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My Most Precious One(7)


“Cold?” He asked. I shook my head no, we walked into the elevator and I pressed the button for the third floor where the main exhibit was. I leaned to one side so I could avoid him a bit. I didn’t even know his name let alone know him enough to hang out for the next hour.

“So…” I started but he spoke over me.

“My name is Lukas, Lukas Blakk just in case you were about to ask.” I turned my head and met his gaze.

“I’m Le…”

“Alexia, I know.” He interrupted.

Okay so how does he know that? My look must have prompted him.

“At the bistro on the bill I get, your name is written on it.” He smiled.

“Oh! That’s right.” I murmured, a small sting of disappointment gabbed at me. Stupid self for being flattered so quickly.

The ding of the elevator rang and the doors opened, he waited for me to walk though first. We walked through the first small corridor that led us to a large open spaced foyer. The ceiling was an enormous domed window that let in the light of the sun which made the space around us feel majestic.

I smiled looking around enjoying the moment. I saw the security guard that waited at the front entrance of the exhibit.

“Shall we?” He extended his hand and I walked in. I loved visiting the museums for whatever reason it was. In Paris I nearly lost my mind, not at the Louvre so much, which I loved especially the archeological part, which not too many people visited which I may add, but at the Musee d’Orsay. It had so many different famous artists housed in spot that it made my trip feel so surreal.

“Hey I think I lost you for a second.” I smiled snapping right back to where I was.

“Sorry thinking about Paris and the museums.” I shrugged “I can’t help it.”

We began to walk around “So tell me about Dali.” I laughed to myself so museums weren’t the only things that I can get lost in, watching a walking living breathing GQ advertisement next to me was just too much for me. He smiled waiting for me to say something.

“His name is synonymous with surrealism. He was surrealism. Actually he was the first real celebrity to use crazy attics to sell his art, he understood it was a business and his wife was a shrewd business woman who was able to use his talents and make money for him. The art world shunned him because they wanted a broken soul artist that was a brute and angry but Dali wasn’t one of them. He used the thin line between what was real and what was a dream to shock the world with his art, to make the audience question why.”

We continued to walk through the corridors that had Dali’s paintings hanging, “At first he painted dark images from his subconscious that drove the critics wild but no one was buying them, too dark too disturbing. It was his wife who he adored who helped him. To him they were one. He then started to make a real name for himself. She worked hard to hone in his technique and went door to door trying to sell his paintings. The man had talent. He was born with it. He started painting at the age of three, not many can do that, but like most artists he had a slight problem with his identity and craved serious attention from everyone.”

We look at each painting taking in the disturbing images that Dali had painted.

“Why did he have an identity crisis?” Lukas asked. His eyes fixated on me, which made my belly flop.

“His older brother died.”

Lukas furrowed his brows “And?”

“They shared the same name, instead of giving him his own name they gave him his dead brother’s hence the identity crisis.” I shrugged.

“That would make sense.” Lukas added.

“They say that that’s what added to his quirky personality, he craved the attention, he wanting to always be remembered.”

The paintings were fantastic, I was also really enjoying his photographs; the live shots were simply amazing. I hadn’t notice but along the way I lost Lukas. I looked around not wanting him to think I abandoned him in my art tunnel vision when I saw him talking to a tall leggy blond that had more plastic on her than the whole museum put together. Something inside me wanted to run over there and put my arms around him claiming him but I knew that was ridiculous. He was free to do what he liked and obviously he liked to do tall leggy blonds. She was twirling her hair in one hand and then handed him a piece of paper with the other.

I felt a slight pang in my heart. Here I was a short slightly muscular brunette with olive skin, green eyes and a Greek nose. I didn’t bother to stay and watch, so I decided to walk on. I hit the end of the exhibit and I noticed he didn’t reappear so I guess it was my cue to leave. I unwrapped my ear buds and reshuffled my iPod. PJ Harvey came on. Angelene was one of my favorites, the perfect sentiment for how I’m feeling right now.