THE CURATOR, Prologue

Washington, DC

Price’s Gallery of Fine Art

I love exhibition openings. The excitement in the air. The art world dressed to the hilt, sipping champagne, swapping the latest gossip. The joy of seeing paintings that had never been seen before, fresh from the artist’s studio.

Attending art events is my bread and butter, yet I was thrilled when the invitation to the opening of Timothy Thorne’s solo show landed on my desk. Timothy is my favorite contemporary painter, not to mention that his last exhibition catapulted him to the top, securing him godly status most artists never achieve, dead or alive.

That happened over five years ago. Timothy hasn’t produced anything significant since, which drove the anticipation of this exhibition to extraordinary heights. As the opening neared, the anticipation turned into frenzy because no one was allowed to preview Timothy’s new works.

Price’s Gallery, which had launched him to stardom all these years back, was hermetically sealed for days, the windows blocked, security guards patrolling the premises twenty-four seven. A mouse couldn’t have gotten through, let alone a journalist.

Gallery workers were sworn to secrecy and prohibited from bringing their phones onto the exhibition floor. Not a single photograph was taken.

The waiting is over now, and I cross the threshold of the gallery expecting brilliance. The first look around knocks the wind out of me.

Shocked, I slowly walk from painting to painting. Some of them don’t seem finished. All of them scream chaos, disharmony, and dismay. Gone are the vibrant colors of Timothy’s famous works. This is a macabre dance of lifeless blacks, grays, and reds.

Overwhelmed by the gloom, I take a short break, but it’s impossible to escape the merciless buzz. People talk about the flop of the century, a supernova that burned itself out. Some suspect alcohol abuse and marital problems.

“What on earth happened to him?” a woman in a group of sharp-looking DC socialites asks.

“Who knows? His wife isn’t even here,” another one responds.

“Are you surprised? I would hate it if he called a painting Love, while it’s a portrait of a witch.”

“You mean a bitch?”

“It’s so abstract. How can you even see a face in it?”

“Just go stand in front of it and open your eyes. I wouldn’t be amazed if he murdered her.”

I gasp. They are talking about the most prominent painting of the exhibition, Agápi, which means love in Greek. I move on and weave through the crowd back to my group, taking another look at the piece. Definitely not love.

Timothy stands next to her, holding a mike in his hand. What is he going to say?

Suddenly the overhead lights come on, flooding the dimmed exhibition floor with a sharp white light. Murmurs of displeasure fill the room.

Something is happening by the front door, and I turn around. Timothy’s wife, Natalie, marches in, flanked by several men. So he didn’t murder her. I almost laugh.

Except for her deadly white face, she is a composition in red and black. Red-painted lips set in a superior curl. Determined, cold, dark eyes. Raven-black hair framing her high cheekbones and flowing down past her shoulder blades. A tight black dress with red piping and a red bow on the back.

I suck my breath in—it’s the same dress I tried on and almost bought for this event! Phew… Natalie passes by, and I notice that the color of the oversized bow matches the soles of her shoes.

Deafening silence escalates the tension in the room. The crowd parts in front of Natalie as she approaches Agápi. Phones and cameras spring into action.

She stops, pulls a six-inch scalpel from a bag hanging over her right shoulder, and hurls it at the painting. It hits the center of a red and black X that symbolizes Agápi’s heart. A loud thud pierces the silence.

Timothy jumps aside, horror twisting his face into a grotesque mask. A blood-red liquid spurts out of the X and flows down the canvas, dripping onto the floor.

Several stifled gasps stir the audience and give way to an explosion of applause, whistles, and woo-hoos. I bet the art critics present are rewriting their pieces, celebrating the aesthetics of the red rivulets flowing from Agápi’s “heart” and the brilliance of finishing the painting during the opening night.

I keep my eyes on Timothy. He stands frozen next to the painting, his knuckles white around the mike. Something’s wrong. People assume that this was a well-rehearsed opening act, but I don’t buy it.

One of the men who came in with Natalie steps forward, lifts a large, legal envelope and presses it into Timothy’s free hand. He grasps it automatically, not letting it fall.

“Are you Mr. Timothy Thorne?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been served, sir. Mrs. Thorne is divorcing you,” the guy shouts, apparently wanting to be heard.

Confusion sweeps through the crowd, not stopping the cameras and phones from rolling. I am sure this will go viral in no time.

Natalie claps her hands in glee and turns around. A spotlight briefly illuminates the man standing next to her, and I freeze. It’s a profile I could never forget. Or mistake.

Panic grips me by the throat. I want to run but am boxed in by the crowd, unable to move without causing a commotion. So I stand still, my heart thumping in my chest.

The guy follows Natalie, scanning the room. His gaze meets mine for a fleeting second. He shouldn’t have detected anything worth attention because the advantage of seeing him first gave me the opportunity to shift my expression into entitled amusement. Yet was it a flicker of recognition I glimpsed in his eyes? Difficult to say.

Natalie walks by, a condescending smile plastered on her face.

The guy is just a few steps away now. Our eyes lock. This time, I know he recognized me. Just as I recognized him.

My past caught up with me.

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