dressed well and dressed highly is the only acceptable way one can show up to an art exhibition of this scale. all social and class causes aside â things that marcel hardly has any empathy for, but with full willingness to be sympathetic to it â the art displayed by the social crusaders and artists is truly a sight to behold, and one thatâs available through money. the hypocrisy of these contemporaries sometimes sickens him, but if it must be done in the name of art, then so be it. he might have even donated a pretty penny or two, despite his tightened finances, and still, he manages to show up in a well-fitting suit and a new cane to match his shoes. they look like polished leather and is an art statement unto itself for those modest enough to keep their eyes down.
but this isnât the salon dâautomne. itâs much more intimate, off-the-coast, off-the-bracket. still, many have come, and marcel is dressed at his best.
itâs no wonder why. the artist, in all his skill, has procured such works that it merits its own exhibition, to which marcel has donated much more generously. itâs not social favours heâs after in france. heâs had his fill of that back home. no, itâs closer to the heart, this time, and money is just a good appetiser, something to have on the side, something thatâd keep the champagne flowing on opening night.Â
he engages in small conversations, and flits away when someone else offers a better topic. itâs all politics, movements, revolutions â oh, the french and their revolutions! how very european, he remarks, and they laugh and say, how very american; the newcomers call him oriental, because they donât know, but he doesnât quite mind that. itâs been generations and itâs an identity crafted from an insult. someone rises to his defence and he gives his thanks, and heâs in the middle of educating the nouveaux arrivants to the scene when a flash, a glimpse, a glamour â
and heâs turning away again, giving his apologies for the sudden need to be elsewhere but there, and suddenly be somewhere with someone. itâs an attraction of the worldly sort. itâs the cheekbones, perhaps, or his eyes, or his hair, or his hands. everything must have been crafted by god.
âapollo,â he calls out, and has to bite back the chĂŠrie, mon ami, mon amour. âi must congratulate you â youâve outdone yourself again.â cheekily, he smiles, sips his champagne, as if he hadnât been watching the man work on his pieces for the past few months, in the stimulating space of his own home, âmay i ask you what inspired you? it mustâve been something absolutely grand.â
Apollo was never a fan of such gatherings. He was always grateful and thankful for everyone who visited and appreciated his art, but he hated how he had to dress up and shake hands to those who are here just for show. He always had an eye for those who were here who truly appreciated his works, and those who were only here to say that they have visited and artistâs work. But either way, Apollo had grown to smile at them both just to show appreciation. Even those who donât want to be here are contributing to his work as an artist, and he is still thankful for that.
He is casually talking with another man from his town, interviewing him about the process and what instruments he used to make his artworks, when he feels a familiar presence approach him. He hears him call out his name, a bit distant than from when they were alone together so many nights ago, and Apollo turns around and gives a blinding smile. âMarcel.â He greets, with utmost joy.  âMerci, Merci. â Apollo says, bowing a bit with thanks. To others, their conversation looks as if it is just two friends meeting for the first time. But as Apollo stares into Marcelâs eyes, he remembers those nights when it was just the two of them, only focusing on each other and nothing else, as if the world didnât exist. âI would have to say, love. Amour.â He says, a knowing smile on his lips as he takes a sip of his own champagne. âIt is cheesy, I know, but if you see not all of these works are... Happy.â He says, gesturing to each of them. âbecause that is the truth with love, yes? Itâs not always going to be.... Happy.â He says, musing.Â
âAh, just like this one.â He says, motioning to a nearby work of his. It was a difficult piece to decipher, full of geometric shapes that were connected to form one grandiose piece. The colors were muted, very different from the vibrant ones around it. âThis was inspired one night, after I met someone.â He said, trying his best not to look at Marcel, because Apollo knows who he is talking about. âAnd that person had changed my life, perhaps for the better. But from the beginning, I knew it was meant to be, which is what inspired me to make this one.â He said, smiling, despite the sadness of his words.  âIn fact, most of these works were inspired by that person.â He said, sipping his champagne once more as he stood in front of his painting, taking in all the details.
