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Art was something that Peter never understood. He could vividly remember all the hours May had spent gushing about various different pieces whenever they went to a gallery or saw any art, anywhere at all. He’d nod along and hum appreciatively even when he really couldn’t understand how a scribble represents the human condition.
May had always collected random bits of art, none of them really went with each other at all but whatever she loved, she bought. She used to drag Peter to small art shows or markets where anyone could set a stand, she always bought from the small stands set up by teenagers. Peter didn’t know if she actually liked the art or just felt bad no one else was buying it.
Sure, every now and then he’d stumble across one that was appealing to him, but May never liked it, she always said it was too boring and obvious. Whatever an obvious painting was.
Peter wasn’t fascinated by art but that didn’t mean to say he hated it, he could appreciate the effort someone had put in. He would probably never paint a single good looking straight line in his life so who was he to judge.
There were times when he was in art class, back when it was compulsory in high school, and the few art buffs would freak out over a circle painted onto a canvas. He had to admit, he was awful at art but c’mon, was a red circle on a blue background really a spectacular comment on racism?
So, to say Peter was confused about how he willingly stepped foot into the Museum of Modern Art was an understatement. He’d been there once on a school trip a few years ago and that was it, surely it couldn’t have changed all that much. Not that he remembered anything, because Ned wouldn’t shut up about how Betty belonged here because she was just that beautiful. Peter didn’t know why Ned would want Betty next to a punch of splattered paint that Peter didn’t think was all that aesthetically pleasing, but each to their own.
Yet here he was again with Ned and Betty, trailing behind them with his arms folded over his chest. He was only here because Ned claimed they’d been fighting recently and needed a mediator, plus, he was promised a free meal and entry. However, the couple seemed to be getting along perfectly fine in Peter’s opinion.
He sighed and wished he could pull out his phone but doing so at an art gallery just felt wrong, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. So he stared at the art and wondered what May would be doing if she were here, probably stopping every few seconds to marvel over random objects that were deemed sculptures by the pieces of inscribed metal.
Peter was snapped out of his wandering thoughts by Ned calling his name. He raised his brows and then huffed when he saw the camera open on Ned’s phone, the device being extended out to him. Rolling his eyes, he took it and held in another sigh when Ned and Betty kissed in front of a painting.
Peter did as he was told and took the photo, looking at the painting behind them and having no fucking idea why they picked it. They moved on after thanking him for letting them take advantage of his film student skills. But Peter was stuck, finally actually looking at a painting for the first time since he got there.
He really couldn’t get it, what was so amazing about this painting that it was in New York, which he remembered to be the centre of the art world. To him, it resembled a ‘painting’ Peter had made when he was four and May gave him a plethora of cheap paints.
There was nothing to it, just different colours splattered across the canvas. He thought artists were supposed to be good at art but hey, if this person was an artist then hell, so was Peter.
With his arms folded over his chest, he stepped back to fit the whole painting into his vision. For whatever reason, the artist had decided to make it pretty much the size of the whole wall. Peter furrowed his brows and even still, had to tilt his head up slightly to get the whole image.
He could hear a pair of heels clicking on the ground behind him, but he ignored it, assuming it was just another person coming to look at the art. They probably thought it was ingenious.
“You’re not the first to be confused,” A voice spoke beside him, quiet yet almost seemed to be poking fun at him.
Peter looked to the side and saw a taller woman standing next to him, looking at the painting in front of them. If the black pencil skirt and blouse didn’t give away the fact that she worked here, then the name badge definitely did. Not to mention, the sophisticated aura she gave off almost annoyed him.
“Well,” Peter cleared his throat before looking away from her. “I just don’t really get how it’s-- I dunno, art? Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude,”
“No, it’s ok, speak what you feel, not what you ought to say,” She looked at Peter as he glanced back at her. There was a pregnant pause before she continued. “But if this isn’t art? What is?”
Peter stammered and almost blushed, realising that she’d made a rather good point. What was art? Peter couldn’t tell her but she probably had an answer of her own.
“Maybe,” She mused. “the point of the painting is to make you question what art is? That’s up to you.”
“But is that the point of the painting?” Peter questioned, raising a brow at her.
“No,” She replied, giving a small smile. “No, it isn’t. The artist, Jackson Pollock, was apart of the Abstract Expressionism movement. One of the key ideas of the movement was that the process of making the art is more important than the art itself.”
“What was the process then?”
“He would lay the raw canvas on the ground and pour thinned paint onto it, or splatter it on with a stick. He was one of the first artists to do anything like it, which is perhaps why he’s so famous.”
