Reality's Illusion

Chapter 5

True to his word, Nate took me by the supply warehouse on our way back to my house. Either the price of oils and brushes had skyrocketed in the last five years, or I'd forgotten how much this stuff cost. For a long time, I had received supplies from different companies that wanted me to try their products: paints, brushes, canvases, etc., but I had always been pretty particular about what I would work with.

At one point, I had been rather successful, and with my income and Sylvie's, money was never a concern. Unfortunately, between funeral costs and me essentially becoming an unemployed hermit, our cumulative savings had significantly been depleted. I wasn't quite at financial ruin, but I was hanging out on the sideline about to jump into the game.

Nate knew this.

We'd never talked about it, but he couldn't watch his best friend not work for years-while continuing to spend money-and still not know I was on the verge of bankruptcy. Add to that, that Nate had handled my finances since we'd graduated from college and there really were no secrets. All I could say was, thank God, Sylvie had paid off the house with her first big record deal. Otherwise, I'd be up s**t creek without a paddle...or living on Nate's couch.

A few hundred dollars later, and I was back in the artist business with enough supplies to keep me going for a while. And at least for now, I had Nate's support.

However, supplies were a total waste. Instead of coming home and getting out a canvas to work, I went right back to the wall. Something about the piece sucked me in, and I wouldn't be able to recreate it on canvas. Hell, I doubted I could ever recreate it in any form. Once I had walked Nate out, I took inventory of my food supply and decided to run to the store for cream cheese, fruits, and vegetables.

As dawn peered through the windows in the kitchen, I took one last swipe with my fingers, essentially my final stroke. Stepping back, I stared in awe. The contrast, texture, and imagery stilled my heart and calmed my spirit. I was exhausted from not having slept in two days but pleased with what I'd created after a long sabbatical.

But no matter how hard I fought, sleep deprivation took over, and my bed screamed for me to join it. I couldn't leave the kitchen in total disarray, so I cleaned up the best I could without disturbing the mural and washed my hands. I hated to silence the music that had kept me motivated for forty-eight hours, but I couldn't sleep with it on. And when I grabbed my laptop and turned off the lights, the heavy burden of sadness pressed against my shoulders. There was still no word from Sera. I hadn't given up hope yet, so I kept my laptop open on the nightstand, just in case.

Stripping down to my boxer briefs, I crawled between the down comforter and the flannel sheets. The two were soft against my skin, welcoming me back like an old lover, and then the sandman took me under the moment my head hit the pillow.

The incessant ding of f*******: messenger dragged me, kicking and screaming, out of my coma. But when the cobwebs cleared, I realized what I'd heard. I glanced at the clock and groaned. At four in the afternoon, I'd totally f****d up my sleep pattern and slept all day. It took far too much effort to sit up and adjust the pillows, so instead, I pulled the cold metal of my laptop onto my bare chest. A quick wiggle of my finger on the trackpad brought my MacBook to life.

Her name at the top of the screen was like finding water in the desert, air conditioning on a hot summer day, food after a fast-glorious relief followed by immense pleasure.

Sera: Hey, Bastian

Sera: I know you said you haven't done anything related to painting in quite some time, and this is probably really forward and maybe even super awkward, but I thought I'd give it a shot. Do you have a minute?

Sera: I saw you online and hoped to catch you, but I guess you're busy. It was dumb anyhow. I hope you have a great day. Catch you later.

Fuck! The last message had come in ten minutes ago. Christ, if I had missed talking to her, I was never f*****g sleeping again.

Me: Sorry, I was asleep and had left f*******: open.

Me: You still around?

The minutes passed like hours, ticking away. The green dot didn't appear next to her name, but I'd hoped she got messages on her phone. No such luck. Always a day late and a dollar short.

