21. Home

The beginning of part 3: Always Starting Over

I’m trying my hardest not to look as out of place as I feel. Most of the people in this gallery are at least twice my age, and the ones who are as young as me all look like the most preppy, art class-taking, NPR-listening, vape-huffing, latte-drinking, bizarre piercing-owning hipsters anyone has ever laid eyes upon. They’re all wearing these dress clothes that are more colorful and expressive than dress clothes should ever be, meanwhile I’m standing awkwardly in a hoodie, denim jacket and snapback hat turned around. Everybody else is explaining to the middle aged critics how their abstract paintings and black-and-white photographs describe the inner turmoils of their souls, or some nonsense like that, while I’m aimlessly wandering.

I’ve never been to an art show before. I didn’t even fully understand the concept, let alone imagine my own work being on display at one. The thought of something I created being presented to an audience is a whole new experience in my head, and one that’s incredibly intimidating. To be honest, I didn’t think I would get this far; I only submitted the painting on a dare by my Uncle Keegan’s girlfriend. The possibility of the council of important people who threw this event responding to my letter, let alone telling me my work had been accepted, was a scenario that never entered my head. Alas, here I am.

No one told me there was a dress code, and a result I’m the least formal-appearing person in the whole gallery by a wide margin. Not sure what to do about it, I turn my backward hat forward and throw my hands into the pockets of my jacket. I look to the nearest painting, which is appears to be the Golden Gate bridge if it were made out of floating blood, dripping itself down into the Pacific Ocean. The overweight, purple-haired girl standing beside the painting is telling a story from her childhood to a critic, a grey-haired man who looks like he could be her grandfather. He nods, apparently enthralled. To the right of them is another painting, which is just a bunch of stripes of random colors lining the canvas from top to bottom. The skinny, curly-haired guy behind it pushes up his glasses and smirks as if he had created a masterpiece.

I don’t go around saying it in circles like these, but abstract art is total BS. I don’t care what they teach in prestigious art schools, or what rich museum owners who jack off to Jackson Pollock have to say; slapping a paintbrush against some paper until it’s filled with random blotches is not a talent, nor does it justify expecting me to find some hidden meaning in it. I’d bet all the money in my wallet that I could close my eyes and slap together an ‘expressionist’ painting in thirty seconds and if I hung it up in a gallery like this among the other ‘masterpieces’ not a single one of those pretentious scholars would notice a difference.

I don’t by any means think I’m the best painter in the world or anything, but my work being here, surrounded by this ‘abstract’ crap makes me feel weird. It makes me feel even more out of place than the way I’m dressed or carrying myself. But then I notice this girl in the corner of my eye, standing in front of my painting.

It’s a portrait of the LA skyline, as clearly as I could remember it. For whatever reason, the night I arrived here as my uncle and I looked through the window of the plane, the image of the city in the distance got locked in my head. It was like looking out the window of a tall building in the middle of Manhattan, seeing the lights of the many buildings bring a city to life in an otherwise dark, starless night, but it was also new. It felt like home, but it wasn’t. At least for then. This painting is pretty minimalist, and isn’t the best thing ever done; it isn’t even the best I’ve done. But for some reason I have this weird attachment to it. I only submitted it to the gallery because I was sure they would turn it down. Alas, here it is, being assessed by this woman.

She is a thin, pale girl with dark eyes and long, blond hair braided into a ponytail. She seems to be around my age, and she’s dressed just as snobbishly as everyone else in what looks like a schoolgirl uniform.

“This one’s trash,” I say, walking up behind her. “One of the worst here, isn’t it?”

She turns and looks at me, surprised and seeming defensive.

“Actually,” she responds. “I was just thinking this might be my favorite here.”

“Your favorite?” I repeat, genuinely caught off guard. “There’s way better all around you.”

“They’re all nice, but the rest are flashy and in your face. This one’s not trying to be impressive or anything, it’s just so simple. So honest.”

“Come on, now,” I scoff. “Anyone could’ve painted that.”

“It’s not always about that. Art isn’t just a contest of skill; t’s self expression.”

“But it’s just a city. What’s self-expressive about that?”

The girl all but gasped, shocked and offended by my apparent ignorance.

“Everything,” she answers. “Whoever painted this left a lot of themselves on the canvas.”

“Oh really? So what can you tell me about them from this?”

“Well, of all the things they could’ve painted, they chose a view of our city. It must mean something to them.”

“So… They love the city?”

Not wrong, I guess.

“It’s more than that,” she continued. “The skyline is something everyone sees when they look out a window. This is a person who notices things most people don’t, someone who finds beauty in the mundane.”

“Anything else?”

“Well I can’t know for sure,” she continues. “But this view is from far away. So maybe that’s how this artist thinks of the city; even though they love it, it’s far away from them somehow. Maybe they’re still new to it. Maybe it still feels like a distant view and not like a home to them. This painting might be the story of a lost soul looking for a home.”

I’m silent. Her face is completely lost in thought, contemplating her theories until her newfound curiosity runs out. She eventually shrugs, then turns back to me.

“In any case,” she says, rather dismissively. “You should learn to be less rude and appreciate art.”

And with that she walks away, off to curate and theorize about more paintings I assume. With that, I’m standing here in silence, looking at this stupid skyline painting.

I enter my apartment, hanging my jacket on the coat rack and closing the door behind me. Immediately, I’m greeted by the sensory details that hagrown to define my home: smells of leftover fast food and spilled alcohol, and the competing sounds of loud music and a human voices shouting over it. I enter the living room to see two of my roommates on the couch. Rohit and Darren. They’re holding video game controllers, their fingers furiously moving around, their eyes locked to the screen, and the wireless speaker on the coffee table is blasting a trap song just barely quiet enough to avoid complaints from our neighbors.

“Yo, yo.” I call out.

Upon noticing me, Rohit pauses the game, then pulls out his phone and pauses the music.

“Hey, Rich,” Darren greets, holding up his controller. “Trynna catch hands in some 2k?”

I shrug. “Whoever loses, pass the sticks.”

The unspoken golden rule of game-sharing.

Rohit turns back over the couch and shouts to Quan, who is off in another room.

“Where’ve you been?” he asks, skipping any sort of greeting.

I didn’t tell any of them about the art show, and I don’t plan to. My roommates are obviously my closest friends now, but there’s still some parts of my life I keep closed off from them. Maybe it’s because I like having a small, extra layer of privacy, or maybe there’s things I’m into I don’t think they’d understand, I don’t know.

“Work,” I reply. “My boss got me to take an extra shift last minute.”

Darren scoffs. “Man, that job’s got you whipped.”

“Well,” Quan says. “Now that you’re here, you up to go out with us tonight? There’s a rave that’s supposed to be crazy.”

“Tonight?” I repeat. They know how much I hate last minute invitations.

“Why not?” Darren replies. “It’s the first Friday in forever that we all have off.”

“Yeah,” Rohit chimes in. “Unless you got something else to do.”

He smirks knowing I don’t. It has been a while since I’ve went out and did something crazy; we’ve been so busy with jobs and getting used to bills that our young, wild and free days were becoming fewer and farther apart.

“Fine,” I say with a careless shrug. “I’m down.”

“Word,” Quan enthusiastically replies. “Everyone get dressed and we’re out in fifteen. The night is young and so are we, let’s get lit.”

Rohit and Darren shut off the game and rush to prepare, like firefighters gearing up to head off toward an emergency. I sigh and look over my current wardrobe, wondering if I could blend in at a nightclub in this.

My name is Richie Harris, I’m twenty-one years old, and I live in Los Angeles, California.