She didn’t say another word before walking over to another painting on the wall next to the one they were just looking at. He followed her, somehow getting the idea that that was what he was supposed to do.
This one was much smaller, they could stand much closer to it but to him, it was almost exactly the same.
“So, this is the same guy?”
“Jackson Pollock? Yeah, this was one of the last paintings he completed before he died and the only one in 1954, ‘
White Light.
’ He was suffering from an artist block he thought he would never overcome, yet some people regard this as one of his most energetic works,” She replied, looking over at him, gauging his reaction.
Peter furrowed his brows and folded his arms again, tilting his head as he stared at the painting. He really couldn’t understand how a painting could be energetic, or anything at all really. Biting down on the inside of his cheek he tried his very best to see it, but he really couldn’t.
“It looks more-- messy to me,” Peter stated, gesturing to one of the lines.
“A lot of people call it chaotic.”
“Yeah, I guess it’s chaotic or whatever,” He shrugged. “How’d he die anyway?”
“He was an alcoholic and crashed while drunk driving. He killed himself and his mistress's friend, his mistress was the only survivor.”
“That’s rough.”
“Mhm,” She laughed. “He was the definition of a tortured artist.”
Peter laughed a little along with her before shaking his head.
“Why are you here anyway?” She asked after a moment. “Not to be rude or anything, but most people who don’t really care about art don’t come to an art gallery unless they’re on a date.”
“I’ve been dragged along as a mediator,” He sighed, nodding at her scrunched up face. “Yeah, I don’t even know where they’ve gone but I honestly don’t care. I’ve been more entertained learning about art than I was third wheeling.”
“Are you a student? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Yeah, a film student.”
“Well if you’d like, I can show you something else rather than you having to third wheel again?” She quirked her head towards another room with raised brows.
“Sure,” Peter shrugged, more or less enjoying the excuse to keep talking to her. “Why not.”
He still didn’t know the name of the lady he felt he had this weird bond with yet, but he had no problem trailing behind her like a lost puppy as she came to a stop in front of a painting that Peter did in fact, rather like.
She watched as his face perked up and stepped in closer to look at it better. He looked back at her with a pleased look and his face and she couldn’t help but feel slightly proud of herself.
“Edward Hopper, New York Movie,” She said, smiling. “A lot of film students tend to enjoy his work because of the compositions and lighting.”
“Well,” Peter laughed. “Maybe that makes me a cliche but it is really nice.”
He listened as she told him more about the artist and his life, the way his art shifted throughout the career and Peter realised, that maybe there was more to art than he originally thought. She led him around the gallery more and every time she stopped at work, Peter found himself liking them more and more, asking more questions as he went on.
She started talking about the pieces as if they were films, maybe that was just a subconscious thing and she wasn’t actually trying to but he wasn’t going to complain. Perhaps, she wasn’t just talking about them as if they were films to relate to Peter but rather because the art told as much of a story as a film did.
As they went on, Peter eventually started talking about his own ideas, ones that even she had never thought or heard of before. When he wasn’t talking, she was, and Peter found himself looking more at her than at the painting.
It was fitting that she worked in an art gallery, it worked almost too well. Every time she smiled her cheeks rounded and her nose scrunched slightly, reminding Peter of the bunny he so desperately wanted when he eight. Her hair fell down her back in soft curls, pinned out of her face, which Peter was thankful for because it made it easier to see her face. If he looked hard enough, he could see the slightly freckling on her cheeks and by slight, he meant barely even there.
He noticed a hint of blue peeking out from under her hair, making him smile at the fact she probably wasn’t supposed to have coloured hair at a place like this but she obviously didn’t care. A couple of piercings she probably wasn’t supposed to have also poked out from the tendrils, he really wished he had a clear view.
At first, Peter found her a little bit pretentious, simply because she worked at an art gallery but the further into their tour he got, the more layers he got past. She started joking and laughing, even poking fun at a few works that she admitted to not like for various reasons, even the ones that Peter said he liked.
“Obviously,” She said, Peter still staring at her. “These two figures are supposed to be kissing but they aren’t really.”
Peter looked at the painting.
“It feels too solemn for that. I mean--” He tilted his head to the side and looked at her. “A kiss is supposed to be, warm, I guess, in a not weird way. But the colours are too grey and dreary for that. I feel isolated looking at it. Not to mention the things over their faces.”
“Yeah, I do too,” She replied, looking back at him. “I almost feel as if I shouldn’t be looking at this couples… drowning relationship. This artist's mother committed suicide by drowning actually, he watched her body be fished out of the water.”
