A Hue of Blu

Year Four/Week Six– Present

After plugging in the address Jace sent me into maps, I found out that my destination was an art gallery called Prix.

We hadn’t texted since he asked to meet me; I just responded to his message by giving it a thumbs up.

And now, I found myself on a random Saturday in mid-October, pulling my beige trench coat a little tighter before stepping into the space.

Art galleries were like charcuterie boards; rare that you found the time to spare, to prepare and roll salami into roses and cut cheese into perfect cubes – but when you had the time, it was worth it.

This art gallery was not an exception. This art gallery was a charcuterie board.

The room itself was small, dimly lit and a tad claustrophobic with all the people crowding paintings, but there was a charm that sucked the breath from my lungs.

A wooden table was placed in the center of the room with none other than…

A goddamn fucking charcuterie board.

“Ha-ha,” I laughed, letting go of my jacket seams. “What are the odds.”

“Hello,” I was greeted by a very tall, very slender woman with red nails and scarlet lipstick. “Is there a piece you’ve commissioned?”

Wait, what? Was this a private event?

I cleared my throat, happy that the dim lighting was disguising the blush in my cheeks. “I’m meeting someone.”

“Oh, wonderful!” She smiled so brightly I could’ve caught on fire. “I’ll get out of your hair then.”

You weren’t in my hair. What a dumb saying.

My eyes trailed the length of the walls as I contemplated texting Jace. So stupid, I thought. I was literally here, exactly where he wanted me to be, and still refused to message first.

After two minutes of hovering awkwardly by a stone statue, I moved towards one of the only paintings that caught my eye.

There were a couple of people standing in front of it, so I stayed back, analyzing the canvas and its simplicity. My head tilted to the side as I followed a single black line that swirled around a red dot, another grey line interconnecting with another black line, and a zigzag of electric blue – blue like my hair, that penetrated the vacant spaces between the swirls.

None of the lines touched the red dot, only a gradient shade of scarlet and white fading within each other that protected its perimeter. That’s when I got curious. Narrowing my eyes to the display description, the painting read: “Controlling Chaos.”

“Do you like it?” a voice behind me asked, soft yet assertive. They wanted a yes.

I gave them exactly that without even turning around. This was not a time for smart remarks. This was no game. This painting was wonderful, and it deserved the recognition.

“It’s unique, unlike the others in here.” I wouldn’t be me without a little edge.

As I turned around to face the converser, I was met by those bluish green eyes, light brown hair swept back perfectly and his signature cross earring paired with a simple pearl. He was wearing all black, a button down paired with slim slacks and oxfords. A silver bracelet dangled on his wrist, winking at me.

“Jace,” I released, unable to hold his name in my mouth any longer.

Beside him was the person in conversation, no doubt. Her voice matched her face – kind, but intimidating, colourful yet mysterious. Her red hair was pinned back, two orange strands cascading down her face.

She was much taller than I was, but much shorter than Jace. Everyone was. He was built to tower over people.

“I’ll take the compliment,” she said, extending a hand. “Mel Klorfor. I’m the artist.”

Her nails were sharp, sparkling like silver diamonds. They were much better than my black acrylics, more expensive looking. I made a mental note to re-do my nails at an actual salon this time, not my stupid press-ons from Amazon.

“Jace Boland.” He, too, extended a formal hand as if we’d never met before.

For a second, I thought I was going through a simulation, wondering if the past few weeks were a product of my imagination, until he smiled at me.

I took his hand, savouring the way it felt against mine, then released his fingers.

“Blu Henderson,” I addressed Mel. “Tell me more about this painting.”

We both walked up to it, her flats sweeping the concrete, mine clinking like bells.

“What do you think it means?” she asked, turning her questioning eyes to me.

The longer I stared at the canvas, the harder it was to make sense of it. Controlling Chaos, I wondered, pondered, dove deep into my psyche to pull out an answer.

There were none. I hated being wrong. My guess was blank.

“Does he know?” I took a look at Jace who was standing directly behind me, almost too close. If I took one step back, my heel would be pressed against the point of his toe.

I tried my luck.

I was right. He was a few centimetres away from wrapping his hands around my waist.

That was all I cared about. Not a damn painting.

“I actually don’t.” His voice was low, reverberating through me like a volcanic eruption. “Care to explain, Mel?”

The tip of his finger trailed the length of my forearm before he pulled away, taking a step back.

He did that on purpose.

I took a step forward, creating more space between us. If that’s how he wanted it to be, then fine.

He scoffed. At first I thought it was condescending, but when my eyes met his, they were playful and light. My lips turned up at this.

“A friend of mine is a businessman, and he asked me to paint something powerful like him,” Mel began, “His words not mine.” We all laughed at this and I felt a sense of unity, a rush of belonging.

“He explained to me how every aspect of his life felt controlled by outside sources. He works to live so that he can please someone above him. He eats well so that he can maintain a good physique. Then, he repeats this cycle, every day. Those are the black lines you see.”

She pointed to the rings circling the red dot, then moved her finger to the grey lines. “This is the grey area, the parts of his life that bring him mundane happiness, and these zigzags,” she trailed her fingers up and down the blue lines, “the chaos. The inevitable. The heartache.”

For a few minutes, she continued to speak about the intersecting lines, how they were relevant to a man I’d never met and I listened to every single word. The way she spoke about something she was evidently so passionate about made me reflect on my own life, what drove me, what made me tick.

I used to love photography. Before the alcoholism took over my father, he’d bought me a disposable camera for my seventh birthday. At first, I threw it on the ground and broke it. I wanted Barbies, like everyone else.

He bought me a new one. Said that I should be different, I should stick out from the rest because life was boring and the world was going to end. Make it as vibrant as the girl he saw me to be.

I don’t think he really saw me as anything, but at least he pretended.

I didn’t know I’d only have three more years left with him. If I’d known, maybe I would’ve broken the second camera and the third or forth.

Or maybe I wouldn’t have given up photography at all.

Everywhere we went, I took that ugly yellow rectangle with me and snapped photos of grass, the sky, a bird in a tree and a kid on a swing. Everything was art in its own way; if you just opened your eyes to see. Lately, my tendency was to keep them shut.

Now the only art I knew were the paintings in museums, the graffiti on brick walls, the tattoos on my skin. I kept them hidden. Only the people I slept with knew I had them, maybe not even then. Were they really paying attention to something more than my bare flesh and nakedness?

In a way, I wanted to keep them concealed. The scars beneath the black ink were no longer a part of me – I assigned them a new meaning. These tattoos became the only art that reminded me that art existed, that it was beyond canvases and paintbrushes. That maybe, buried within it all, there was a little girl with a disposable camera who missed her father.

Her father who didn’t miss her. Who couldn’t miss her.

“What’s the red dot mean?” I asked, swallowing the memories.

Mel smiled. “It’s him. This white around him that puts space between what he can control, and what he can’t. He’s safe here, in this hue of red.”

He’s safe here, in this hue of red.

Mel and Jace were pulled into conversation by a couple next to us. They didn’t address me. I was unfamiliar to this territory. They seemed to belong, Jace with his fancy attire and Mel with her sparkly silver nails.

My trench coat covered a black turtleneck dress, but I felt more comfortable being covered, hiding the parts of me no one could see.

I took a step away from the conversation I was not a part of, and stepped towards “Controlling Chaos.”

Every line, every swirl, every sharp edge didn’t touch the red dot. This hue of red was an impenetrable forcefield, protecting him from the outside world. The outside pain.

In that moment, all I could do was pray and wonder…

Will I ever find a hue of Blu?