Throwing the bedspread aside, my computer followed suit. I hadn't left that damn computer for two solid days in hopes I'd hear from Sera. I finally collapsed, and that's when she chose to reach out. Maybe it was good that I wasn't readily available, but hell, I desperately wanted to talk to her. Thoughts raced through my head-disappointment, the realization of how ridiculous I was, pissed off that I was asleep, and now desperate to return to unconsciousness.

My mental state was fragile at best, although most of the time, I refused to acknowledge it.

Today it was at the forefront of my mind. I recognized that all of this was irrational, and I acted like a hormonal teenager desperate to talk to a girl he didn't even know. Sadly, at this stage of my life, I should have been able to handle basic human interaction. Relationships took time to grow, be it friendship or soulmates-although that last one was grasping desperately for something that didn't exist for me anymore. But I couldn't handle even the most rudimentary social concepts.

I needed Sera to provide me with salvation and deliver me from the valley of death. I walked on the edge, teetered on the cusp, and this was the first time I'd looked up to notice that I might possibly crawl out of the pit. Illogically, I'd convinced myself she was the rope secured to a solid foundation that would rescue me. Or maybe it was logical since I recognized how irrational it was.

I stared in the mirror, barely recognizing the man that reflected back. He was old and haggard, not the thirty-year-old who should be there. Overwhelming sadness lingered in his dark-brown eyes, and I wish I could tell him not to be afraid of the ghosts. But he was haunted, and it showed in the skin that hung from his jaw and the ochre hue that kissed his cheeks. The man inside had died years ago. I just hadn't accepted the fact that I was slowly killing the body on the outside.

Facebook notification.

Fuck. Taking off in a near sprint to reach my computer, I slid across the bedroom floor and slammed my shoulder into the wall. The searing pain didn't deter me from my mission as I dove across my bed to see the screen.

Sera: No worries. I'm sorry if I woke you.

Me: Nah, I needed to get up. What's up?

Sera: I wanted to ask you something, but now it seems kind of silly.

Me: Go ahead. Ask.

Sera: Feel free to say no. It won't hurt my feelings, and I don't want to upset your wife.

Right now, I thought this little game was cute, but in time, it would get on my nerves. I had never understood why women did that, why they needed to have a man reassure them that they wanted to hear what they thought. But for now, her insecurity was endearing.

Me: I'm no longer married. Please ask.

Sera: Well...I have a gallery opening next week. I'd like for you to come.

I was speechless. I hadn't been around the art community in so long that I likely didn't know anyone involved anymore, which could be a good thing. It was doubtful I'd run into anyone I knew, but if I did, questions would ensue. I had no clue how to handle answering anything regarding my whereabouts for the last five years. Even worse, the idea of admitting that I'd done nothing was humiliating.

Mentally debating the implications of this outing, I had apparently taken too long to respond.

Sera: s**t. I'm sorry. I knew I shouldn't ask. I'm sure you have a hundred other things to do, and my gallery exhibit is not high on the priority list.

Sera: Wait, you're not married?

Me: Sera, stop. That's not it at all. I would love to come. No, I'm not married, but would you mind if I brought someone with me?

Sera: Oh.

Sera: No. Not at all.

Sera: That would be great.

Me: Fantastic. Can you send me the details?

Sera: Really? Oh my gosh. Wow. Yes. That would be amazing. It's next Thursday. 7pm at the West End Gallery.

Me: I'll see you then.

Sera: I'm so excited. Thank you! I can't believe Bastian Thames is coming to my opening.

Me: Sera, please don't get excited. I'm happy to come, but remember, it's been a long time since I've been in the art scene.

Sera: Oh, hush. You're too modest. Thanks again.

Me: Thursday. See you soon.

Nate had impeccable timing. He would kick my ass when I told him what I'd volunteered him for. I tugged on sweatpants before answering the door. I needed to stop locking it so he'd quit pounding like the police, trying to wake the dead. I rolled my eyes and took a deep breath when I reached for the knob. There stood Nate with a s**t-eating grin plastered across his face.

"What the f**k are you so chipper about?" I let the door swing open and stepped back.