“I can almost-- that makes sense, in a weird way,” Peter mused, opening his mouth to continue talking when his name was called from quite a distance behind him.
He cringed at the fact Ned had yelled across an art gallery,
the Museum of Modern Art for christ's sake,
but turned on his heels. Ned and Betty were making their way over, their hands intertwined. Peter looked back at his personal tour guide and pointed at the couple behind him.
“I gotta go, it was really nice to meet you,” Peter stammered and offered his hand out, looking at the name badge on her chest and wondering how he made it that whole time without knowing her name. “Michelle.”
“It was nice meeting you too--”
“Peter.”
“Peter,” She smiled and shook his hand. “I hope you visit again sometime soon.”
“Yeah,” He smiled and ignored the way shaking her hand made his heart beat faster and palm sweat, he hoped she didn’t notice that. “I hope I do too.”
Peter rolled his eyes when his name was called again and he quickly walked over, clamping a hand over Ned’s mouth. “We’re in an art gallery, is it not common sense not to yell across the damn room when this place is literally silent?”
Ned swatted his hand away before launching into some story about how they looked everywhere for him and called him one hundred times. Peter waved him off and followed them outside, his mind being left behind, still standing next to Michelle.
Once again, he was left in the dust of his best friend and his girlfriend, strolling along quietly with his headphones in. He scuffed his feet along the pavement, wondering if he should try and find Michelle somewhere, or was that weird. Peter would consider them friends, would she?
Besides, how many thousands of Michelle's were there in New York, she would be impossible to find anywhere. He supposed he would just have to visit the Museum again. But he couldn’t make it too soon, because then he would look desperate. He also couldn’t wait too long because then she might think he wanted nothing to do with her, which wasn’t true at all. Was he overthinking this?
When they walked past May’s apartment on the way back, he jogged up to Ned and tapped him on the shoulder.
“I’m gonna go visit May, I’ll be back later,” He smiled small and Ned seemed far too happy about having their shared apartment to himself for the night. Ned gave Betty a suggestive look and Peter quickly turned away after saying goodbye, he didn’t want to think about that.
He jogged up the apartment stairs two at a time before rapping his knuckles against May’s door. There a clatter of pans and shriek from her before she yelled out, “I’ll be there in just a second!”
Peter couldn’t hold back the smile even before she opened the door, it had been a couple of weeks and Peter was missing her like crazy. She opened the door and smiled widely when she realised it was her nephew, pulling him in for a hug and squeezing him tight.
He hugged her back tightly before pulling away and looking into the apartment, spotting a pile of pans and baking trays on the kitchen floor. Peter gave his Aunt a knowing look and she shrugged before grabbing a jacket.
“Thai?”
Peter twirled his chopsticks around in his Pad Thai as May rambled on about something that happened at her work. Occasionally he nodded and added smalls ‘yeahs’ where needed, it wasn’t that he didn’t care, he just had a more pressing issue on his mind.
“Ok,” May pointed her chopsticks at him and raised her brows. “I know that look, what’s up?”
Peter breathed out a laugh and shook his head, looking down at his food.
“I just-- when you look at a painting or any kind of art, do you just always feel something?”
“Well,” She sat up straighter in her chair. “Not all art makes me feel something, but the art that does is art I like. Not to say that art that doesn’t make me feel something is bad, it might make someone else feel something and that’s fine. There is no simple way to define good art or bad art. I went off on a bit of a tangent but to answer your question, no, I don’t. Why do you ask?”
“I went to MoMA today,” He replied, shoving some food in his mouth. May looked almost jealous before he swallowed and continued. “I was there to mediate Ned and Betty but I ditched them after a bit,” Peter explained, May nodding in understanding. “I didn’t really get any of the art but then one of the people work there showed me around and taught me like-- art history I guess. It made me, I dunno, get it?”
“So I take you to art fairs and galleries and all sorts for years and it never interests you but you go to MoMA once and all of a sudden you’re enthralled because some tour guide showed you around?” May huffed in exaggeration. “That’s not fair.”
“Sorry,” Peter laughed. “You just never like- explained anything. But she asked me questions and made it interesting for me.”
“Oh,” May smiled. “I get it now, I’ve seen that look before.”
“What look?” Peter furrowed his brows.
“Puppy dog eyes look, you were the same when you talked about Liz.”
“May, that was in high school and I’ve met this girl once and she was just doing her job.”
“Oh yeah, yeah, just doing her job,” His Aunt hummed sarcastically, taking a few bites of her food. “So, when are you going back?”
