~ Bette Porter ~

Scanning the room, I mentally make notes regarding important guests.

Edgar Molenshaw – Important British donor, narcisstic business man. Likes cool whiskey.

"Excuse me, please see to it that the gentleman there, near the pillar gets a refil." I whisper to the young busboy. Smiling, I add pointedly "And keep them coming." I nod slowly to ensure he understands.

"Certainly, Ms Porter."

Sighing contently, I walk to a small group congregated near one of the newer additions. The piece they’re discussing is a personal favourite of mine. I fought so hard to have it. Digital art was a risky business; so many amateurs snapping their driveway and asking thousands for it. I have nothing against beginnings – We all have to start somewhere. It’s just the lack of talent these applicants seem to have for their chosen field of art. It’s their lack of passion that riles me.

But no, there was something about this piece. It was amateur in the slightest. It had pure, passionate direction with it’s audience. The artist himself is here tonight, in fact. One Eric Richards. I’d heard a lot about him and tonight I supposed I’d finally meet the man whose captured image stirred something so heavily within me. I am, dare I say it, excited and rather nervous too. Oh, how my girlfriend, Alice, would revel in knowing that – The one and only Bette Porter – Nervous.

The piece itself was an exquisite snapshot. It depicted a mostly out-of-view woman, reaching out for the hand of a small, and I presume, homeless boy. The child had a look that had to be genuine. It could not have possibly have been imitated. It conveyed thousands of thoughts and feelings. I can see shock, presumably at the this woman’s kindness but I can also see a pleading look of intense desperation, as if he was wishing hard with all his being for it to be a real gesture and not some figment of his young imagination. There was a sense that can only be described as unshed tears of joy.

The look of that one child is so raw that I find myself able to stand before it, basking silently in its closeness. I have done so often already despite its recent arrival. I find myself here late after work, lost in the depiction, my whole soul in feverish overdrive.

No, a look that tear-evoking could only have been real. That’s what gets to me most, more than the actual premise – Connectivity – It was the reality that a small child had experienced all those feelings conveyed on the gallery wall.

I’m biting my tongue, inwardly chastising myself for getting emotional when there’s work to be done. No, tonight’s for the gallery. It’s not about me. I plaster the biggest ass-kissing smile I can manage and approach the blonde woman observing the piece.

TBC?