He paused. “Well, now all I can think about is blue.”
“That’s it! That’s the point.”
He opened his eyes, looking doubtful. “Really?”
“Klein was fixated on this exact shade.” Her words came faster and slightly winded, which always happened when she talked about art this way—as something to be experienced instead of observed. “He said he wanted the viewer to become ‘impregnated in sensibility’ by this shade of blue.”
His eyebrow shot up to his hairline. “Become what?”
“Impregnated. He was also known for using nude women as paintbrushes, so don’t be surprised that he reached for that analogy.”
Nathan laughed and studied the painting again. “I use bright, saturated colors too. On purpose. I never think my work is good enough, so I use color to hide the flaws.”
“Those imperfections make them yours,” she said. “You’re not a machine making perfect images for mass consumption. You’re a man. An artist. With emotions and flaws. That’s why something like this”—she pointed to the painting—“has immeasurable value. This is a moment. It’s a feeling, movement, and time that can never be repeated. That’s in every piece you’ve created.”
Nathan studied her with such intensity that her face warmed. “You are really good at this,” he said softly. “Did you know that?”
Years of practice had taught Rachel how to accept compliments gracefully, even when it felt like being praised for wearing a lovely shell. This was different. She’d revealed the unvarnished depths of her passion, and Nathan thought it was beautiful. For the first time in years, it felt like something beautiful, instead of the source of her biggest regrets.
They strolled through the rest of the museum in companionable silence until Nathan stopped at a photo exhibit about the history of colonialism. “But it’s different for us, though, right?”
“What’s different?”
“We don’t get joy.” He gestured toward the new realism exhibit they’d just left. “They get to deconstruct things and slap colors on a canvas because they like the way it looks. But we get what?” He gestured to the photos. “The special collection for heritage month? Places like this only care about our oppression and suffering.”
Rachel took a step back. He was right, but she couldn’t help but feel defensive. “I get your point, but that erases the effort of people working to change that. I used to be one of them and my work was never about suffering.”
“It’s not hanging up in here either,” Nathan said. His gaze bounced from canvas to canvas before he noticed her discomfort. “Oh, fuck. I’m an asshole. I didn’t mean—”
“You’re right,” she said. “Even if I hadn’t quit, I doubt any work like mine would have been displayed somewhere like the MoMA. Most museum acquisitions are still conservative pieces from white male artists, which makes women like me invisible to this part of the art world. But we’re also getting louder. Kara Walker. Amy Sherald. It’s glacial, incremental change, but their work was shown here and it’s impossible to ignore. Just like yours.” Nathan still looked skeptical, and she quickly squeezed his hand. “This is one museum. There’s another one in Harlem, that—”
“Let’s do it,” he said quickly. “Harlem, Brooklyn, Paris, whatever. I’m ready to learn. Show me more.”
Nathan wasn’t superstitious. He didn’t believe in luck or karma, and while he liked the thought of a higher power, he could never fully embrace the idea that a deity powerful enough to create the universe would care about whether he went to mass on Sunday. And yet, as he stood on the side of a two-lane highway, staring at his blown tire, it felt like the universe was trying to tell him something: There was no such thing as a perfect day. You couldn’t spend hours talking art with the off-limits woman of your dreams without some sort of penance.
He’d had the brilliant idea to take the scenic route so they could stop by the infamous spring that gave the town its name. Rachel had never seen it, and he talked up the landmark by sharing a folktale he was pretty sure Abuelita had made up. That swimming in the spring would lead to your heart’s desire.
Maybe it was more like a Robert Johnson’s crossroads deal for the price of his soul. Nathan had figured that being alone with Rachel for twelve uninterrupted hours would be worth the risk of someone noticing they were both gone. But the real price for their perfect day was this: Lightning flashes, the “no signal” message on his phone, the unsettling feeling of being alone but not alone in the racoon-friendly backroads of Maryland. God or no God, there was a devil laughing somewhere.