Peter blushed and put his chopsticks down, folding his arms across his chest. He avoided eye contact with May, hating how right she was. Was it sad for a twenty-one-year-old to have a small crush on a girl he’d met once? Not to mention, while she was doing her job.
“I knew you came to me for a reason. It’s fine,” She sighed jokingly. “Only visit me when you need something and not just because you want to see me, it’s fine.”
“May,” Peter groaned. “You know it’s not like that.”
“I know, I know,” She smiled. “What’s her name?”
“Michelle.” He muttered, tapping his fingers on the table and rocking back in the chair.
“Michelle?” May’s eyes lit up before she told him to stop swinging in the chair, Peter placing all four legs on the ground securely before muttering a sorry.
“I think she’s the same age as me but I don’t know. I didn’t even find out her name until I left.”
“Did she ask for yours?”
“Yeah,” Peter hummed. “But I don’t see how that’s important.”
“It is important, if she was just doing her job like you said she was, she wouldn’t have given two shits what your name was.”
“May!”
“What? It’s true!” She waved her hands in the air before leaning her elbows on the table and pointing at him. “Go back, soon.”
Exactly one week later, Peter went back. He even paid for his own entry this time and he was completely alone too. Even he couldn’t believe he was really back here but he couldn’t help but feel like he’d left something behind the week before. He couldn’t not come back.
He found himself standing in front of the same wall-sized painting he couldn’t quite understand last time and still, he didn’t get it. Peter didn’t think he ever would but he would try. He tried moving in closer and further away, to get smaller aspects in an attempt that it may help, maybe he wasn’t meant to see the bigger picture. Maybe he was just overthinking again.
Eventually, he wound up sitting on one of the couches facing the painting, resting his elbows on his knees. He was still staring intently at the painting, trying to find something in it but still, nothing. The couch dipped beside him and looked over, to see Michelle sitting next to him.
Biting back a smile, he looked her over, enjoying the violet silk blouse more than the black and the black flare pants more than the pencil skirt. After only one meeting, he had a feeling this was a more Michelle outfit, whatever that meant.
“You could waste your entire life sitting here, trying to figure out was this painting could possibly mean. However, modernism, especially late modernism was all about expressing the artist's individual inner psyche, and not caring what anyone else thought of it. So, unless you bring Pollock back from the dead, you’ll have no idea what this painting means.”
“Good afternoon to you too, Michelle,” Peter smiled, looking back down at his feet.
“Good afternoon, Peter,” She smiled back.
She happily took him for another tour, Peter feeling comfortable enough to poke fun at some of the paintings she said she liked, making her glare at him. He was so glad the look was just a joke because being on the receiving end of a real one would swallow him whole.
Michelle introduced him to surrealism, which Peter happened to like a lot. He decided that he was going to have to do some research on Freudian and Jungian theory when he had spare time, which was apparently a big inspiration to the surrealist artists.
“The movement was built around expressing the unconscious human and sexual desire we all have,” Michelle told him, looking Peter dead the eyes. His breath hitched as she looked him up and down, the room was suddenly much smaller, everyone around them disappearing. “They also all did a shit ton of different drugs in an attempt to open up their minds.”
Peter laughed slightly as she finally ripped her eyes away from him, leading him to a different painting. He found himself stuck to the ground, feeling as if he was knee deep in tar. It took her to look back at him with a raised brow before he stumbled after her, walking next to her rather than behind like he normally did.
She stopped in front of a creepier looking painting, Peter still finding himself locked in a trance by it. There was something off about it, but he couldn’t quite understand why. Michelle held a sly smirk on her face as she watched him try to figure it out.
“Do you need help there?”
“Yeah,” Peter laughed. “I know something isn’t right but I literally can’t-”
“The house,” She gestured to it. “Is painted as if it were night time, with the street light and everything, but the sky shows that it’s day time.”
Peter ran a hand over his face and blushed, suddenly feeling rather stupid for not realising it. He laughed and blushed slightly before looking at it again, the contrast almost screaming in his face now.
“It’s ok, it’s weirdly hidden. I looked at this painting for fifteen minutes trying to figure out what was going on when I first saw it.”
Peter had to leave when Ned text him, telling him the oven was broken again and he needed Peter to come back and fix it. He apologised to Michelle who completely understood, they shook hands and Peter reluctantly left once again. Looking back over his shoulder, he watched Michelle adjust her blouse, smiling giddily to herself.
Week after week, Peter kept coming back. He always started at the same place, in front of the big Pollock painting he still couldn’t understand. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be understood? Who knew, he didn’t.
Michelle led him around every time, and Peter’s interest in art grew every time, not to mention, his growing interest for everything Michelle.
When he said everything, he meant, everything.