He pushed past me, making a beeline for the couch. "I had an idea and took it upon myself to make some calls."

"Please, make yourself at home. What did you make calls about?" I kicked the door closed with my foot.

"Your kitchen."

I stopped stone cold. I didn't even blink. "I hope you're joking."

"Not at all. We have very little time before that s**t spoils if it hasn't already. So, I called the Greenville Pilot and talked to the guy who heads up the community arts crap for the paper. I gave him a rundown and asked him how we could showcase it."

"You did what?" That sentiment came out in a breathy yet desperate whimper of shock and terror. "What the hell were you thinking, Nate? That isn't serious art in there." I'd found my voice, and it came out like thunder as I waved my arm toward the kitchen. "It's food on a goddamn wall. Are you f*****g insane? Please, for the love of God, tell me you didn't give him my name." All my questions were answered with the confirming expression on his face.

"Bastian, calm down. He was interested. Really interested."

"Of course he was, but not for quality art. He wants the headline story on a painter who lost his ever-loving mind."

"Not at all. We spent an hour talking about your work, how you'd created it, the stuff you used." Nate picked up a magazine from the coffee table he had his feet on and started flipping through the pages. "He was fascinated." He carried on as if this were completely normal and I were overreacting. He sat down the magazine when I still didn't respond. "You don't get it, Bastian. The world misses you. They want to know what you've been doing and where you are."

"Dream on, Nate. They want total desecration. The public feeds on watching others fail. It makes them feel good about their own pathetic lives."

"They also thrive on comebacks, and you have the chance to make yourself into one. Stop being an ass, and let me tell you what's going to take place while I still have time."

I threw myself into the chair next to the couch, admitting defeat-at least temporarily. I tried to convince myself to be open-minded about whatever bullshit Nate fed me.

"I talked to this guy, Wilt. I don't remember his last name."

"Carter."

"What?"

"Carter. Wilt Carter. He's in charge of the community art section at the Pilot."

Nate didn't pick up on my exasperation. He'd talked to the guy for an hour and didn't remember his name. For such a bright guy, he could be an i***t.

"Yeah. Anyway, Wilt wanted to bring a photographer to take some shots. I emailed him what I had on my phone but told him it wasn't done at the point I took them. He had planned to bring someone from the paper, but after seeing the email, he called back and said he had contacted some guy named Ferry Koops."

Hearing that name sent chills racing up my spine. "Ferry Koops, as in the photographer? That Ferry Koops?"

He was the biggest name to cross photography in the last thirty years, this generation's Ansel Adams. His work was edgy and brilliant. I'd never seen anyone capture a subject the way he did, whether through stills, people, or landscapes. He didn't have an eye for one over the other, either. The long and short of it, Ferry was a prodigy, an artistic genius.

"Yeah, do you know who that is?" Poor Nate. He was trying to help but just had no clue. This was so out of his league, but if he could pull off a gig with Ferry Koops, I might have to kiss the ugly fucker.

"Yes, jackass. Finish your story."

"I guess Wilt called Ferry and sent Ferry the email I had sent him." This was like a bad game of telephone. "Anyway, Ferry wants to do the photography. Today."

"Today? When today? Are you kidding?" I glanced at the clock. "It's almost six now."

"I'm well aware. They'll be here with a crew at seven, so you might want to consider getting out of that chair. Go shower and shave. You look like ass. Do you ever get dressed anymore?"

"f**k you." The place looked like s**t. "Christ. I don't have time to clean up and shower."

"Go do...something with yourself. I'll clean up or at least hide things, so it's not quite so apparent that you've become a hermit, wallowing in self-pity." He smirked, and a part of me wanted to punch that smug grin off his f*****g face, but I didn't have time.

When I returned from my hygiene overhaul in jeans and a white V-neck T-shirt, sans shoes, I was flabbergasted with how Nate had transformed my house in thirty minutes. It stunned me even more to see Wilt-and several other people I didn't know-sitting around my living room, although there was no sign of Ferry.

