Alone [manxman]

eight: when you need to take your own advice.

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EIGHT:: when you need to take your own advice.

"So your manager didn't tell you about it?" His brows were furrowed, confusion present, "at all?"

"He didn't tell me it was a Highland exhibition."

"Is that a big thing or?"

And big was an understatement. Highland was one of the most prestigious museums in the Midwest. "Filmmakers have festivals, screenings... you have games, and painters, like, we have showcases. It's a highly respected museum with a program for helping young artists into the scene of buying and connections and networking."

And I'd been in plenty of shows, I'd never been in a museum exhibit, one that would stay for the entirety of the summer. If I did good at Highland, it would open so many doors.

But, the criteria, that was where I lacked. "They're basically asking for trauma porn of like, when I realized I was Mexican?" I shrugged and Jules looked even more confused. "Mike never said I'd be punching above my weight class."

"Paul." And he was smiling when I looked back over at him. His phone was propped up on his desk and a textbook was open and he wasn't looking at me but I could picture the way the corners of his eyes would scrunch up in confusion, how he'd get that little crease between bushy brows. "Huh?"

"Okay so... It's like trying to shoot from the three point line but being a center."

Julian deadpanned, "that's not what I meant." He rolled his eyes with a stifled smile.

I took that moment to admire him, shortly, tried not to make it too obvious but I hadn't seen him with long hair before. It was shaggy and almost blonde -likely from all the sun, his freckled skin was so sun kissed- his hair was tied back into a tiny little bun at the base of his neck.

Fuck, was he beautiful.

Tendrils framed his face so messily and he bit down onto his bottom lip, the flesh creasing over the gap in his teeth.

But what did that even mean? What work had I done that was revolutionary or quite-frankly even slightly thought-provoking? I hadn't created anything phenomenal, it was simply just pretty art, nothing to write home about.

It wasn't like I'd influenced anyone or defined anything, not the way these other artists had.

"They're supposed to be reflective of me, you know? They're supposed to say... something about me." And I didn't know who I was at this point. "Mike just said make some pieces for a showcase, he didn't tell me it was gonna be a sold-out exhibition of the top five Chicano artists in the Midwestern area."

"Have you met anybody yet?"

Nodding solemnly, I hoped he would now understand that why I felt so displaced. "Benny Marin." And he was phenomenal. "He's based out of Minnesota, taught a sculpting class downtown a few years ago."

"Okay." Jules didn't see it like that. "Okay. He's not some world-renowned artist, Pablo."

"But he's amazing." He'd taken an entire subgenera of art and put his own spin on it. He was how I knew that I could become an artist. I hadn't seen anyone like Benny Marin -never a first generation latino dominating the art scene- not before my Sophomore year of high school, before him... I was thinking accounting, something that would make me enough money to support myself and still send some home. I didn't realize what I loved the most in the world could become my lifestyle.

Before him, being an artist seemed like a white kid's dream, one with money and vast amounts of nepotism. "He's pioneered surrealism in 3D, it's like Salvador Dalí in clay... And he-he has so many accolades and accomplishments and—"