It had gone past wanting to test her art knowledge, because Peter realised pretty quickly that she was an endless fountain of it. It had reached wanting to know what she was wearing, how her hair would be done, would she be wearing lip gloss again or not? He wanted to know where she went to school, was she still in school? What did she want to be doing in five years time? Would she want a house in the suburbs with a husband and child? Or did she want to be in another country visiting their art galleries.
Even after Michelle had told him that she had shown him literally the entire Museum, he still came back the next week, and they started again. They were standing in front of
The Lovers
again, when Michelle finally asked the thing that’d been pressing on her for weeks on end.
“Why are you here, Peter?”
“Hm?” He looked up at her, holding back a blush from the way she’d called him out.
“I know you don’t care that much about art, and you’ve seen everything, so why keep coming back?” Michelle knew the answer, but she wanted to hear him say. A playful smirk donned her face and her eyes sparkled with amusement at the sight of Peter at a loss for words.
“When does your shift end?” He squeaked, not having any other way to answer her question.
“50 minutes ago,” She replied after looking at her watch.
“50 minutes?” He breathed. “But we-- I’m usually here for at least another hour.”
“I know,” She smiled, looking at her feet.
“Well, do you wanna--” He stammered, looking at the painting before looking back at her. “Do you wanna get a coffee? Or something?”
“I thought you’d never ask and I’d have to keep analyzing art for you forever, as much as I love art history, if I had to talk about Jackson Pollock's work with you one more time I might explode,” She laughed. “So yeah, I do want to get coffee with you.”
“Cool,” He breathed out, trying to stop smiling so wide. “Do you need to grab anything?”
“Yeah,” She nodded. “I’ll just grab my stuff and meet you out the front?”
Peter agreed, watching her walk off and look behind her shoulder once, giving him a bashful smile before rounding the corner. There was a bounce in his step as he exited the museum, smiling at every person he passed, no matter if they gave him weird looks or not.
She met him out there some ten minutes later, changed out of her professional looking outfit and into something that Peter considered to much more casual. He smiled, seeing her in jeans and converse and was so different to how he usually saw her, but something about it just felt right.
When she stood next to him, he wasn’t going to lie, he was a tad disappointed she was still taller than him but he was more or less used to being towered over. He greeted her and she smiled, gesturing for him to lead the way and for the first time, he was the one leading her.
Since this date wasn’t exactly planned, he took her to the only place he really knew, and afford. It was somewhere he went often with Ned and Betty, after their last classes or when neither could be bothered figuring out a meal.
He came here by himself sometimes too, usually when he had an assignment and needed to get away from the constant… Ned and Betty. He pushed the door open to the small diner, looking back at Michelle who looked like she was holding back a laugh.
“What?” He laughed.
“Of course a film student spends time here of all places,”
“I suppose,” He looked around and almost cringed. “I suppose I am a cliche.”
“Uh huh,” She smiled and sat down across from him in a booth.
The waitress walked over and greeted Peter, not even bothering handing him a menu because as most cliches suggested, they already knew what he was going to order. She turned to give one to Michelle but stopped midway, not giving her a menu either and already writing down her order too.
“Hey, MJ,” They smiled, making a bit of small talk with Michelle before returning to the counter.
“First off all,” Peter said, his jaw dropping while Michelle smiled smugly. “MJ? And secondly, you make fun of me for coming here when you come here too
and
you’re an art buff?”
“MJ, Michelle Jones,” She shrugged and twisted a teaspoon between her fingers. “I never said I wasn’t a cliche. I’ve got dyed hair, piercings and I’m a dropout, I couldn’t be anymore cliche if I tried.”
“I don’t think you’re a cliche,” Peter shook his head. “The art students at my school are-- I’ll go with unique.”
“Technically, you’re an art student too,” She said, pointing her spoon at him.
“Film.”
“Is the degree of separation between Media and other Visual arts really all that big?”
“Well,” Peter huffed. “Not really, but whatever, how come I don’t get to call you MJ?”
“You ever asked to call me MJ,” she replied and cut him off when he went to argue. “You just called me Michelle because that’s what my name tag said, if you had asked, I would’ve told you MJ.”
He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes in thought, realising that she had a point. There was really no argument to rebut what she’d just said, because she was right. He never did ask her name, and maybe that was rude, maybe he should’ve just asked but he didn’t, so he was the only one to blame in this situation.
“Parker,” He said after a while. “Peter Parker.”
MJ smiled before Peter asked her why she dropped out and the conversation went from there.
