Mr. Imperfect

chapter 29



Rori loved teaching. She loved the hunger, arrogance, drive, and ambition of artists who honestly believed they would hold the world by the balls once they had their first exhibit. That deep set belief that their art was so singular, so special, that anyone with half a brain would look upon it and unanimously declare it brilliant. So young and so already stuck in their artistic ways—starting every picture the same, pushing their creations into a styling that was “all their own.”

The hypocrisy of it all was that Rori wasn’t that much older than the students she was teaching, but she liked to think that her life had granted a breadth of exposure that was unusual. All thanks to her mom. All of Rori’s life she’d been carted from museums to cathedrals to temples to remote desert caves with prehistoric hieroglyphs. By age 18 Rori had visited 80 countries and been schooled in the religious symbology of dozens of ancient religions by scholars, priests, monks, and indigenous tribesmen alike.

She may have been young, but she’d been taught by Buddhist monks to never get attached to even the most stunning of works—that it was the process that was to be revered and not the final work that should be worshipped. She’d been taught by indigenous groups to see the same subject in its many forms. A rock was never simply a rock. Just as an adult looks at a cloud and sees a cloud while a child sees an elephant, the indigenous peoples taught her to see what her mind had been trained not to see.

From Egypt to Paris and Easter Island to Asia, Rori had spent time with masters of many styles, and because of that she knew she really knew nothing. Sure, she’d gone through phases of being a know-it-all, just like the kids she was teaching now. They’d learn, just like she had, that art was bigger than any one person. You were lucky if you mastered even one aspect of it in your entire life.

For the moment her class was sketching a model. The sketch time was a gift to Rori as well, because she could plan her exhibit. Or she could have, if she could focus in on her theme. Autumn. So vague. So lame. Her agent had thrown it out as a challenge and Rori had been distracted with the Luke situation when she agreed, but she was hating the theme. Yes, her show would take place in the beginning of autumn, but Rori couldn’t create autumn in the middle of summer, and certainly not in the middle of Manhattan.

But what then?

Glancing up to make sure her students were all focused, Rori popped open her laptop and logged into her email account.

Autumn’s not going to work for the theme. I’ll let you know when I have a replacement, she typed to her agent before pressing send. Then she clicked on her inbox and spotted an email from Sophia. Her matchmaker.

Dearest Aurora, it read in French. I am happy to see that you have renewed your application to be matched as I believe I have found a French man who matches all of your requirements. He is a titled gentleman in his forties. His family has been wealthy for generations, but he has amassed a substantial fortune on his own merits. He desires to have two children, and your values are parallel on how the children should be raised. Your marriage requirements and expectations are also very much aligned, as are your long-term goals.

I know you mentioned waiting until after you left the states to meet a gentleman, but as it turns out, my candidate will be in New York in August for business, and I could certainly arrange an evening of drinks between you so that you could meet in person and decide if your personalities are compatible enough to progress to next steps.

Please let me know if you are interested in this candidate, as I believe you would be an excellent match.

Best,

Sophia

Rori’s eyes flicked up to the part mentioning the man’s age. Forties. A good age. She would have doubted if any younger man were really serious about getting married. Not every man was Luke Foster.

It took her only a few moments to compose a response to Sophia, agreeing to a meet-up in August and thanking the woman for her quick work. Having that taken care of was one less thing to worry about.

Rori kept her eyes on her class as she moved through the rest of her emails. No students seemed to be looking to her for assistance, so she continued through her inbox until she only had one unread email in her inbox—the one that read, Mike Cannon wants to be friends on Facebook. Ignoring it, Rori shut her laptop and took a turn about the room.

Her students were all in the zone, which meant they weren’t trying anything new. That meant she hadn’t appropriately inspired them to think outside of their usual box. As the Americans would say, her bad. But the lesson would come when she presented the final work in the framework of the assignment. Only then would her artists see—or not see—how much comfort they took in routine.

When no one asked her a question, Rori returned to her desk and pulled out her own sketch pad. She meant to do her own version of the still life, but found her mind straying to the one email she hadn’t responded to.

Mike Cannon wants to be friends on Facebook.

Such a benign-sounding request. It shouldn’t be a stumper. It wasn’t like she would ever really see Mike Cannon again in her life, so there was really no harm in adding him. Then again, if she wasn’t going to see him again for the rest of her life, why should she add him other than to cyber stalk him?

She should just decline the request. It was the smart thing to do.

Opening her computer again, Rori logged into Facebook and clicked on the friend request. She was just about to decline when she saw that he’d attached a message.

Hi Rori. I was wondering if you have a videographer for your exhibit this Fall. I would happy to do the event for free. I have no doubt that it would be a great addition to my resume. Let me know if you’re interested.

It was quite an offer—one Rori should definitely refuse. The museum would no doubt have something arranged. Maybe not a videographer, but something adequate for the occasion. A newspaper reporter, maybe, or maybe a student from the school… Actually, it was probably best not to think about that too hard. Just as it was best not to imagine what it would take from Mike to stay a few extra days and model for her. Now that the whole dynamic with Luke was a non-issue he might agree to some well-paid modeling time.

It was worth a try.

Clicking Accept, Rori sent back a brief message stating that she was sure she could find him accommodations if he would like to come to the event.

Business language. Nothing personal to it. And the fact that she stayed on his home page and browsed through his photos? Well, she told herself that was for professional reasons as well. Even though he posted his professional work on a separate page and she was currently looking at pictures taken on a lake with a group of his friends.

The guy was photogenic. She’d give him that. Luke wasn’t nearly as blessed in that department—at least not in comparison. It was amazing how many pictures the two guys were in together, and more often than not Kris was right in there with them. Why that made Rori’s heart ache a bit, she wasn’t sure. So much naked happiness. The smiles in the pictures were never coaxed. Never posed. They were truly, authentically happy.

Pulling out her sketch pad, Rori focused on drawing the eyes that stared back at her from her computer screen until a second pair of Mike’s eyes gazed back at her in black and white from her sketch pad.

Well, at least she could draw what she was seeing. The eyes on her paper were as bright and alive as the ones on the screen. Rori should have been pleased, but instead she felt slightly uncomfortable. When it came to art, uncomfortable was good. Wasn’t that what she told her students? That an artist couldn’t run from the things that made them squirm if they wanted to grow.

She clicked through a few more photos until her finger paused on one in particular.

The photo had been taken at a wedding. The little flower girl dress made that clear, just as it was clear that Mike had not been aware that anyone was taking a picture of the moment. The caption below read, Our videographer saves the day when Abigail suddenly decides she doesn’t want to take part in the wedding. Whatever he said, it worked. The picture itself was shot of Mike sitting on the floor in a dark suit next to a six year-old girl in a pink satin dress. The girl had clearly been crying, but had the hint of a shy smile as she looked at a single white rose in Mike’s hand.

Rori wanted to sculpt it. True, the piece would be nothing new under the sun, but as an artist, she needed to know that she was capable of capturing such an intimate and authentic moment of connection.

Connection.

Wasn’t that what brought life to anything? To everything? Few things were so fundamentally simple while simultaneously remaining elusive.

Connection. She could definitely build an exhibit around that.

Without hesitation Rori sent the update to her agent.