A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

Michael stood perfectly still in his tuxedo, staring with a sort of paralyzed wonder at the canvas in front of him. In the back corner of his mind he knew he cut a splendid figure – he hadn't worn a tuxedo since his sister's wedding, and the rental had never made him look like THIS – it set off his pale complexion and lithe form, his boyish features and curly blond hair. But for some reason he couldn't bring himself to circulate in this crowd of Los Angeles' artistic elite – much as he would have loved to network, much as he would have loved to Be Seen, the landscape entranced him, and he was numb to almost anything else.

It was a huge canvas, nearly twenty feet long and ten feet high; it had been painted with obvious care, concentration and time that must have been tedious over the large framework; when Michael stood up close to the painting he could see the tiny brushstrokes, the blended colors, the thin lines of paint and sweeping strokes of light. When he backed up he was standing in a field surrounded by mountains – he could smell the air and the grass, feel the chill in the breeze coming down the snowy slopes; hear the birdcalls from the myriad tiny songbirds hidden in the grass, hear the whicker and whinny of the horses that dotted the field, their glossy hides gleaming in the sunlight. It was mellow, verdant, lush, swelling with life and serenity. Michael didn't know why – it was nothing at all like the modern art he was used to, more like the old-fashioned landscapes he'd studied in Art History 101 – but the painting seemed to draw him, tugging at his heart, urging him to leave his frenetic pace and flustered schedule behind, to immerse himself in hal half-wild beauty, give it all up and simply BE. Michael was not an outdoorsy person and this compulsion disturbed him; he wondered if the rest of the paintings were like this. He stepped back, shook himself lightly, and looked around for Frances.

His lover had left him the instant they'd been introduced to the museum curator, muttering something about needing to find some people; the curator had been polite, showing him into the richly furnished rooms that housed the canvasses of the Featured Artist, making sure he got his Dom Perignon and caviar and letting him wander about the rooms on his own. But Michael had been visually hijacked by the first canvas he'd laid eyes on, and his champagne was still untouched. He took a sip and grimaced; it had grown warm. How lond hed he been standing there – twenty minutes, maybe more? He was about to walk away when he noticed a woman watching him from across the room. She was sitting on one of the chairs, a big burgundy one with gold tassels; she was very beautiful, with pale silvery gray eyes and skin like polished ivory; she was dressed elegantly in an expensive-looking silver suit, wa cha charmingly retro hat nearly obscuring the glossy midnight of her hair and draping down over her ears. Her gloved hands were folded demurely on her lap, her knees were together, her ankles crossed; everything about her bespoke of refinement and sophistication. At first Michael felt very lowbrow and out of place, but then she smiled at him, her red lips parting to show white even teeth, and then she rose gracefully and crossed the room to him.

He smiled a little nervously as she approached; she was nearly as tall as he, and so soaked in sophistication and culture he nearly fainted from the class-overload; he wondered desperately what he should say to her, and hoped he wouldn't do anything stupid. But she stood beside him, looking gravely up at the painting, then said after a moment, "A little overwhelming, isn't it?"

"Well," said Michael diffidently, "a teensy bit, maybe." He looked back at the canvas. "It does – funny things to you, doesn't it?"

"Do you think so?" She raised one eyebrow and contemplated him. "What does it make you want to do?"

"Leave," said Michael promptly. "Go away. Find these mountains. Which is silly," he said shyly; "I don’t know anything about horses or birds or things like this. I'm a city boy."

"That doesn't mean you wouldn't enjoy seeing mountains though," said the woman seriously. "Frances loves the mountains. Perhaps he'll take you."

Michael did a double-take, but she was looking at him very calmly. "Does the whole world know I'm living with Frances?" he asked peevishly, taking a sip of his warm champagne.

"Everyone who counts," she said, smiling. Sfferffered one gloved hand to him. "Arwen Walker."

"And I suppose you already know I'm Michael Morris," said Michael archly, taking her hand. He wondered if he should shake it or kiss it, and was relieved when she gripped his hand and shook it gently.

"Well, yes, I knew you were Michael Morris because I saw you come in with Frances," she said, her smile stretching into a charming grin. "Want to meet my husband? He's looking at the portraits."

"Okay," said Michael, his knot of nervousness subsiding. It was nice to be with someone who knew Frances, even if she WAS a little over the top as far as class was concerned – then again, if this were class, or rather, Class with a Capital C, he was a lot more comfortable with it than with the society women his mother always seemed to want to entertain. They made him feel gauche, obvious, embarrassing; Mrs. Walker was so grac and and soothing and kind. He followed her past more landscapes – some of desert scenes, some of cities in foreign countries – into another room, larger still, filled with full-scale portraits, some busts, others the entire figure. He glanced at one as they passed – he saw a man standing by a desk, pompously posed, elaborately dressed; there were many objects on the desk that he was sure held some symbolic meaning but what it was he couldn't figure out, for at that moment a tall powerful-looking man with graying dark hair approached; his tuxedo was a little faded and worn, but his bearing was regal and focused, though his face was gentle. He met them in the middle of the floor, smiling tenderly at Mrs. Walker and taking her hand gently in his own. They met each others' eyes, lost momentarily in their mutual affection, which made Michael feel horribly out of place; however the man broke away from his wife's gaze and offered his hand to him.