Peter discovered that she was studying a fine arts degree and minoring in English Literature before realising a degree didn’t make you an artist and getting a job at MoMA. MJ worked four days a week at the Museum and sold art on the side, which Peter found rather impressive. She lived in an apartment with a roommate named Liz, who Peter also realised, but didn’t tell her, that Liz was
that
Liz.
MJ discovered that Peter had originally planned to do engineering, having a internship under Tony Stark at one point before realising that it wasn’t what he wanted to do. Ned and Betty had been dating since senior year of high school and their favourite couple activity was driving Peter out of his apartment.
She listened as he rambled on about his Aunt and how much she loved art, inviting MJ to come and see her vast collection one day. Michelle was flattered, the fact that he said he would like to hear her thoughts on the pieces making her heart flutter, someone actually cared for what she had to say. No one ever did.
When he talked about how he dreamed of getting something he made into a film festival, the wistful ambience he radiated reached out and squeezed her heart. He had so much hope, so much passion for what he was doing and she could almost see her own reflection in him.
Both could listen to the other talk about anything everything for hours on end, so that’s what they did.
The sky eventually dimmed, the warm light from the street lamps flickered through the window along with other more neon signs that glowed into the night. Typical New York sounds that both tended to more or less hate become nothing more than white noise.
Peter thought she looked good in an art gallery, but here, here she enticed him even more. With her skin becoming incandescent in the yellow light from outside, the darker interior of the diner shadowing the other side of her. He wanted more, he wanted to see her in every kind of light possible, just to know which one was his favourite.
That’s what he did. He took her everywhere he could see in in a different light.
He took her to the movies, one in colour and another in black and white. He took her to a play, one in a theatre and a Shakespearean one in a makeshift globe, (that one was her favourite.) He took her to an arcade, an aquarium, a museum, a restaurant. She ended up taking him to a march, aiding in his quest.
Art was something that Peter was beginning to understand. It followed him everywhere he went. He found it everywhere he went. In the trees, in the skyline, in the halls of his campus, in the worn wallpaper of his apartment, but most of all, he found it in her.
Her, who stored random things in a torn up shoe box stashed under her bed. Things like ticket stubs, entry bracelets, leaves, dried out flowers, the napkin Peter had scribbled his number on that night in the dinner after both their phones died.
Her, who looked equally as eloquent in every lighting. Who traced the indents on the palm of Peter’s hand, who twirled his hair around her finger and tugged on it just to see it bounce, who wouldn’t reply to Peter for hours because she was reading.
Peter realised he had always been collecting random bits of art, he’d go so far as to say that Ned and Betty, despite driving him crazy, were beautiful pieces he couldn’t live without. May had always been one, painting vividly bright images of a future for him, she was that one he was most grateful for and as of recent, Michelle.
He’d become fascinated by art and even through the small degree of separation, considered himself an artist.
May had invited him to the opening of an art exhibition she’d heard of through the grapevine, it was being held in a small gallery Downtown and relishing in Peter’s newfound love of art, had jumped at the chance to take him.
Peter’s Aunt picked him up in her beat up car and rattled on about how excited she was. Apparently, she hadn’t been to a show in a long time and was hoping to buy one of the pieces, considering it was a rather small exhibition and couldn’t be too expensive.
He told her about a short film he was planning on making for class, obviously excited about it. As always, May stayed supportive and even pitched her own ideas for him to take into account. She parked around the back of the gallery and they walked up to the entrance, Peter holding the door open for May and following after.
They were greeted by a wall, with a piece of paper pinned to the middle. ‘
Tell me about them’
was scrawled on it in loose ink, Peter was scared to touch it in fear of it still being wet. There was shelf adorned with jars, worn out paint brushes resting in them.
Peter looked over to see May already writing on it, ink dripping down the wall as she wrote in her loopy style. Was Michelle ‘them?’ He wasn’t sure, considering they more or less hung out as friends at the moment. She may have been the first person that came to his head but he could almost feel her presence and was scared to write anything in the fear it would scare her.
Instead, he wrote something that he imagined only he would understand. ‘
The’
no, he put a line through it
. ‘My empire of light.’
It wasn’t as beautiful as what May had written, her description of Ben almost bring Peter to tears himself. May watched him write with a smile and raised a brow at him with a suggestive look.
“Michelle?” She asked, causing Peter to blush and put the paintbrush down, muttering a small shut up before continuing through the exhibition.
“What’s this exhibition supposed to be about anyway?” Peter asked, looking around the room at the various collections before looking at May.
“Not sure, but it’s called: ‘Then I Met You,’ so I suppose it’s some cliche love story,” May waved it off. “But I have to admit, I really like it.”