As I approached, Wilt stood with his hand extended. The formality came back with ease, and so did my smile. Plastic people, plastic faces. It was all a façade, but I chose to play the game today.

"Hey, Bastian. It's great to see you. I'm anxious to see this in person."

"Nice to see you, Wilt. How's the newspaper world been treating you?"

"It's good. I can't begin to tell you how excited I was to hear from Nate. I had no idea you were working again. I'm thrilled to be the one to see it first and get to spend some time with you." He scanned the others in the room before he returned his attention to me. "This is going to be huge for the community. If I make the deadline tomorrow, the story will run in Sunday's paper."

I looked to Nate, slightly bewildered. I should've assumed there would be a story, but it had all happened so quickly that I hadn't had time to ask for details much less think through how it would play out. I shook off the anxiety. I'd known Wilt for years. Talking to him was no different than running into an acquaintance on the street-idle chitchat. I took a seat and motioned for Wilt to do the same when he told me Ferry wouldn't be here for another hour.

Shadows lingered on every wall as the sun faded in the sky. "Isn't he worried about lighting this late in the day?" I couldn't help but wonder how he planned to photograph in the dark.

"I don't ask questions. Ferry knew the circumstances and the environment. He wanted to come. I figure he can make it work and do it well. I'm sure he'll bring lighting with him."

The chatter around us carried on while I was lost in thought. Wilt was right. Ferry could create a masterpiece from mud, which was a good thing because that pretty closely resembled what he'd be doing in my kitchen. And without my realizing it, Wilt drew me into a conversation and eased into the interview like a pro.

The real whirlwind came when Ferry and his entourage arrived.

As a painter, I'd always worked alone. Even when I used models, they were silent participants. Seeing this flurry of activity that stampeded through my door was a bit overwhelming. It didn't take much for me to be consumed with immense anxiety and panic. I'd lived alone for five years, isolating myself from anyone and everyone. That normalcy, that solitude, transformed into fear after a while. I no longer did well in crowds and preferred the shadows of loneliness to the bustle of people.

"Bastian!" Ferry bounded through the door, making his way straight to me to grapple me in an awkward man-hug that lifted me off my feet.

It was so tight that I could suffocate if he didn't let go. Praise God, right before the stars in my eyes became black, I was able to breathe. Although it left me unsteady on my feet when he finally set me on the floor.

I was tall and thin. Ferry was enormous and built like a brick shithouse. He dwarfed me in an extra five inches of height and outweighed me by at least a hundred pounds of solid muscle. Everyone in the room had stood and now stared at the two of us, but it wasn't me that intrigued them.

Women stopped to stare when Ferry was near. I was secure enough in my masculinity to admit that he was a good-looking guy. That, coupled with his notoriety, kept him swarmed with available females. Rumors about other qualities he might be endowed with had often surfaced, but all I could confirm was his reputation for satisfying the opposite sex...and there had been a lot of them.

"Hey, Ferry." I struggled to talk and gasped for breath at the same time. "It's been a while."

He clapped me on the shoulder. "Yeah, man, it has. Enough of the pleasantries. Let's see it." Ferry had never been one for mincing words. He said what was on his mind, regardless of how inappropriate or whom it offended.

Running my hand through my hair, I resigned myself to this fate and fought the urge to vomit on the rug. I'd never had any apprehension about my art, but this was almost unbearable.

"Damn, Bastian. Calm down. We're all friends here. You're sweating like a nun in a brothel." Ferry laughed and shook his head.

He didn't understand my fear. From the moment he'd hit the top, he hadn't faltered. His career had been strong. He had beaten the odds, becoming world-renowned and well-respected while still living. Most artists never achieved that kind of fame. In this profession, a person had to die for anyone to find value in their work. Not Ferry. People paid tens of thousands of dollars for him to capture moments of their lives.

