought, a new perspective could help.
Gabe nodded, following the reaction with a light shrug to truly carry through the casualness of his tone.
"I've got nothing else going on for the rest of the evening; if you like, I'm all yours," he replied; his glasses glinted in the soft lighting of the art gallery. "How about we take one more turn around here, and then I can meet you back at Pax? Makes me wish we carpooled," he laughed, starting to move away from the two paintings Nish had picked out.
Nish smiled and nodded, following him around the gallery and making the odd comment on other pieces that she liked. On the way out she stopped at the small gift shop and bought herself a print of Head of a Woman so she could put it up in her office at home, for inspiration and, perhaps, reflection.
They got into their cars and she followed him home, parking in her spot and waiting for him in the lobby so they could go up to her place together. As soon as she opened the door Bear was there, meowing at her as if scolding her for being ‘late’, sniffing the poster in her hand as if it was a new invader into his territory, and then turning his attention on Gabe.
“Don’t worry about him, if he didn’t like you you’d know it,” she grinned, closing the door behind them. “I have tea if you like,” she offered, slipping her shoes off and letting her purse fall on the table by the door, leading him into the apartment.
"If you've got black, that'd be great," he offered, following in her wake and eventually kneeling down in the living space to hold a tentative hand out for the cat to sniff. Bear approached him cautiously, but didn’t get too close to him. "He probably just smells my dog, but yeah... Never owned a cat, but then you don't really own them, do you?" Giving up the attempt, Gabe rose back to his feet, hands shuffling into his pockets.
"I'm sure there're other exhibits you might enjoy more. Something a little less modern, maybe?" His eyes roamed politely around her space, turning in a little circle as he took it all in.
Nish headed into the kitchen, flicking the light on and filling the kettle. “I suppose,” she said, turning on the kettle and reaching up into her tea cupboard for some loose leaf. She reached for Mr. Tea, which had been right next to the weirdly matching cookie jar, and filled the insert with a few scoops of tea. “I hope Earl Grey is alright,” she said, looking up at him, “I ran out of orange peakoe the other day,” she said with a little smirk. “When I’m not drinking all the alcohol, I’m drinking all the tea.”
Gabe wandered toward the kitchen, leaning in the doorframe. "I know liquor is quicker but I'm not sure what they say about tea. I'm not picky," he replied, an easy smile on his face, which she returned. "Definitely better for you to drink all the tea, anyway." He paused, and then asked after the whole point of his being in her apartment. "So, where do you keep them? The paintings?"
Nish pulled two mugs out of the cupboard in front of her and set them on the counter in front of them, glancing at the kettle while it heated up and then over at him. “I was painting out here, on the dining table, but I moved them into my office recently,” she said, suddenly nervous all over again about showing him, crossing her arms over herself. The kettle was still warming, and she couldn’t delay any more, so she led him towards her office door next to the kitchen, pushing it open and flicking on the light.
The paintings were leaning up against the walls, her bookshelves and her computer desk. An easel was set up on a small table in the middle of the room, a work in progress sitting on it, depicting a mead hall with a roaring fire in the center, not too dissimilar to what the third floor of the building had looked like a few weeks ago. Parts of the painting were unfinished, the rough pencil sketch showing on the still blank canvas in places.
Gabe followed, his gaze instantly on the paintings as if drawn to them. After a momentary pause in the doorway as though gaining his bearings, he moved around Nish and further into the apartment. His eyes were first pulled toward the image showing an imperious-looking fortress with a rainbow cascading down over it into the foreground, bridging the building with a stony outcropping. Then he turned, taking in a large bird in flight; a crow, maybe, or a raven. Each seemed more fantastical than the last, as though Nish will illustrating for some publishing house working on a book of mythology.
"And all of these are just in your head? You haven't been reading anything in particular, or, I don't know, watching a specific TV show?" Sometimes the mind popped things out in a strange way; he wasn't questioning Nish's creativity, but simply attempting to divine its source, if he could.