Peter hummed and stopped in front of a wall where there was a simple line of framed paintings that reminded him of what Michelle had called ‘color field’ painting. May stood next to him and pointed out different aspects she liked and Peter nodded along, spilling something about the way the different colours flowed made him feel calm.
“I actually really like it,” Peter said, following May over to one that had more defined subject matter, a person, which was definitely one of Peter’s favourite aspects in a work.
“Me too,” A familiar voice spoke next to him.
Peter jumped and turned to see Liz standing next to him. His eyes almost bugged out of his head at the sight of her, it having been at least four years.
“Liz?” He squeaked and May looked at her, recognising the name. “What’re you doing here? It’s so good to see you.”
After a seconds debate he pulled her into a hug, he was twenty-one, not a fifteen year old with a crush anymore. She hugged him back and laughed, looking him up and down when she pulled away.
“It’s good to see you too Peter, you’ve really grown into yourself since high school.”
Peter almost blushed, he would’ve a few months ago but not anymore. They launched into a small conversation about what they’d been doing, Liz being surprised at the fact he was now a film student.
He knew Liz was continuing to study medicine, Michelle had told him but he didn’t tell Liz he knew that. May had wandered off to look at more of the art while Peter and Liz continued their conversation.
Occasionally, her hand would land on his arm, which he’d folded across his chest but he ignored it, looking her dead in the eye the entire time. The conversation circled, eventually coming back to the exhibition.
“Oh yeah,” He remembered after she said something about one of the pieces. “Why are you here again?”
“I could ask you the same question, I never pinned you as an art guy but I guess since you’re a film student it makes sense now, I remember you complaining about May dragging you to shows all the time,” She hummed, her eyes scanning his face. “Anyway, I know the artist, she’s my roommate.”
“Your- your roommate?” Peter felt his pallor lose colour while simultaneously heating up.
“Yeah,” Liz furrowed her brows and laughed slightly before pointing behind him. “She’s right there, Michelle Jones.”
Peter turned and there in fact, was MJ, talking to someone with what he could tell was a fake smile. She was holding a glass of champagne in her hand and they must’ve said something she didn’t like because she downed the whole glass. As she swallowed and tilted her head back down, her eyes landed right on him.
His breath hitched but she looked away. Peter was just about to breath again when she did a double take, this time fixating on him. Michelle stayed renicent, Peter’s heart beat picking up in a matter of seconds.
Michelle looked at Liz and gave a small smile, quickly glancing back at the person, nodding ever so slightly. She said something, which Peter could tell was an ‘excuse me’ and stepped around the person, walking over to Peter and Liz.
“Hey, Michelle,” Liz said and put her hand on Peter’s arm again. “This is Peter, we went to high school together,”
“Did you?” MJ smiled before quirking her brow at him, her eyes flickering onto Liz’s hand on his arm, which he quickly moved away from. “Peter never mentioned that.”
“Wait, what?” Liz questioned. “You guys know each other.”
“Liz,” Michelle laughed. “This is MoMA guy.”
“MoMA- Oh my God,” Liz gaped. “You mean--” She leaned in to whisper to Michelle but Peter could hear her pretty clearly. “The one this whole thing is about?”
“Yeah,” Michelle replied, her voice not even quavering as she looked at him. “And we haven’t even kissed yet.”
“Really?” Liz squeaked. “Peter kissed me after like two minutes at homecoming.”
Peter cringed and looked at Liz, folding his arms across his chest tighter while Michelle looked almost taken aback but smirked playfully.
“I thought you said the boy who took you to homecoming was a dork?”
“He was,” Liz shrugged. “But he’s not anymore and he is also all yours, ok bye.”
The girl paused for a moment before rushing off in the opposite direction, striking up a conversation with another person. Peter looked back at Michelle and smiled small.
“It’s really good?” He whispered in a small voice.
“Really? I heard a critic talk about how it looked like I was trying too hard,” She hummed, looking into the bottom of her empty glass.
“He’s wrong,” Peter retorted. “It’s really good, May really likes it too.”
“Well, don’t tell her it’s about you because if she’s gone into the other room she’s seen sketches of what I think you look like naked.”
“Naked?” Peter blushed.
“Naked,” Michelle deadpanned and grabbed another glass of champagne from a carter who was going around. “Don’t go in their either. I might die of embarrassment,” She took a sip of her drink. “Actually, you know what? I won’t because I worked really hard on this and I’m proud of it.”
“I’ll go take a look at it then?” Peter challenged, pointing his thumb in the direction of the other room and taking a step back.