"You must be Michael," he said. His voice was rough and deep, as though he was used to doing a lot of shouting, and Michael suddenly felt as though whatever this man asked him to do, he'd do it in a heartbeat. He smiled up at him.

"Yes," he said. "You're Mr. Walker then?"

"Dr. Ari Walker," said the man, shaking his hand politely. "Pleased to meet you."

"He's pretty, isn't he, dear?" asked Mrs. Walker, looking at Michael. "Professor White said he was pretty, and he was right."

"Professor White is usually right," said Dr. Walker dryly. "Do you two want to watch Legs at work? There's some highbrow art critic here who's been giving him blistering reviews. He's come here to interview him."

"Oh, goody!" laughed Mrs. Walker, her eyes sparkling. She clapped her gloved hands together, making a soft thupping noise, and gave a little hop on her heels. "I love watching egos get deflated."

Dr. Walker led them round the wall to the back corner. There was a little cluster of people gathered around a nude portrait, beside which sat a tall lean man with long blond hair and an angelic face. "Legs," thought Michael, his heart racing, though whether it were through fear or excitement he couldn't tell.gs wgs was lounging, tipping the chair back, his long legs in their battered jeans stretched out in front of him, big lug-soled boots crossed, arms folded across his chest. He was chewing gum, insolently, mouth open, eyes half closed; the man addressing him looked down arrogantly at him. Michael felt a hand tug at his arm; it was Dr. Walker, leading him around a small partition where they could observe in privacy. Michael watched the man talking to Legs. He was dressed in a dark purple tuxedo, with a lavender shirt, its ruffles edged in silver; his tie and cummerbund were a bright paisley and his long hair was combed carefully over a bald spot. His sycophants were hanging on his every word, and several of them were writing down what he was saying. Dr. and Mrs. Walker put their fingers to their lips and Michael listened.

"Your blatant shift into hyperrealism shows a certain nouveau-Renaissance aspect to the work, though its androgynous nature reveals an almost lascivious and pagan influence. It is very backward-looking, though your explorations seem liberally mixed with a moralizing subject, providing a highly diversified aspect. Do you feel this dichotomy allows you to bridge from Spartan to the more worldly and sensuous symbolism of this portrait here?" He looked superciliously down at Legs, flaring his nostrils and sneering, and the surrounding men and women hurriedly scribbled down what he had declaimed. Legs rolled the gum around in his mouth, snapped it loudly, and waited for them to stop writing; when they were all looking down expectantly at him, he blew a big pink bubble, popped it, and drew the sagging plasticine detritus back between his lips; then he drawled indolently:

" 'S a picture of a bloke."

There was a deadly little silence; Michael saw the critic's face turn red. The sycophants all looked at the critic, doubtful and uncertain; the critic in turn stared down at Legs, who snapped his gum at him, his insolent face unmoved.

"But surely," said the critic, very obviously struggling to control his temper, "you admit your foray into the antiqued world of Romanticism and imaginative sardonic moral dualism displays a return to the academic strictures of the arbitrary standards imposed upon the painters of the nineteenth century, in that you flaunt the horizontal balance and color infusion so touted by adherents to that style, thereby negating your very oeuvre with the sensual luxury of the subject and his grossly ornamental modeling?"

Another pink bubble popped, there was the snap and wet susurration of chewing. " 'S a picture of a bloke what has no clo'es."

There was a titter from the back of the group; the critic turned, glaring, behind him, then wheeled back around to Legs, who continued to stretch, chew, and pop. "So," he said, his face very red; Michael felt a little sorry for him. "Is that all you have to say about it? That he's wearing no clothes?"

"Yeah," said Legs. He glanced casually up at the picture. " 'S a mate. 'E's a poofter."

Another titter, followed by a surreptus sus snicker. Michael saw the critic's hands, which were blue-veined and knotted, clench; he wondered why the man had such old-looking hands, then looked more carefully at the critic's face; that was it then, he'd dyed his hair; this man was older than he looked. Michael had a sudden realization: the critic was one of those conceited, egotistical, suilioilious, artsy-fartsy types who showed off and belittled others to make people think he was smarter than he actually was. He recognized the man for what he was now; he had certainly run across plenty of them in his mother's circle. He looked at the portrait in question. It was of a pretty young man, dark-haired, big-eyed, and rosy-cheeked, reclining on a richly ornamented and draped bed; there were tapestried wall hangings, elaborately carved wood, swaths of silk and velvet and damasked cloth; the youth himself was staring at the viewer, eyes deep and rich and profoundly sad, as though the pain and suffering of a thousand ages had built up its filth in the corners of his mind and no matter what he did, how rich he was, how many lovers he satisfied, none of it was ever going to go away. It was NOT just "a bloke with no clothes," but obviously Legs, to answer the critic's hubris and self-imanceance, threw these phrases out at him to cut him down a little. Michael giggled.

