t w e n t y - s i x
“If you ask me what I came to do in this world, I, an artist, will answer you:
I am here to live out loud.”
—Emile Zola
The LeFeber show is at a private Laguna Beach art gallery set against a hill less than a mile from the water’s edge. The lot is already filled with cars and people greeting each other as Zach pulls in and parks. Everyone’s dressed to the nines in suits, dresses, shoes, handbags and chic eyewear. The women are fashionable in that edgy, artsy way.
It’s the first time Dad has let me go to an event with Zach.
I want to look good next to him.
Cristina and Felicity are going to be here.
My stomach grumbles. I’ve been fasting for four days.
I reached my goal. Finally. When I stepped on the scale this morning, I thought I was going to scream. 100 pounds. Double zeros. Put together they almost look like the sign for infinity. It took me a little longer than I thought, but Zach telling me he was falling for me at the campaign announcement was just the motivation I needed. Every meal I skipped, every calorie I worked off. Every day I netted under zero calories.
It was all worth it.
I’m totally nervous to meet LeFeber. I have so many questions. How did you find your voice? When did people start to notice your work? Why is making art so hard? And why do I avoid my paintings when not working on them makes me feel like I’m dying?
It’s a long shot, I know. I’m a nobody. He’ll probably be too busy to speak to me. Then there’s the fact that I don’t actually know what he looks like that well—LeFeber is famously protective of his image and doesn’t let anyone photograph him.
“You’re kind of quiet tonight,” Zach says, turning off the ignition. “I thought you were going to be more excited. You’ve been talking about this thing all week.”
After running into Antonia in the office, I threw all my focus into this show. It’s the only thing I have to look forward to right now. I want to forget everything that ever happened between us. I don’t want to care about her anymore.
“Sorry,” I say. “It’s sort of overwhelming.”
“I don’t know why you get so worried.” Zach places his hand on my knee. “Don’t think about all these people. Just enjoy the show. You’re here for you. Not anyone else.”
“Thanks, Zach,” I say, trying to smile. “Going to a LeFeber show is supposed to be like walking into a different planet. He creates another world that you get to be a part of for this tiny bit of time. It’s a dream come true. Maybe it’s only a dream.”
“It’s hard for me to tell what’s going on with you,” he says, taking my hand. “Liv Blakely. Mystery woman.”
“I don’t mean to shut you out.” I give him a quick worried kiss. Zach is pretty much the only thing I have going for me at this point. “It’s not you. I just live in my head a lot. And I didn’t think you’d care about all this stuff.”
“I do care. I’m just not into the art industry as much as you are. Felicity never made it sound so intriguing. Don’t get me wrong, I like Felicity. But you’re so different. You create. She just shows up. I’ve seen your drawings—they’re good. She knows these people because her parents work in the industry. You actually have talent. A lot of people come just to be seen.”
“Is that what you do?” I say, trying to tease him, but the comment comes out half-wrong. “That’s not what I meant...”
“Every actor does,” Zach says. “It’s part of being a celebrity. You socialize. You attend events. And you meet people who will help your career. Hopefully.”
“Whatever,” I say, watching people stream into the gallery, hoping to get a look at LeFeber. “I’m not really concerned about who’s here. I’m glad to finally be part of something I can just enjoy for myself. I hate going to my dad’s campaign events. I don’t get to wear what I want. I don’t get to say what I want. I’m just a prop.”
“You don’t think I feel the same way?”
I don’t think Zach really understands. Everyone loves him.
“Honestly, I’m not here tonight for the art,” Zach says.
“That makes me feel worse,” I say.
He takes my hand and kisses my palm. “I’m here for you.”
Who is this guy? Where does he get these lines?
“You’re sweet.” I give him a big hug and kiss. “This is the best date ever.” I’m so impatient I can’t linger in the car any longer. My whole face scrunches. “Can we go in now? I think I see Felicity going into the gallery.”
He laughs. “Of course. Anything with you.”
The building is white, single story, and has a sloping glass paneled roof that’s so clean and clear you can see stars out of the windows.
When Zach and I enter, the gallery staff tells us that—per LeFeber’s request—the audience must stay in a waiting room until the installation officially opens. He’s also specified that each guest must pair up with another guest and enter the installation together. It’s meant to be experienced in pairs. Each pair will be let in a few minutes after the other to allow for a more complete experience. I’m already so excited to see the installation, but it’s even more special because Zach and I will get to experience the installation together in the way LeFeber intended.
There are Hollywood actors, influencers, all types of fashionable people waiting with us. Some of us are underage but sneaking champagne from the catering trays. No one seems to care. We haven’t entered the installation yet, but the atmosphere is so ethereal—buzzing with energy and excitement—that I feel like I’m already on another planet.
Felicity grabs a champagne. It’s her second already.