“No,” Michelle’s eyes widened and she grabbed Peter’s arm, he liked her hand there much more than Liz’s. “No, don’t do that.”
He smiled and laughed, moving to stand close next to her. Their arms brushed slightly as they both looked back at the wall full of her art. He couldn’t help the proud feeling that washed over him as he looked at it. Peter knew she’d never had her own exhibition before and here she was, one dedicated just to her and her work.
“Why didn’t you tell me this was on?” He asked after a moment of silence, the murmur of chatter and lo-fi music filling the space.
“I-I,” She sighed. “I didn’t want you to realise it was about you because it’s almost sad how much I’ve made since I met you,” MJ breathed a laugh, swirling her drink in the glass. “I almost didn’t think you’d care.”
“If you think I don’t care about this or about you, you’re insane,” Peter stated bluntly, looking up at her.
“I think for a film student, you’ve got pretty shit vision to not be able to see how hopelessly in love with you I am and you haven’t even fucking kissed me,” She snorted, chugging the rest of her drink and looking to the side, avoiding his eyes.
Without a word, he grabbed her hand and led her back to the entrance. His eyes scanned the wall, searching for his message among the many. More pride swelled in his chest as he noticed the now grandeur amount of messages there were.
He spotted it and put his finger on it before looking at her. She glanced between Peter and the message.
“‘My empire of light,’ that’s you, I wrote that about you, you’re my them. I was scared to write it and I didn’t even know you were here let alone that I was at your show, about me,” He spoke quietly and held eye contact with her the entire time. “You showed me so much about, everything. You opened my mind and for a long time, I was living in this annoyingly dark world and then I met you. Hell, you can even see it in the films I’ve made since, they’re-- they’re warmer. They remind me of you because I love you.”
“Yeah,” Michelle nodded. “Then I met you.”
Peter knew that most everyone had moved on from the entrance and into the actual exhibit, leaving only a few mingling about. Not that he cared who was there anymore, he didn’t care that maybe he shouldn’t be doing this at an art gallery but the damn show was about him so he could do as he pleased.
He cupped her face in his hand and pulled her closer, their lips brushing and her hot breath fanning over him. Peter leant his forehead against hers and for a moment, he imagined that their kiss would be like the lovers in that painting, clothes shrouding them and turning a moment of passion into one of isolation.
Screw it, he didn’t have time for fear anymore.
So, he kissed her.
Their lips met in an embrace and it was nothing like the painting. Peter could feel everything, everything about her, feel everything they were putting behind it, months of lost time and the past few seconds of desperation.
He could feel her breath shudder into the kiss before her hand caressed the back of his neck and pulled him in closer. The whole exhibition was melting and pouring into their sweet moment of intimacy, Peter relishing in the warmth of it all.
Michelle was the first to pull away from him, gulping as she got further and further away from him. Her hand trailed down from the back of his neck and toyed with the collar of his shirt. Peter raised his hand to grab her wrist, his thumb rubbing circles into her skin.
“We should’ve done that a really, really, long time ago,” He whispered.
“Yeah, maybe before I made a whole collection about a love that felt like some kind of fever dream I would never have,” She smiled, rolling her eyes slightly.
“Hey,” Peter smiled. “It made for a good exhibition, didn’t it? And May’s already buying one.”
Michelle turned to look behind her in the direction Peter was looking, seeing a petite woman she gathered to be his aunt, writing her details down for the work to be sent too when the exhibition was finished. She laughed and looked back at him, shaking her head.
“I pray for both of our sakes it’s an abstract one.”
Art was something that Peter finally understood. He could distinctly remember all the hours he’d spent looking at it with her, her gushing over it while he listened and learned. All the hours he’d spent finding it in everyday things, even something as small as the evening sun through their grimy window pane.
He’d collected many pieces of art over the years, all of them somehow fitting together perfectly while being so unmistakably different. His favourites included the view of Michelle’s bare back in the morning light, the drop cloth in their living room covered in various different colours and mediums, the opening shot of his first feature film, the beam of their child’s first smile.
Art was all around him, all around you, all around everyone, all the time and anywhere. He lived it, he basked in it, he celebrated it.
Peter’s heart was decorated with various works, all nailed into the wall for what he hoped was forever. But it was always her, it always came back to her.
Her, who ran her finger down his spine every night. Her, who looked so beautiful underneath him with the moon as their only light. Who’s laugh sounded the sun on a biting cold morning, who’s smile took him back to the first time he had pistachio ice cream, who’s mind looked like the Museum of Modern Art, intrinsically decorated.
Peter was enamoured by art, obsessed with art and it was all thanks to her.
Always her.