Galaxies of Art

Golden Gate Park was rather popular and the DeYoung Museum one of the marvels of the city. The spot was busy but not overrun, perfect for a tour with a newbie. My eyes scanned the crowd in an attempt to find my friend. It is quite the triumph to be able to claim the title of friendship to this particular individual. Technically, I think it is the very first of its kind. 

“Joanna!” a voice cried.

I turned to find the object of my search striding towards me. Behind his opaque sunglasses, I knew his solid unblinking eyes would be fixed assuredly upon my own. 

Instead of a colored iris, he had completely black pupils. It was a little disconcerting to get used to the unyielding dark of his eyes but now it is second nature to me. 

His dark hair was slightly tousled from the breeze but it fell naturally about his face in a stylish fringe. I smiled as a swell of pride flared in my chest. I was the one he asked to take him to a barber shop for some “human experiences”. I must confess it looked rather dashing.

“Hey stranger!” I smiled. 

He is called Xenos. Well, that’s the name he chose for himself when he came here. His true name is unpronounceable for humans, our larynx is not the correct shape. It just sounds like clicks, and elongated vowels to me.

Xenos. It means foreigner in Greek, though stranger might be a closer approximation. I am horrified to admit, when I was first introduced to him at the peace conference, I laughed. He has since forgiven me. 

Foreigner cannot begin to cover the complexities of his nature, let alone his biology. 

“Are you ready for the museum?” he asked. His skin caught the brilliant sunlight and I worried about the possibility of sunburn. 

His skin was pale to the point of transparency. His people are night creatures. Things like photosynthesis don’t exist on their planet. They have something akin to our moon that acts as their “sun”. The intensity of Earth’s nearest star is the reason I force him to wear sunglasses when we are outside, though he would rather go blind than put on the “blinders” I give him, he wears them to spare himself my scowl. 

“I’m always ready for a museum!” I declared, “Did you put sunscreen on?” 

“You mean that vile smelling white cream you gave to me?” he sniffed disdainfully, like a petulant toddler refusing to eat his peas, “I think I would rather suffer the consequences.”

I frowned at him. “Your skin is far more delicate than ours, and even ours doesn’t block out most of the damaging rays. You can get cancer.”

“Well it is a good thing I have this,” he replied, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small black box. It looked like the technological hybrid of an iPod and a pager.

My eyes lit up at the sight. Xenos always had some interesting piece up his sleeve and he enjoyed explaining them to me as much as I loved learning about them.

“What is it?” I grinned. 

He smiled at my antics as he enlightened me. “This equalizer acts as an invisible...bubble, if you will, much like a pair of sunglasses, to block out harmful UV rays.”

“Like a force field of some kind?” I questioned enthusiastically.

He cocked a pale eye brow. “What have I told you about your science-fiction? It pales in comparison to the real thing.”

“Superiority doesn’t suit you.” I examined the object in his hand. “What if I try to touch you? Does it disable the bubble?”

“Try,” he challenged, a small smirk in the corner of his lips.

I narrowed my eyes, “I don’t like where this is going.”

His face changed, I couldn’t put my finger on exactly how…but the moment was heavy with significance. 

“Trust me,” he said, his voice was soft and coaxing and I couldn’t help but be drawn by his request.

After a moment’s hesitation I did. I reached out and about an inch before his skin the air crackled around my hand and fingertips, stronger than static but milder than electricity.

I retracted my hand swiftly, my face burning, every hair on my body was on end but it was not unpleasant. 

“Interesting,” I said, trying to keep my voice even.

He smiled and we both set our faces to the entrance of the museum.

At the courtyard beyond the gates we paused at the statue of The Thinker by Rodin.

“Tell me about this,” Xenos requested. Sometimes I wonder if he actually listens to what I’m saying, he often forgets things I’ve already told him. I asked him about it once and he replied simply, It’s your voice and walked off without further comment, much to my confusion.

“It’s called The Thinker by Auguste Rodin. There are actually quite a few of these around the world—”

“Why multiple copies?” he interrupted, “Are they not all different? I thought one-of-a-kind was most common when it comes to human art.”

“Slow down there tiger, let me explain,” I soothed.

He frowned again, “I don’t look anything like a tiger—oh, is this another idiotism?” 

I just managed to choke back my laughter, “Idi-om.

He nodded sagely, but remained silent, allowing me to continue. 

“They actually are all slightly different. Rodin used a method of carving one and making a cast out of it so multiple copies may be produced from it of varying sizes. Some are in bronze like this one. Yes one can’t have two Mona Lisa’s but in more modern days multiple copies allows the awe of art to be spread to the masses.”