Ignoring his comment, I sucked in a sharp breath and took a step forward. Not even the encouragement of the other people around us could convince me that they were here because they believed in me. Thankfully, they all stayed behind, and only Ferry followed. I didn't turn on the lights, and instead, I allowed the natural light that remained in the day to showcase the wall. He came into the room completely before turning, as if he needed to see it all at once, not in pieces.

I didn't speak. The art would give its own explanation. When he moved, I stepped to the side to give him space. I'd done that same dance countless times. Ferry worked the light and shadows, silently. He tilted his head and watched the remaining sun play on the textures. Kneeling, standing, leaning, he contorted into some of the most uncomfortable-looking postures, but I remained still. Intrigue twinkled in his eyes. He saw something he liked, and his mind was processing how to capture it.

An unseemly amount of time passed as Ferry worked the shots in his mind, and I critiqued my work. I wondered if I should kill Nate now or wait until the witnesses had vacated the premises. The nerve-wracking inspection had nearly sent me into a full-blown anxiety attack

"I gotta tell you, Bastian. When I found out you were working again, I expected something caliginous. I never thought you'd recover the vibrancy you had captured when you were with Sylvie. You're the only man I've ever seen that could depict love, admiration, and sheer devotion with a paintbrush, and do it with elegance." Ferry's booming voice carried throughout the room and into the living room.

The chatter from my couch had ceased when he spoke like they were all on pins and needles, waiting for his assessment.

"I assumed anything you did going forward would be dark and somehow demonstrate your torment. I wasn't expecting this." He shook his head slowly, and the surprise gleamed in his eyes. "The way the shadows undulate across the piece creates a different work of art at every angle, and all of them are bright, illuminated strangely, refulgent. Seriously, Bastian, this is your best work yet. The textures, the colors you achieved-what the hell is it?" Ferry got right up on the wall, so close he could have licked it, and scrunched his eyes to determine the medium.

I cleared my throat, hoping to extract the nerves that had my muscles coiled tightly. "Umm, cream cheese mixed with berries and vegetables. There's other stuff in there, too."

"What the hell made you use food?" He turned to me with bewilderment in his piercing gaze.

"I didn't have any supplies." I looked to my toes as though they would save me. "I haven't had the desire. I lost my spirit when I lost her." I shrugged and kicked my foot at an imaginary object on the tiled floor. "I recently had the itch. A tingle in my hand. I can't really explain my urge." I rambled, but I couldn't stop. "I laughed it off at first, but the next thing I knew, I was in here pulling s**t from the fridge and pantry to come up with anything that would work." I hadn't even taken a breath. "Moved the furniture out of the way and just fell into focus. A couple of days later, this is what emerged." My fingers found the back of my neck and tried to rub away the tension.

"Sometimes brilliance is born from necessity. Glad you went with it. The question becomes...how do we immortalize it? Since it's perishable, we have limited time before the food turns and the colors will change and be lost. I don't know how any of this will work, but here's my thought."

Ferry wanted to capture several shots over multiple days in a life to death sort of motif. Brilliance to murky. It could be showcased as one piece with several prints. Neither of us knew how long it would take to completely decompose, but Ferry wanted it from inception to decay.

"What do you think, Bastian?"

"You want to photograph it over several days, knowing it will lose the appeal it holds today and turn into something ugly and unrecognizable?"

He turned to me with a grin. "That's exactly what I want. Life is macabre. It turns to s**t quickly and without warning; it's an elusive b***h. One day it's a plethora of illumination, the next its putrid pestilence. People try to hide that, so I'm thinking the middle days, when the colors start to lose their crispness, we use obvious filters in an attempt to cover the loss. Symbolic of the way people cover up the mess in their own lives. I think it makes sense for you."