“I needed a drink,” she says. “These things are so stressful.”
“Your parents don’t care that you’re drinking in public?”
If I want to date Zach, I can’t get caught drinking in public again. I told Dad I was only drinking soda last time, but I’m not so sure he believed me.
Felicity laughs. “Don’t be silly, Liv. You’re in my world now. Things are different here. We’re part of something important, you can feel it in the air, and the only way to take it in sometimes is with some of this in your blood.”
I think about Felicity’s statement. They don’t live by the normal rules. They don’t have to constantly watch what they’re doing so their parents can win votes. They don’t have to pretend to be who they’re not. They don’t have to be happy and smiling all the time and try to get good grades and never ever mess up. I should be able to enjoy myself, forget about all my problems for once. I’ll be careful.
When the cocktail waitress walks by again, I grab a glass of champagne for myself and make sure I bunch up close to Zach and Felicity so that no one can get a picture of me drinking. Most of these people probably don’t recognize me anyway.
I take a gulp. The champagne is dry and bubbly and fizzes down my throat. After I finish the first, I crouch behind Zach and down another as fast as I can, careful not to be seen. Then I hand Zach the glass to put on one of the stands placed around the room.
I probably look silly—no, I know I definitely look ridiculous—but desperate times call for desperate measures.
I’m downing my third, observing the room and wondering whether LeFeber has shown up yet, when Felicity suggests that we go to an all-ages club to dance.
“This is taking forever to get started,” Felicity says. “I just wanna skip to the after-party.”
“And miss the installation?” I say. “I hear it’s gonna be... I mean, I hear that no one’s even seen it yet. Like, no one.”
“That’s just buzz,” Felicity says. “LeFeber creates these wild metaphors and I don’t know what they do other than get his name spread around like wildfire. And not letting the press take his picture? That’s a publicity stunt too.”
“I don’t know,” I say, countering her. “Maybe he actually wants people to pay attention to his art more than his personal life. And why shouldn’t art be sensational? It should be something you experience with your entire body. It should be like something you usually only experience in your dreams.”
Felicity gives me a smile. “You’re really up on this stuff. You should intern for one of the big art blogs. I can introduce you to some writers.”
I grin. “That’s sweet of you, but I’m not really a writer.”
“She can draw though,” Zach says.
“Can you?” asks Felicity. “I didn’t know. You better learn how to market yourself or you won’t get anywhere. Tell your congressman daddy that you need money to get started. It’s not cheap to live as an artist—you should ask for a million.”
I choke on the champagne. “A million? I should go to school first. Learn the craftsmanship. Get a job at a gallery or as a graphic designer for a while.”
Felicity’s smile is losing some of its warmth. “I guess you don’t want to be a true artist. You want to work for someone else.” She shakes her head. “You just want to be in the industry. Let me tell you something... You can go work for peanuts for someone, or you can make a splash. You choose. I’m friends with those who splash. Those are the people I want to fill my life with. I’ll be seen with LeFeber because he’s made a name for himself. Doesn’t matter whether or not I think his work is trivial. Plenty of people think his work is marvelous. Be seen, Liv. Splash. Don’t work for someone else.”
I look at Zach for support.
“She has a point,” he says quickly. “That’s why I love my Felicity. Go big!”
“My Zachy,” Felicity says, kissing his cheek.
I don’t know whether to puke or laugh. She’s being so pretentious, but maybe she has a point about stepping out on your own. What happened to thinking about art as a way to understand or express your humanity instead of as a way to measure how much you’re a show-off? Then again, I could learn something from Felicity. It’s not like I’m going to get anywhere by hiding in my room all the time. This is where I want to be—about to see one of the world’s most cutting-edge artists—and I’m on cloud nine, or eleven, or maybe a hundred and eleven.
The champagne is making my head spin a little. I’m scanning the foyer, trying to scope out whether they’re going to open the doors to the show or whether someone has recognized LeFeber yet, when Cristina squeezes through the crowd. Someone I don’t recognize right away follows her. He seems familiar, but I can’t quite place him. He has a wide forehead, angular jaw and aquamarine eyes. He’s immaculate. He’s beauty incarnate. This guy is objectively more handsome than Zach, which is kind of a rare situation for him to be in.
I can sense Zach tensing around Cristina and her new fling, but he hides it as well as he can. Cristina exchanges glances with him before she and Felicity share hugs and cheek kisses. “You look delicious,” Felicity says. “That dress.”
“I missed you lovely ladies.” Cristina glances at me with the slightest of smiles. At least she’s trying to be polite. “I was in Germany for a little while...”
“Who is this with you?” Felicity asks.
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” She pulls the young man to her side. He gazes into the distance like he’s bored with us already. “This is Andi von Allmen.”
