And now she’s walking after me, leaving me no choice but to abort my escape. I turn around and meet her confused look. She’s dressed in classic New York black, from her chic long-sleeved blouse and ankle-length skirt, to her black stiletto-heeled boots. The look might be intimidating on anyone else, but with her petite Asian beauty, she’s as delicate as a doll, even garbed in head-to-toe black.
“Where are you going?” Her brown eyes narrow as she stops in front of me on the sidewalk. She tilts her head, her sleek bob swishing against her chin. “I’m surprised to see you. What are you doing here?”
“It’s my day off, and I happened to be in the area, so . . .” I shrug. “I thought it might be a good time to take my paintings off your hands.”
She frowns. “I told you that wasn’t necessary.”
“I know, and I appreciate that.” I wave my hand dismissively. “I’m sorry. I should’ve called first. I didn’t realize there was something going on today. We can talk another time.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She reaches out to take my hand. “It’s an informal open house for some of the new artists and our best patrons before we open to the public. Very casual and low-key. And you’re always going to be welcome at Dominion so long as I have anything to say about it.”
I trudge behind her hesitantly. I can think of a hundred things I’d rather do than skulk around the gallery like a scorned lover who refuses to accept defeat. But Margot’s tug on my hand is insistent, and I can’t deny that I’m more than a little curious to get a look at the artist’s work that replaced mine in the new displays.
Margot brings me inside and motions for her assistant. “Jen, will you take Avery’s coat for her, please?”
The perky young brunette nods and holds out her hands with a polite smile. I don’t move right away. In fact, I’m tempted to refuse to take my coat off if not for the fact that the combined body heat inside the gallery is several shades past balmy. No one else is wearing theirs, and if I’m hoping to be inconspicuous as an uninvited guest at this gathering, passing out from heat stroke in front of everyone surely isn’t going to help my cause.
Reluctantly, I take my coat off and hand it over to Margot’s assistant. Ordinarily, my day-off clothing choices don’t need to take me anywhere more fashionable than the grocery store or an occasional meal out. Standing in the packed gallery now, I struggle not to feel awkward in my distressed skinny jeans and brown knee-high boots. My slouchy oatmeal-colored sweater and the yards of gauzy white scarf draped around my neck are far more comfortable than chic.
I sigh as Jen trots off to hang my coat in a closet near the entrance. No, there will be no blending in amid the sea of black-on-black in the room.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Margot instructs me optimistically. “I need to go mingle for a little while, but I’ll swing back around to find you. Have fun, okay? And have some champagne. We had cases of it brought in tonight.”
She melts into the throng, and I’m left to my own devices on the peripheral of the crowd. My first stop is the bartender where I pick up a glass of champagne and knock it back in a couple of swallows. The liquid courage helps, so I take another flute and carry it with me as I begin a slow circuit of the room.
Dominion’s reputation has been built on its eclectic offerings and a willingness to take risks when it comes to the artists they showcase. I see that on display in full force tonight. All of the new exhibits feature unconventional, avant garde paintings or unusual photographs. Some of the themes are violent and disturbing, scenes of pain and neglect and fear, all conjured or captured by an unflinching eye.
Other displays—like the one where my handful of meticulous, if tame, cityscapes had hung until a couple of days ago—hold collections of abstract works, formless images comprised of a confusion of bruising, clashing colors rendered in aggressive brush strokes and chaotic lines. I pause there long enough to finish my second glass of champagne before moving on to another area of the gallery.
Half a dozen people are clustered in front of another display where a single painting—one marked “Dominion Private Collection - Not For Sale”—dominates the wall. I stand behind the small crowd and look at the full-body portrait of a nude woman whose painted image is reflected on shards of broken, mirrored glass.
She’s an odd choice for a model with her short, thinning hair and small, deflated breasts on a body that looks decades older than her haunted, but defiant, dark gaze. Her head is tipped back slightly, one hand raised and resting at the base of her throat. Her pale, cracked lips are parted on what looks to be a deep, anguished sigh.