Ferry was right, not that I had doubted him. It did make sense. Personally, I was at the decay phase. I'd put as many filters on my life as possible to hide it or cover it up, but the fact was, daily, I thought of my own demise and how I would take my own life to escape the pain. The only reason I hadn't done it was fear-plain and simple. Fear of the unknown. If there were something beyond this, why the f**k would I want to leave here to go there? To endure more of this, or worse, a more f****d up version of the same shitshow? At least this pain was familiar. If I knew there were nothing but darkness, a definitive end on the other side, I would pull the trigger today, end it all.

I was a selfish bastard and a coward at that, but it was the truth. Nate-my only real friend-knew it. It was the reason he checked on me daily and why he tried so hard to help me find an outlet.

"Yeah, it does."

"These are the colors of your soul, Bastian. What people don't understand is that everyone's colors continuously change in life. Through the ups and downs, they go from pinks and purples to deep shades of amber and crimson, to grays and almost unrecognizable blacks, and hopefully, back to greens and hues of yellow or gold, anything that signifies life. They become your aura-like a kaleidoscope, ever-changing. You've turned your wheel for the first time in years. Find the colors of your life again." He gripped my bicep and gave it a squeeze of encouragement.

I nodded, acknowledging I'd heard him but unable to express my thoughts. I was in unrecognizable blacks, but there was color in the peripherals of my world for the first time in half a decade.

He strolled out, leaving me staring at my soul.

Ferry talked to the people in the living room, and one by one, they brought equipment into the kitchen: softboxes, cameras, lenses, reflectors, and all kinds of other s**t I couldn't identify. I stayed out of their way while they set up. They danced around in choreographed movements, obviously having worked for Ferry for years. An intricate scarlet F adorned each black case, and his assistants wore solid black with his signature monogrammed on their sleeve.

Ferry entered, his expression stoic, and they disappeared. When he picked up a camera, I motioned toward the door so he could work, but he shook his head. "Stay."

I overheard the faint gasps of his staffs' surprise that he hadn't asked me to leave.

"Ignore them. I normally work alone. This," Ferry said, motioning to the wall, "isn't normal."

Most artists created in solitude. I thought. It was really the only way I'd ever worked. Even in college classes, it seemed each student managed to find their own little nook to work in isolation, and we left each other alone. I'd never studied someone else's creative process.

Ferry truly was a genius behind the lens. I couldn't see what he was after until he had moved. At times, rapid clicks captured his vision, and at others, ten or fifteen minutes would go by without any noise. Once or twice, he shifted the light, but mostly, he used his body to manipulate it instead.

When he finished, he looked as though he hadn't slept for days. He clapped twice, and his gang filed in to pull out equipment, but none of them touched the cameras again.

He held out the camera. "Wanna see?"

I straightened my spine and pulled back my shoulders when I pushed off the wall I'd been leaning against. "Really?" My voice cracked like a pre-pubescent teen. "You don't want to edit them first?" I was surprised he would allow anyone to see a raw photo.

He laughed so hard his shoulders shook. "I don't edit. Either the photo's right, or it's not. I don't manipulate it to get the lighting I want or distort an image. The only editing I will do is ensure that there's nothing in the image other than your work. I might crop out a piece of wall that snuck in." His smile was genuine, and it finally dawned on me, he sincerely believed in what he did here.

This wasn't a pity shoot or a ploy to humiliate me publicly. Ferry had seen something.

And when I looked at the display on the camera, scrolling through the shots, I saw it, too. It left me without words. I didn't have a clue how this would all unfold, but even if Ferry was unable to do anything more, this was beyond any expectation I'd had.

I shifted my focus from the camera to him.

"Told you." He picked up his other cameras and walked out. "See you tomorrow night around seven, Bastian," he called out as he left. "Hope you can stand the stench as that thing starts to rot."

I followed a few paces behind and escorted him, his staff, and Wilt out. Nate still sat in the same place he'd been hours ago.

With my audience gone and the door closed, I faced my best friend. "What the f**k just happened?"

He stood, his presence dominating the room. "Your comeback."