And/Of/Or

VIII : visus

visus (n.)
Latin
Sight.

________________________

Blink, Maximiliano Molina Romero: black and white on canvas, 15 x 12 in.

It was Max's first and last gallery.

Bergamot & Schwartz sat in the caged skirt of higher Los Angeles, flat in two dimensions and white, decorated with nothing but the texture of its own brick material and the stamped BERGAMOT & SCHWARTZ available at the little door, half-hidden by a wilting tree. The only hints at its interior were in the people filtering through—Arts District scarves, thrifted jeans, headphones bloated with The Wombats, totes heavy with library cards and generational trauma, black eyeliner thick, eye contacts seething—and in the severely red sign vandalized by the words ANY OTHER WORLD ANYWHERE.

The entire thing was as surreal and succinct as a local modern art exhibit could manage. And at twenty five, with nothing more than a solid DSLR in one hand and a kaleidoscopic, young adult worldview in the other, he'd most definitely take it. 

Priscilla Mayhew was a good friend of a best friend of a work friend. She didn't look like Los Angeles, which is how Max had missed her in the first place. She looked more like Eugene, with baggy bluebell jeans, oakwood boots scuffed at the back heels, hair cut purposefully shaggy, smile wide-toothed and eyes freckled with green. But her family-fueled wallet was made for Hollywood and Vine, her accounts amassing five digits, her businesses turning out like windmills, her connections a jungle of opportunity. 

His frequent shift buddy had been kind enough to introduce the two after discovering Max's photography affinity, and after several rounds of double espressos at overpriced city cafes, Priscilla had set out a date and time and dozens of empty frames to fill just for him. He'd been two years out of college by then, switching faces from smiling behind overpriced crudités a hundred feet above ground to calculating energy expenditures of manipulating toxic chemicals with multi-million dollar machinery. So, staring at still things that seemed tangible wasn't a bad break.

"It's at seven," he said, head in Ari's lap, the sun setting on his feet hanging off the bed, computer keys clicking away against his temple like the fast-paced rhythm of a heartbeat. "July 1st. PM. Like, night. They're serving drinks. Nothing better than a screwdriver, though."

The heartbeat stuttered. Ari peered at him from behind the screen. His smile was cool and kind, a cloudy, mid-March humidity broken through only softly by the occasional damp breeze. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Get me a ticket."

"Get it yourself."

"Then get me a screwdriver."

"Done."

Priscilla had almost ruined his joy the same week she'd given it to him, though.

"You need an exhibit name," she said, drinking her latte, lavender shriveled on the 2% foam.

Max tapped his finger against the perspiring ceramic of his iced americano. "What? Why?"

"I guess you don't have to," she added. "But you should. You're a new name. New names need bigger tags. So, give me a title. Maximiliano Molina Romero...?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

Priscilla plucked off the lavender. She pushed her strawberry blonde hair back just for her freckled eyes to seethe into him. "Give me a name by Friday. And your best pieces. You need a main piece. Big piece. A logo of yourself. This is your first exhibit. A brand debut. The brand: you. Who are you? Hand me a Hilfiger stripe, a Burberry pattern, a spade, double Gs, an LV. Your name is too long. Give the people a photo instead."