“I see,” he replied suspiciously.

“Rodin originally designed this for his work The Gates of Hell based on Dante’s epic poem The Inferno. It represents the intellect of the mind and has become an icon in modern society…well some of modern society.”

“Why is he naked?” Xenos asked bluntly.

I almost laughed at his frankness but I held my tongue.

“It’s nude because Rodin wanted to depict man as a heroic figure like they did in the Renaissance. It creates this sharp contrast between cold intellect and creative passion.”

Xenos frowned thoughtfully so I attempted to elaborate. “During the Renaissance, man was considered the measure of all things. The human figure was divine and sublime and should be portrayed as such.”

“And now? How is it now?” he asked. His thirst for truth was unquenchable.

“I supposed that nowadays people are more interested in how thin the human figure can possibly get...” I didn’t try to hide my exasperation, “or how ripped a set of abs can be—the muscle mass of a bicep.”

He turned to me, a keen look in his eyes. 

“And you?” he asked gently, his dark eyes were full of questions, “What do you think?”

For a moment I sat stunned, unable to form a coherent thought with his sudden attention. Not when those unwavering onyx eyes bored into mine. When did he take off his glasses? His simple, honest inquiry sent me reeling and I couldn’t for the life of me understand why.

“I-I don’t really believe either of them,” I finally stammered .

“Why?” he asked.

“Well…” I began hesitantly, “I believe that we are divinely human, but we are not gods ourselves. There should be a kind of glory when it comes to our bodies, but we shouldn’t hurt or exploit them like modern society seems to want us to. The perfect body doesn’t exist, you should be loved for the way you are…so why should it matter?”

For a moment I thought he might comment. Something in his eyes flared with an anticipation that I couldn’t place, in a flash it was gone. Instead he simply nodded, turned on his heel and headed towards the entrance to the building.

I stood for a moment, confused at his antics, before trailing after him. 

We walked through the halls for hours. Each room brought a new lesson, and though I couldn’t always explain every painting, sculpture and work of art, Xenos remained patient with a quiet enthusiasm that seemed to overcome his entire person.

However, he was completely dumbfounded when we stepped into the Impressionist and Modern Art exhibit.

“It is not finished.” he said, frowning at Monet’s Water Lilies.

I covered my mouth. Coughing to muffle what sounded suspiciously like a laugh. He always makes me laugh, but usually he’s actually trying. 

“That is precisely what the greater population of the world said during the Impressionist movement. It looks unfinished because the artists wished to paint a moment in time, to capture a realistic, but fleeting image. Quick strokes of energy with vibrant colors, blending and dancing across the canvas.”

I fell silent for a moment and simply looked at the painting.

Really looked. The colors were incredible in their contrast, and the yellows always so cheery and joyful for a man who worked so hard to find joy. I always had a hard time standing in front of art because my first intrusive thought is: touch it. Horrible, but I only want to lay my palm on the canvas and feel the textures, the peaks and valleys of the paint, maybe give it a pat and say, Hey there. 

I must have been staring for quite some time because I didn’t stop until I felt a gentle pressure on my hand.

I turned, only to find Xenos staring at me intently. 

“You really love this…do you not?” he asked.

“Yes…” I replied quietly. “Very much.”

Neither of us spoke for a long moment. His hand remained holding mine, the soft warmth of his fingers pressing into my skin, his thumb tracing gentle circles against my—

Wait—circles?

I swiftly retracted my hand and turned away to hide the heat in my face. 

We explored a little further before wandering over to the visiting exhibits. I found a Van Gogh.

“This is amazing!” Xenos cried, grinning like a child. “Such energy—like an animal thrashing about…it’s untamable.”

I smiled, “I’m glad you like it.”

He turned to me, “What do you mean? Do others not enjoy it?” 

“Well, nowadays Van Gogh is considered a master. One-of-a-kind. But that was long after he was dead. He only sold one painting his entire life.” 

Xenos began to frown. 

“He was a rather intense man. Some say he cut off his own ear…” Xenos’ eyes widened and I elaborated quickly, “Others say he lost it in a fight with his friend, another painter, Gaugin. He was a passionate man, but sometimes unstable. He did some of his greatest paintings while he was institutionalized in a mental hospital. I think it’s rather beautiful, the idea that his best work was when he was asking and receiving help.” 

Xenos stared at the painting completely floored by this information.

“Why?!” he demanded.

I snapped to attention at the venom in his voice. Never had I heard him so infuriated before.