Andi nods. Before he can speak, Cristina starts yammering on about him. “Andi’s from Germany. Earlier this year he modeled the underwear line for Nils Broms. You know that luxury men’s brand? Anyway, Andi’s going to be the next big thing stateside. I met him when I was doing the campaign for Calvin Klein this summer.”
“I recognize you,” I interrupt enthusiastically, admiring his amazing cheekbones. They look like they’ve been chiseled from marble by an Italian sculptor. “You had MADE IN GERMANY painted across your chest and stomach. Right?”
Andi laughs. “That’s me,” he says in a thick accent. “I’m surprised you know.”
Zach teases me. “I guess Liv keeps up with underwear campaigns.”
“I’m sure she does,” Cristina groans.
“Lighten up, Cristina,” Zach says.
“It’s fine,” I say. I’m not looking to get in a fight. Not tonight. I just want to enjoy the art and forget about the rest. I notice a gallery employee beginning to gather people by the entrance to the installation. “It looks like the show’s about to open.”
Cristina turns away from me. “See you all. Come on, Andi. There’s a photographer over there who I want to make sure sees us together.”
As soon as they leave Zach mutters, “Flavor of the week.”
I polish off the rest of the glass of champagne. Did Cristina come over here to make him jealous? Does Zach still have feelings for her? How deep do those feelings go?
The curators are opening the doors to the show, letting in pairs of people at a time.
Felicity excuses herself while Zach and I wait at the back of the line for our turn to enter the installation. Everything feels awkward after that conversation, so I try to break the ice.
“What do you think LeFeber looks like?” I ask.
Zach ignores me. He keeps his eyes trained on his phone.
“I’ve seen some old pictures of him. He had red hair,” I say.
“Why do I care?” Zach snaps. “What does the color of his hair matter?”
“I was just trying to make conversation,” I murmur, pulling back from him. What’s wrong with him? Just a few minutes ago, Zach was telling me that he only came to the show to be with me. I feel like the night has taken a drastic turn. The champagne sloshes in my empty stomach. I suddenly don’t want to be anywhere near Zach.
“Where’s the bathroom?” Zach asks.
“On the left.” I point across the room. “What’s wrong with you?”
“It’s complicated,” he says. “Cristina and I have a long history. I’m not used to seeing her with other guys.” He heads for the bathroom.
I try not to feel burned by his reaction. I won’t let his complicated feelings ruin my night. Tonight’s supposed to be about the show. About finding my voice. Not about us.
A waitress comes by with another flute of champagne, which I cradle between my fingers as I watch the bubbles fizz and swirl. I’m too buzzed to really care whether someone sees me now. The line moves quickly. Zach’s still in the bathroom—or wherever else, I don’t actually know—when I get to the front. I’m pissed.
Who am I going to pair up with?
The curators are getting ready to let the next pair into the installation when a middle-aged man walks up next to me. “Sorry to bother you,” he says. His voice is soft-spoken. “But I noticed you were alone. Would you be opposed to my joining you?”
He’s got sharp features, almost like a bird’s, and slightly sunken eyes ringed with paper-thin skin. He’s wearing a jacket with wings painted on the back, and his hair is dyed a silvery blue—almost like he exists in a fairy tale or a dream.
I glance back and finally spot Zach behind us, talking to some guy. Neither of them are paying attention to the show at all. Zach quickly hands something to the other guest as if he’s doing his Hollywood schmoozing, but I can’t see what he gave him.
Forget Zach. He lost his chance.
“No,” I say, smiling. “That would be nice.”
The gallery staff opens the door for us. I feel goose bumps prickling up across my forearms. It feels like I’ve been anticipating this moment my whole life.
We walk into a dark room. Music plays over the chatter of the people inside the installation. It’s got a heavy beat that’s slow and rhythmic. Keyboards drift with odd cosmic sounds. Ethereal. Trancelike. A foggy mist covers the floor, enveloping the guests as they slowly pass through the installation.
An undulating sea of lights illuminate the ceiling, creating a dreamy, spacey atmosphere. The man stands close to me, surveying the lights. I close my eyes and try to center myself. The ground shifts a little under my feet and I feel like I’m floating on air.
After a moment, I open my eyes to take in the installation. Hundreds of clear glass bells float in the air. They’re hanging by tiny translucent threads, but they appear to float on their own because of the dimness of the room. A bell chimes and sets off a domino effect, making the other hundreds of bells floating in the air appear to chime without anyone touching them.
“What started the chiming?” I ask.
“Don’t you think that’s the point?” The man smiles. “To make you ask that question? Who knows why certain things in our lives do or do not happen? There’s no causality. Only the hand of God. Or—if you do not like that term—something great and invisible.”
Is that what I feel when I’m painting? Is that what I’ve been trying to access when I make art?
“It looks like there’s something to see over there,” I say, pointing to a small group of people standing approximately twenty feet across the room.