She shook her head, her eyes drawn to one of the images of Loki on the stone. “No, nothing like this,” she said, looking back up at him. “They’re dreams...very…very vivid dreams. I can’t explain it, but...I feel like I’ve been to these places. It’s not something I’ve watched or read, they’re just...there.” She turned when she heard the kettle click in the other room and excused herself, pouring the water into the teapot to steep and then heading back into her office with him, standing just behind him with her arms crossed, looking at the painting that now had his attention.
He'd moved on, over the handful that were dark caverns, to the one of a man tied over a stone; a woman leaned over him, collecting something in a bowl just above the man's face, protecting him from it for at least as long as the bowl did not overflow.
"I don't know much about this subject," he admitted, glancing back to her, "but they strike me as mythological? I've read a few Germanic tales, and these fit that -- I mean, that one," he pointed back to the large fortress with the rainbow bridge, "Reminds me of -- and don't hate me for this -- but that recent Marvel movie about Thor? Didn't it have a 'rainbow bridge'?"
She nodded, smiled, her eyes still on the painting in front of them. “The Bifrost,” she said, as sure of that name as she was about everything else. “The bridge between worlds.” She paused, looked at the other images, then back at him. “I know how it sounds, but...I know these places. This…” she pointed at the city in the background, where the rainbow bridge was coming from. “This is Asgard. A place where...I know...I feel that I’ve been before, but...somehow wasn’t always welcome. And this,” she turned towards the various paintings of the man on the stone, “this is Loki. I dream of him the most.”
He felt at a loss; maybe she had some Germanic history that made her feel close to these stories, much in the same way that his Latino heritage made him feel at home in more southern climes despite the fact that he was a born and bred American. Instead, he merely nodded, not wishing to stir up any ill-will from poorly received ideas.
"Clearly I need to read a little more about...this is Norse, right? Their mythology?" The word hung in the air like a stone, his words unable to remove themselves entirely from his disbelief.
She could see she was losing him with her explanation, and smiled to herself. “I had to look it up too. But I knew some of the stories from childhood.” She shrugged, purposefully shooting wide, “I don’t know, maybe that’s where it comes from. My grandfather used to tell them to me when I was little. That could be it.” Nervous, she turned to the door, gesturing for him to follow. “The tea should be ready,” she said, leading him towards the kitchen and quickly pouring two mugs, all the while berating herself for saying too much. She’d been living with this in her head for so long, she’d forgotten how crazy it must sound to other people. A twinge of pain twisted in her stomach when she realized that...Rafe would have understood. He’d all but admitted it to her that night they’d had the dream. She had seen the recognition in his eyes.
She handed a mug of tea to Gabe, leading him into the living room to sit. He handled it cautiously, following, taking a seat.
"What are you going to do with them? The paintings?" It would be telling enough to know if she planned to sell them, or if she was keeping them for herself. They weren't bad in an artistic sense, but he wondered how far her obsession with the idea of these places as real extended. He lifted the mug gently, blowing on his tea.
Nish sat on the couch, cradling her mug of tea in her hands. “I don’t know,” she said honestly, “I hadn’t thought that far ahead...right now it’s just...getting the images out of my head somehow, you know?” She thought about it for a while and then smiled. “They’ll probably just sit in my closet; it was hard enough just to show them to you.” She knew it was just common imagery from Norse mythology, but to her, it felt very personal, like they revealed something very private about herself that made her vulnerable to others who saw them.
His mouth quirked, then blew on his tea again. "I'm glad you did, for what that's worth. Sometimes the act of creation itself is enough. I know I've got plenty of stories and poems that'll never see the light of day outside of my office.
"Art for art's sake can be a beautiful thing," he finished, finally taking a careful sip. "And maybe once you've gotten this out of your system, who knows what you might make next?"
Nish smirked and got a little more comfortable in her seat, sipping her tea. “Well, I’ll never be a Picasso,” she grinned, “but at least I can show them to you.”