Page 18 of In the Frame

“Sometimes things are so beautiful,” I whisper, “that it hurts to look at them. Even though they make me happy. I don’t know if you can understand that.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. “I’m not sure that I do, but I know that you understand. That’s why I think it’s useful for me to know people like you who see things differently than I do. I wish I could.”

“We all see things differently, I think. And I can only dream to one day make work like that.” I sigh.

We take more champagne when it’s offered, graze on canapés that are works of art in themselves, on skewers, in bowls, impressive platters. It’s all going well, and we meet a couple of associates who Florian knows in passing to exchange greetings before we contemplate another piece.

“What do you think the point of art is?” Florian asks me finally.

I glance over at his long, dark eyelashes, the way his hair falls over his brow. In my stomach, something twists because this is where everything turns. Because I could paint him, like this, standing beside him to capture the feeling of this world well beyond mine, where Florian moves with ease, and he’s stunning like any of the works in here, and I don’t think he sees it.

“To move you, I think. Feeling or thinking or both,” I offer simply. “I don’t think there’s just one answer to that. It’s a trick question.”

“What about you, specifically?”

I shrug helplessly, gesturing widely with a hand at the room. “I want to feel something. In the simplest form. I want to see something I haven’t seen before. I want to be inspired. I want to be moved to act.”

He nods after a moment, gazing around.

“What do you see?” I ask curiously, knowing enough now about him to brace myself. But tonight, he’s not angry, and hopefully, his tongue isn’t as cutting, but he’s not one to hold back what he really thinks. Because there’s no one to challenge him, to have him consider their feelings.

“Investments.”

I groan. “Florian, seriously? Investments?”

“Well, at this level, yes. It’s also a great way to bankroll crime and launder money.”

Another groan. Of all the dark, cynical takes, I wasn’t prepared for this. “Don’t tell me you’re into shady deals too.”

“Absolutely not.” He looks offended at the very idea. “Everything I do is above board. But the art world is rife with politics and financiers and the elite buying status objects to impress other status people. In a way, people should frame a million pounds in a gold frame and hang it on a wall.”

“Please tell me you’re joking.” A feeling of dread rises.

“Only in part, to prove a point. That I bet the majority of the people in this room are here to diversify their investments, to impress others. Thinking about how much they will earn by selling their collection pieces or how much it will cost them, and then how much they can write off. And keep their art in ultra-secure underground vaults. Very few, if any, are like you in the way you see things.”

“That’s bleak, Florian.”

“I’m being pragmatic.”

I gulp some champagne. My cheeks burn. And I’m fighting down some unwelcome feeling or feelings that have me in their grip. Mortification. Disappointment. Even… embarrassment? I don’t know, but it’s quicksand, and I’m going down. “Are you actually buying something or…? I mean, why come here tonight if that’s what you think? Why invite me?”

The alcohol’s loosened my tongue a little, letting me be a bit careless with my words and more direct than usual. Something in Florian pushes me to push back. I’m one to avoid confrontation, to be the people pleaser. Florian has no such worries.

“It’s useful to be seen at cultural events. They’re good for business and for networking. It gives you something to talk about at meetings or over a working lunch. And yes, art makes for useful investments and a way to diversify your assets.” Florian gazes at a neon landscape before us, cypress trees cutting the sky with purple slashes. “Artworks are products, essentially. To be bought and sold like any other commodity. Books, music, paintings, whatever.”

“You make art sound so ugly.” Something rankles. There’s a subterranean feeling burrowing up to the surface, and I’d like to shove it back away. But it’s coming up faster than I can stop it.

“I’m not trying to do that. I’m trying to tell you the way it is.” Florian’s not frowning, not quite, but he’s definitely not smiling. Giving me a hundred percent classical Florian stare. Which, unfortunately, would make a brilliant sculpture.

I bristle. “Florian, I don’t need to be told the way things are. Like I’m naive. I’m not. I may be younger than you, but I know a thing or two. And, like you said, I know about art. And yes, maybe I’m an idealist, but people need to dream about something bigger than all of us.”

“You’re young still⁠—”

“Hell, you’re not much older than I am.” I frown at him. Good luck with that line of argument. “Don’t pull that shit on me.”

Florian frowns right back, for real this time, the corners of his mouth tugging down. “Remember the objective of tonight. Perhaps it’s time for us to leave. I do not wish to quarrel with you here.”

“You wish to quarrel with me elsewhere? Where did you have in mind?” Feeling petulant, I eye him. Maybe the third glass of champagne was a mistake, but I’m not going to admit it. Like there are ideal locations for quarrels. I prefer to skip the quarreling altogether, but he started this debate. And I can’t just sit back when he’s so callous about art.