Scorching Artists and Familiar Strangers

            Introverts dread being invited to a party where they do not know a soul. Even knowing someone who is attending does not help.

But my childhood friend, Novelette, was in town. She was performing at a warehouse in Lasalle; her artwork consisted of live shows. She would make paintings on large canvases and then burn them on site. Tapings by the audience were not allowed, so they would be the only ones to see the art. She became well-known across the US, Europe, and Asia, but this was her first show in Canada. And she insisted on having it in her hometown.

She was having a party at the Ritz for her new and old friends—a prequel to her 7-night show.

I arrived early at the Ritz-Carlton to check in my heavy winter coat and boots. Novie’s party was being held in the Oval Room. As I sat at the bar outside the entrance to the main event, I noticed that the room was already half full.

I had planned to sip on the same cocktail until she gave her act, watch, and slip out as fast as I could. The bar was my safe space. People just ordered and left. Soon, I could see more people making their way into the ballroom. They all seemed wealthy and without a care in the world.

Soon, a peculiar-looking man sat next to me.

“I hate these things, too,” he said in an American accent. I heard a little bit of Boston in him.

He had long, straight, dark hair split in the middle. He was wearing an Elton John-type suit and dark sunglasses. 

“So how do you know Novie,” I asked.

“I’ve been to some of her shows in New York and London, and I dig her work. I’m in town working on a project.”

“What about you?”

“We were best friends in elementary school, and for some reason, she keeps in touch. I still get birthday cards and holiday cards from her. But I have not seen her since she left Montreal at 16 to pursue her performance art painting.”

“Did she burn her stuff back then, too?” he asked.

“No, she would draw, though. And then rip her art and throw it out in the garbage can. She said that I was the one who inspired her type of art. I never thought it was strange that she destroyed her drawings. Everyone else did.”

Both of us simultaneously went silent and observed our whereabouts.

A host of ceremonies announced Novie’s arrival. A lot of the crowd headed to the entrance of the Oval Room.

As she walked by us, she blew him a kiss.

The crowd was delighted. He must have been someone well-known in the art world.

 Afterward, she blew me a kiss, too.

But they all shrugged with disappointed faces. Suddenly, I felt flushed from embarrassment. The bartender had noticed and gave me another flute of champagne to regain my composure.

            “It will take Novie a while before she does her act. She is going to work that room. She is one of those artists who enjoys engaging with the public.”

            It seemed like hours had passed, but it was only 30 minutes. Feeling restless, my right leg started shaking.

“I’m part of her act tonight; it’s coming soon. You’ll be free.”

I tried not to smile, but I did. I hated my smile. I had crooked teeth due to my temporomandibular joint disorder. And recently, I tripped and hurt a tooth, turning it into a light shade of brown.

            Suddenly, I heard, “I invite Jeremy to join me on the main stage.”

It was the man next to me.

           I went to the back of the Oval Room to watch.

            A crew brought a large canvas on stage with spray paint. Novie took off her dress and remained in her nude slip. Jeremy stood on the other side of the stage. She made several abstract disco balls to match Jeremy’s outfit. His outfit was the inspiration.

            Once she had finished her masterpiece, a different crew arrived and placed the painting inside a large, clear, fire-resistant container. On one side of the container, a large lighter appeared to be attached. Jeremy walked over to light it, and as the flames engulfed the painting, the crowd erupted in wild applause as the artwork vanished in seconds.

            Then, Novie said, “Thank you,” before she and Jeremy escaped into the background.

            I was the first one at the coat check. However, as I exited the Ritz, large snowflakes began to fall, and gusts of frigid wind sent shivers down my spine that November day. When the taxi finally arrived, I fell as I opened the door on a patch of black ice. The pain caused me to black out.

 

                                                            #

 

            As I came to, I was so groggy that it took me a while to realize what was happening. I was in a hospital bed.

            “Hey, you took quite the fall last night. The doctors told Novie that your broken arm will heal nicely. You also had a minor concussion. So, you will be here for a couple of days for observation,” the man from last night said. I had recognized the voice.

            The more I regained consciousness, the more I realized that the man from last night resembled Jeremy Strong, one of my favorite actors. He was wearing one of those oversized, tacky male fur coats from the 1970s. He was not wearing glasses this time, and his hair was in a man bun.

            He saw that I finally knew who he was.

            “I promised Novie that I would come in and check in on you. She wants the full report. She is resting for her first night of her 1970s show.”

            Seeing that I was confused, he said, “I’m playing a 1970s pimp, filming in Montreal. When Novie heard I was filming in her hometown, she wanted to do an art gig together at her party for a 1970s-like piece of art.”   

“But I must get back to work. It’s me Syd Girls Man, Lucinda. I like checking in on all my girls. Especially, after they have had a rough night,” he said. He opened my purse next, then my wallet, and pretended to take money I owed him before leaving. 

After all, he is a method actor.