“One painting! One! I would have been driven mad as well had I not been acknowledged for my talent! How dare they!?” 

At first I didn’t know what to do. Then my hand, of its own accord, reached out and grasped his forearm. 

He started abruptly, obviously unaware that he had been ranting out loud.

“You must understand.” I pleaded softly, “Humans can be very self-serving at times. When we get comfortable with something, and it is disrupted, we lash out in anger or fear or any number of different things.”

I paused for a moment and briefly collected my thoughts.

“Sometimes artists are too ahead of their time and are treated with scorn…mocked for their genius.” 

I shook my head briefly, “Why do you think that people give us strange looks when they see us together? You are different, foreign and that can be unsettling. Humans, no matter what they tell you, are terrified of change. Fifty years ago you’d-”

I stuttered to a halt, wondering briefly if I should continue with such a disgusting thought.

“Yes?” he pressed.

“Fifty years ago,” I spoke softly, “If you arrived with the treaty as you did, you’d have probably been shot out of the sky and destroyed. Maybe even subjected to brutal torture and scientific testing…”

My voice nearly shook. I cleared my throat and kept talking.

“Extraterrestrials were the object of many fictional manipulations throughout time in literature, music, and films. Usually in a negative light…But not all of them, never all. Star Trek was actually pretty popular.”

His lips twitched, almost a smile. Commander Spock never ceased to amuse him. My relief almost choked me. Still I continued.

“Throughout history you can see how often humans are prone to misunderstanding. We are quick to judge, slow to admit to wrongdoing and down right stubborn at the best of times…but we always pull through in the end…”

I squeezed his arm gently, praying that he would look at me. 

He didn’t. 

“You have to know…” I whispered, “There have been so many people just waiting for you to arrive. They didn’t know when or how it would happen. But they hoped…prayed that there was someone else out there…it’s nice to know you’re not alone.”

Xenos stared at the painting before them, “Did Van Gogh die alone?” 

I hesitated, unsure how to tell him the truth, “Van Gogh was deeply lonely and felt isolated, despite the obvious affection of his family, especially his brother Theo. One day, Van Gogh walked out into the country fields and tried to kill himself. He failed, but was badly injured and stumbled back to his home. His brother practically ran from Paris to be with him. He died with Theo by his side and became one of the greatest painters in the world.” 

“That-” he whispered, his gaze riveted to the thick sweeps of paint, “…is not how it should be.” 

“No…” I agreed, “It’s not.”

Finally his eyes broke from the painting and he turned to me. His face broke into one of the gentlest and most breathtaking smiles I have ever witnessed in my life. 

“You humans shall never cease to surprise me…” he commented.

I shrugged sheepishly. “We aim to please.”

He laughed and the last shred of anxiety was thus banished from me. He took a deep breath, as if cleaning the disappointment from his body.

He presented his arm to me. “Shall we take dinner?” he asked.

I slipped my arm through his.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

We left my building and walked out into the warm sunshine. 

There was a lovely park across the street and we decided on a picnic spot after much debate. He wished to try the new sandwich place downtown. I insisted on a local spot for takeaway and the park. 

Finally, he consented. 

After an amiable and enjoyable lunch I decided to lie out on the soft grass, stretching my tired muscles under the deliciously warm sunlight. The sun sliced through the tree branches above me to play across my closed eyelids.

After nearly dozing off twice I finally opened my eyes only to find a pair of onyx ones staring back at me. 

“Jesus Xenos!” I cried, nearly jumping out of my skin, “You really know how to wake a girl.”

“Woman.” he replied.

“What?”

“I said you are a woman,” he repeated, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

I could feel his eyes trace my face as if he were physically caressing it.

“You are incredible.” he whispered. “You are not afraid of change, of foreigners…of me. You have complete and utter devotion to those you hold dear…”

What is going on? What’s gotten into him?

“You are far more enchanting than any painting I have ever seen.” he reached out and ran his fingertips along my cheek. “So intriguing…so intelligent…so beautiful. I must be as mad as your Van Gogh…but I cannot be silent.” he bowed his head and was quiet for a long moment. 

He finally raised his eyes to mine and I dared to hope. 

“I believe Earth has a custom—courtship? two individuals explore their loyalty to each other and strengthen their bonds of intimacy. Will you do me the honor of accepting me in this request of…a date?”

My eyes searched his face as I tried vainly to discover any malicious thoughts, a joke, a smirk…anything.

I opened my mouth to voice my protests when I realized…

I had none. 

There was nothing stopping me…us. 

Just my answer.