"Well done, wasn't it?" whispered Mrs. Walker into his ear; her breath tickled. He nodded. The three of them watched the critic desperately try to salvage his standing, his every intellectually soaked phrase denigrated by Legs' cutting replies, until the smirking crowd started to filter away; at last the critic was left alone, glaring down at Legs, who blinked brazenly back, cracking his bubble gum; Dr. and Mrs. Walker and Michael leaned forward, straining to hear what the critic would say next. "Probably something snotty and condescending," thought Michael, realizing with a shock he was mentally cheering Legs on, and wondering what Frances would think.

"You may think you're secure because the rich and uneducated are buying up your portraits and landscapes and still-lifes," said the critic, his voice thick and choked, "but remember you're nothing but a second-rate cut-price imitative retroactive academic cheat who's bought your way in."

Michael winced; that wasn't a nice thing to say about ANYBODY, and anyway he might not have been an artist himself but he KNEW that Legs' paintings were marvelous, because just the two he had seen had Meant Something and that was saying a lot, because if Art Meant Something it was Significant. He was just about to burst out from behind the partition to defend Legs when Legs finally moved. The big heavy boots clunked on the floor; the chair rattled back into place; the long graceful body stretched up, towering over the critic, intimidating not only with his superior height but his very presence, a sort of rock-solid firmness, a profound and bottomless awareness coupled with a stubborn and unyielding potency. Michael shivered. In the dark Legs had been frightening enough; to come face to face with him bordered on a Religious Experience, and Michael didn't like Religious Experiences much at all, as they usually required some sort of perspective shift, which were uncomfortable. He watched, transfixed, as those brilliant blue eyes fixed themselves on the critic, throwing the very weight of his personality on him; the critic withered, and his eyes dropped.

There was another snap of the gum, and the light clear voice said simply, "Fuck off." With a hangdog backward glance the critic scuttled away.

Michael felt as though he ought to defend the critic somehow to the chuckling couple next to him, though secretly he had been delighted by the exchange; he said, "That wasn't very nice."

"Neither was Eugene Ferril," laughed Dr. Walker. "You haven't read his reviews of Legs' stuff, they're really cruel and condescending – nice job, friend."

Michael turned; Legs had approached without his noticing, and stood, grinning, his hands in his pocke "Th "Thanks, mate," he said, giving his gum a definitive snap. "Fuck, I'm parched. Any more bubbly?"

"You can have mine," said Michael with forced boldness. "It's goll wll warm."

"No thanks, Mary-Ann," said Legs. He looked around, stretching his neck out; he was, if anything, lovelier than Mrs. Walker despite his rough clothes and crass talk; there was a fineness, a spirituality to the alabaster face, the shimmering hair that almost made him seem like he wasn't truly there – it was just a spirit, somewhat corporeal, but belonging to a different world, insubstantial, glorious. Michael shuddered, feeling suddenly cold; he wasn't sure he was comfortable around someone who made him feel that way, but it explained the paintings – compelling, alluring, convicting, unnerving. "Ah, there's the barkeep – Oi, Pete! Hand round the fuckin' bubbly already, will yeh? An' get me some Liffey Water." He turned back to Dr. Walker. "What say, Longshanks? Fancy a Guinness?"

"Why not?" shrugged the doctor. "Sun's over the yardarm." Mrs. Walker gave a musical laugh and Legs grinned at her. "Well, poppet?" he said. "Bet you want a big fucking glass of horse-piss."

"Watch your language," laughed Mrs. Walker. "No, thank you – Michael and I will stick with Dom Perignon. Won't we, Michael?" She linked her gloved hand around Michael's elbow, and Lsmilsmiled down at them, his pink mouth curved sweetly upward, his wneonneon eyes glimmering dangerously. Michael swallowed, trying to meet that intense blue stare, but it was no good; he was too weak. He looked down at the floor, at his new Versace shoes beside Mrs. Walker's Pradas. Then he felt long cool fingers under his chin, tipping his face up; he looked fearfully up at the man above him, heart in his throat; but Legs' face was kind, and his eyes were friendly.

"Need it, don’t yer, Mary-Ann?" he grinned, and taking a fresh glass of champagne from the server pressed it into Michael's hand. Michael, unable to stop himself, and against his better judgment, drank it all down, and Legs laughed and gave him some more.

"Lookit that then," he grinned to the Walkers. "Fuckin' likes it, don't he? Ah, he's a nice little bugger."

Michael flushed, feeling like a kitten that had just had a ribbon tied round its neck and was being simpered over. But the champagne was potent and his stomach was empty, and after a few more glasses he didn't care, but stood next to Legs as he chatted with his friends, gazing up with bewildered adoration at him, and wondering where on earth Frances had got to.