The man gestures for me to go ahead.
I whisper as we walk. “Do you know this artist?”
“LeFeber? I am fairly well acquainted with his work.”
As I reach the group, I gasp in shock. It’s a person—or a wax doll, I guess, but so lifelike—crumpled on the ground. Except the figure has giant feathered wings growing out of its back. Bending down, I examine the fallen angel’s face. Its expression is mysteriously serene, like the angel is keeping a secret that I’ll never learn.
“Do you think angels have secrets?” I ask.
“Perhaps,” he says. “Maybe they keep them for us.”
“I don’t think anyone would want to know my secrets. Even angels.”
“Excuse me, but I think I overheard you speaking earlier about this artist in the foyer.” The man looks down at the fallen angel again. “You seemed to have insight about his work. What do you think about this installation?”
I pause to think for a moment.
“It’s hard to say what an artist’s intention might be. Art is so personal,” I say. “At first, I assumed that figure was a fallen angel, but now that I look longer I wonder whether that’s meant to be a human with wings. You mentioned God. It could be about divinity. But I think maybe this—” I point to the figure “—is actually about being human.”
Suddenly, a staff member approaches us. “Mr. LeFeber,” he says in hushed tones, “one of our board members would like to meet you.”
I’m totally shocked.
“You’re LeFeber?” I ask.
“I prefer Geoff. It’s more personal, don’t you think? My dear,” he says, “what is your name? You were experiencing the art with the greatest amount of passion.”
“I—I’m Liv,” I can barely manage to say. I hate how overwhelmed I get. I’m that girl who just can’t seem to find her chill. “I’ve been waiting all my life for this.”
How stupid.
He lets out a polite laugh. “Oh have you?”
“I’m not kidding,” I say.
“It’s a shame that my presence has altered that experience,” he says.
The staff member looks impatient, but I can’t lose my shot.
“I know you have to go, sir,” I say, “but I really want to ask you a question.”
From across the room, I see Felicity’s gaze trained on me as I’m talking to LeFeber. She looks like she can’t believe that he’s giving me the time of day.
“How did you know you were an artist?” I stammer.
“If you’re asking that question, then you’re an artist,” LeFeber says. “Don’t deny it. I saw your eyes taking apart my installation, reconfiguring it in your mind, piece by piece. I’d like you to finish your thoughts, Liv. Tell me. What did you see in my work?”
I try to think. My head feels fuzzy from the alcohol.
“The way the angel looks so realistic makes me think of the duality of the human condition,” I say, realizing I never get to talk this way to anyone except for Ms. Day. “It’s divine yet also deeply broken. That’s why he’s crumpled on the floor.”
“The angel-man you see here is sick. Infected with his life. Broken, falling. Just because you’re an angel doesn’t mean you’re not broken. We all must find our way to peace and health. We must find our way back to our divine nature. We must transform ourselves.”
“Why did you choose that theme?” I ask.
“We’re all sick, dear. We’re all sick. All these people you see here,” he says, gesturing to the people milling around the room. “They are numb. They are trying to feel something. I don’t care if they like my work or not. My goal is to help them wake up, to stir them. As I said, I love your passion. I worship it. You are the lone cherub,” he says.
I’m in disbelief that he could see something in me. “I know you get asked this all the time,” I say, “but I really want to know what inspires you.”
He pauses and hums to himself. “I do get asked this so much. How do I not sound like a robot? Usually, I say love inspires me, or beauty, or sadness, or hope. So many things I can pull from the air just floating there. You inspire me. This is true too, or I wouldn’t be here talking with you. The answer you seek, however, goes much deeper. I am often secretly inspired by those early days when I borrowed money to rent a studio in New York. It was a chaotic time. I was full of dreams! In those days, I drew something from myself that often seems lost now. You see, down inside of you is a purity. A gemstone of inspiration. It comes from within, forged from this unexplainable burning desire. You must keep it pure. You do understand this. Purity is everything. Protect it. Mine is housed, guarded within memories. When you do this, you can gaze into the world. What do you see? You see poverty. You see war. You see hate. You see all these terrible things, and they burn in you because you want to help the world. You want your work to speak to the world. You want to save the world. Yet, after all, you are only an artist. You don’t create war machines. You don’t create political agenda. You create the aesthetics of the world that covers over everything, another form of meninges, a membrane of life and beauty pulsating over the sad brain of the world. Yes. That is us. And while the pain of the world is inspiring, it all must eventually pass through the original purity within you in the first place. That gemstone. The one you must keep pure. The one that harbors the seed of all your inspiration.”
LeFeber touches my chin. “With that, I must go,” he says. His gray eyes are deep and soulful. “Tomorrow I will share my fallen angel with more of the world. And you must share what you have to give, my angel of the hills...look at you...so beautiful...good night...”