Operation: Intellect
Remember when I mentioned the Gianni’s undisputable intelligence? Well, that just so happens to be the next focus of our little study.
Under the pretense of taking a nine-hundred and sixth inventory of my photos awaiting transport out of the gallery, I watch my subject’s interaction with another male in his territory. Although, technically, I suppose we’re in Paul’s territory at the moment as this is his gallery, but it amuses me to think that Gianni’s territory is wherever I am. The thought isn’t bad for my ego, either. Oh, yeah. Likin’ that.
“Van Gogh wasn’t brilliant,” Gianni quietly counters Paul’s most recent and pompous opinion. “You’re oversimplifying his contributions to modern art in leaving out the matter of his mental condition.”
“I hardly think his masterpieces can be attributed to his self-perceived madness.”
Gianni’s eyes flash. I hide a grin. Where is my camera? I need to document this moment. Gianni in the midst of kicking the daylights out of someone’s intellect is a Must for the scrapbook.
I nonchalantly lean the framed photos against the wall, abandoning them in mid inventory and somehow managing to disregard my obsessive need to keep tabs on my photos at all Lasca-conscious times. (Perhaps they do require constant supervision; that’s certainly the case with my keychain. Luckily, Gianni is holding onto that for me. Giannis are very useful, you know.)
Gianni corrects Paul’s rose-tinted view of van Gogh, “He was desperate to be rid of the voices and whispers in his mind.”
“I’m not disputing that. The man cut off his own ear, after all,” Paul contributes self-importantly.
One corner of Gianni’s mouth lifts in a sexily wry grin. I know this grin well. I’ve succumbed to its sheer hormone-rioting-appeal on numerous occasions. (And at moments like this, I’m perfectly happy that math is not my strong suit. It’s probably better for all involved that I not be aware of precisely how many times I’ve fallen under the thrall of that particular almost-leer, might-be-smirk, is-definitely-lickable smile.) And yet, somehow, Gianni seems to be utterly unaware of its power, which is probably just as well. If I were to catch Paul - perfectly straight and very-much-engaged-to-a-woman Paul - eying up the Gianni with a lascivious leer, I might have to lock someone up for the remainder of my natural life. I’ll give you three guesses on who that someone is… and I’ll tell you right now, he’s not a gallery owner.
“And the fact that he did sever his own left earlobe doesn’t make you think that something of his suffering influenced his painting style?” Gianni challenges softly but unignoreably.
I wander over to the gallery door beside which sits my backpack, a huge roll of mega-bubble wrap (for transporting framed photos, of course), and my camera case. The latter of which, I commence with emptying as if I’m looking for my keys (which are actually in Gianni’s jacket pocket, but I have my share of ditsy moments, so I’m pretty sure I can pull this off if he asks me what I’m doing).
I snap off the camera’s lens cap and, using my years of experience with handling photography equipment, set the depth of field on the lens and guestimate the focus.
“The art and the madness both came from his consciousness,” Gianni further argues. “And his application of excessive amounts of paint in his later works could very well be a response to the dementia.”
I can tell it irks Paul to feel unbalanced by this theory, which is probably correct. Gianni has a point of view on humanity that’s hard to argue with. “I’m not following you.”
I am, I think as I continue rummaging in my case, holding the camera up as if keeping it and its shadow out of my way so that I can peer into the depths of the bag.
“Van Gogh’s tormenting hallucinations were interspersed with visionary outpourings. Were those your choices, which would you rather prolong?” Gianni cocks a brow before delivering his conclusion, “It’s no wonder he piled on as much paint as he could.”
Paul gapes.
Gianni smiles with only a little smugness.
Click!
The sound of the camera shutter exposing a frame of film echoes in the charged silence. I glance at the camera in my hand, then up at the startled men across the room, then back at the camera.
“Whoops! Sorry about that,” I say with the perfect amount of shock. “I just wasn’t paying attention. Carry on! Let me know if you need someone to referee your duel.”
Paul rolls his eyes, uncrosses his arms and mutters, “I doubt that’ll be necessary.”
Gianni gives Paul a friendly smile. “I apologize. Van Gogh’s career is an interest of mine.”
“We all have our obsessions,” Paul allows and wisely doesn’t volunteer his own. As he gets back to work wrapping and packing up my photos for transport, Gianni eyes me with an increasingly-familiar suspicious look.
He glances at my emptied camera bag and then wonders aloud, “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Keys,” I blurt mindlessly. Those dreamily dark, infinite and depthless eyes of his always manage to clear the slate.
Smiling with amusement, he wordlessly reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out my keychain.
“My hero,” I breathe with a grin.
He chuckles.
I try not to think too hard about the fact that, if he’s the hero, then that must make me the villain with the secret weapon. Oh, how true. And I’m now two objectives into my mission.
Yeah, baby.