Sinnerman //H.S

16- "Painfull memories; drunk kisses."

"But if you do it yourself then we'll have no use for him." Dale sighs, swiping an anxious hand across his forehead as he looks at Harry, and then back at the curator for the Milton House gallery with an apologetic look on his face.

"Don't be dense Dale, 'course he's useful, without him there's no exhibit." Harry rolls his eyes, cigarette tucked between his lips and eyes narrowed as he snatches the bunch of papers from Dale's hands to look through them himself. He's honestly not sure why he hired a manager, the intent was to never look through paperwork himself anymore but lately Dale's really been pushing it with the useless phone calls and the little knowledge about anything in general. "Just fire everyone else for all I fuckin' care no one's looking at them before the opening, I'll frame everything and put it up myself before opening hours, and don't forget to fuckin' sign this." He tosses the papers back at him, exhaling the heavy smoke before looking back at the curator. "How many people are we talking here?"

"Well, considering the success of your last exhibit in London, we can expect double the amount of that, and adding the press that would be quite a number. Some of our regulars have seen your earlier work and have been asking about you for quite some time now, they'd do anything to get one of your pieces I'm sure." Harry nods, looking out to the street out of the floor to ceiling window front, the busy streets and how warmer it looks outside than in here surrounded by these sterile white walls, shiny marble floors and deafening silence of the art gallery. His brows furrow as the curator's words register, and he shakes his head.

"No press, I'm bringing someone so not until after the event and we're gone. I don't want anyone taking pictures of this, me, or her." That's the last thing he would want, to have his face plastered all over the newspapers or art magazines like a fame hungry phony ass guy that only paints for the looks of it. Having his name on the magazine covers and billboards across the city is already too much for him, and he wouldn't want anyone taking pictures of you without your consent, or taking pictures of you at all, no one deserves to look at you or keep a picture of you. He wonders for just a brief second if you've looked elsewhere than in your music and rock n roll magazines lately, if you've seen his name written in bold caps, articles talking about the European artist who paved his way to America to finally share his art. He's been seeing his name everywhere, maybe it's only because it's his name and he's knee deep in this industry but it still makes him uncomfortable, anyone could find him here.

"I'm sorry, no press? But sir, how do you expect the people to know about your most recent pieces? I mean if you don't want anyone seeing them before the opening of the exhibit that must mean something, that they're nothing like what we've seen from you before right?" The bald man shares a look with Dale that Harry doesn't catch, he sighs as gives another look towards the gallery walls.

"If they wanna know they just have to come and see it themselves instead of seeing a picture of it, I don't want my fucking face plastered everywhere so deal with it. I'll be here the morning of the opening to frame everything, thanks for the tour I'll see you then, and Dale don't fuckin' call me until then." He shakes hands with the curator and ignores Dale before turning on his heels to leave the premises, the bell above the door rings with his exit, leaving the two men to look at him walking all the way to his car and speeding off.

He spent the entire morning visiting the gallery for the first time, deciding the placements for his artwork, talking about different kinds of champagnes and various alcohols for the event, going over the few invited guests on the list and discussing the capacity of the largest room in the gallery for the paying visitors, deciding how long he wants his art hung in the gallery after the exhibition if they're not selling and all these things that annoy him, but that's how he makes a living so he really shouldn't complain about it all but sometimes he just can't help himself. He spent over three hours in there and his head is just about to explode, his limbs are almost tingling with impatience as he drives towards the beach, surfboard in tow on the backseat of his convertible for a much needed afternoon of meditation in the sea, and a reward at Billy's bar tonight.