Page 66 of This Bitter Sweet Temptation
“Kit did a project on him a couple months ago. Didn’t mind watching the documentary. I’ve also seen a lot of Van Gogh stuff. Your grandfather dropped a ton of names I can’t remember over the years.”
“Oh my God, Boomer.” I hide my face.
He chuckles.
“Like I said, not my wheelhouse.” He takes my arm and steers me away from a large group of tourists with their phones out, talking loudly and barely paying attention to running me over. “This is,” he growls.
Oh, touché.
“You’ve made your point. Let’s start with the basics, though.”
We head into the Egyptian exhibition first. It’s this cool spread of art recovered from a sunken city on the coast. The elegant statues of glaring gods and glittering jewelry looks like it was just finished yesterday.
I’m in awe, stopping to read every tiny screen and description, soaking it in. Holden actually reads it with me. He’s more patient than I expected.
“No mummies, then? When you said Egypt, I expected mummies,” he grumbles.
I laugh. “This is a lot of stuff from the second and third century. By then, they were under Roman rule and the mummies got more low-key. They still did it, but not quite as grand as it was during the kingdoms.”
“Disappointing. The good things never last, I suppose. At least it’s not all paintings. Nice to have some variety,” he says as we move along, wary of the time constraints.
“Art isn’t just paintings, especially when it’s ancient.”
“If you say so. Music is music to me.” He shrugs his enormous shoulders.
“Musicisart, too. You’re a smart guy and you can open your mind a little. Art isn’t just—” I search for the right word, unsure why I’m bubbling with nerves again, the feeling he brings out so effortlessly.
But it’s passion, too.
I’ve had a few occasions where I’ve gotten so worked up talking about art I actually cry. Not today. I’m not about to cry in front of Holden fucking Verity.
After yesterday, not again.
“Take your time,” he says.
“It’s all about human expression, Holden. And people can express themselves in so many ways, whether it’s with words or paintings or music or just stringing random junk around the house together because it means something. Have you ever just shut down and let yourselffeel?”
He stares at me blankly.No, of course not.
“Well, that’s art. However we choose to bottle up the human experience and share it with the world.”
“Can’t argue with that.” His mouth turns up. “Is that what you do, Nile? Capture your experience?”
“If you’re asking whether I try to translate my experience through art, then yes. Even the commercial stuff I sell on the side for money, I try to make it meaningful. That’s all we really have. Any artist who doesn’t put their heart into it will be replaced by AI.”
“AI. All it’s done is give me a lot to worry about whenever Kit scrolls across another video with talking fruit. Cannot believe theshitthey do with that.” His mouth curls with disgust.
I laugh.
We’re moving into the modern and contemporary art section now. He pauses in front of a Wifredo Lam painting,Goddess with Foliage.
“What experience is this? Looks like somebody jumbled up a fruit basket with a naked lady. Better than the AI slop, at least.” That tiny smile deepens as he looks at me.
“That’s the whole idea.” Snickering, I shake my head.
At first glance, the painting looks like a mess of shapes. Look closer, and it’s a naked woman with oddly different breasts, her features materializing. There are leaves like butterflies floating around her.
He stares as I launch into what I remember about this one, explaining the different elements. How Cuban culture inspired Lam and produced these stunning dreamlike visuals.
