The music faded and lights slowly dimmed as a visual cue for the ensuing act.
A man dressed in a white linen outfit leisurely strolled through the crowd and made his way to the centre of the exhibition hall. He walked up to a single white chair which was lit up under a beam of bright, white light coming from directly above it. The hall darkened while the crowd organically formed a makeshift circle around the spotlit chair.
Some recognized the man as the host artist and one could hear people choking on their drinks when he proceeded to undress. Completely. The white linen garbs fell onto the floor and beautifully exposed his naked body. The small gathering hardly moved nor spoke a word whilst held mesmerised by the unfolding exhibition.
The naked man stood silently in the semi darkness behind the lit chair. His chiselled chest and abdominal muscles were strikingly accentuated and both women and men gawked at the Adonis-like stature of a man.
An Asian string instrument melodically plucked at the silent hall while a woman, dressed in a black velvet coat, walked forward from between the crowd and stopped in front of the chair. The two of them stood dead still until she pulled at a string around her neck and allowed the coat to slide off from her shoulders. It dropped to the floor and revealed her pristine, near luminescent white skin which seemed to glow under the bright light. Dressed only in black stilettos and a matching set of lingerie garments, it was in stark contrast to her bright white skin.
Lola's knuckles whitened from the tensed clutch around her wine glass stem. She was irritated about the unsolicited scenes which were unravelling before her. She did not sign up for this and only came here tonight to appease a friend who wanted to see the artist, Raoul Abarca, an immigrant artist who had become an overnight sensation in Berlin. He painted, did graffiti street art, and had multiple outrageous performance art projects. One of which made news headlines when he graphically used a sledge hammer to pulverise hundreds of watermelons that were staged on child-like mannequins.
She was, however, not a fan, and if anything, thought the man was a fraud. A hocus pocus entertainer and not a true artist. Certainly not like her father. She understood what it meant to be an artist. The commitment required to hone one's craft and how the productions of one's ideas had to be rooted in discipline. This is where true art was forged. Not this crowd pleasing mumbo jumbo that was happening here.
She watched with disdain and when he picked up the black coat to cover himself with it, she sighed loudly in relief, "Oh, thank God!"
The artist went on to perform a shibari rope tying ceremony which peaked climatically to the noticeable gasps from the audience when he threw a rope over an industrial hook and hoisted the tightly, yet intricately beautiful pattern-knotted model with a pulley system until she became suspended in mid-air.
All the lights went dark bar the round white beam of light which illuminated the suspended model. For a few brief moments, there was total darkness with only the pattering sound of rain over the ever-present string-plucked melody. The hall lit up slowly while the model was lowered down by the artist until she was back on the white chair. A deliberately slow and apparent unwrapping ceremony followed.
Tenderly, he untied knot by knot, and undid the thick twine ropes from her body. Once all the rope was lifted from her skin, he rubbed a small block of ice over the indented rope imprints, following the lines which traversed her body. It turned the rope remnants into dark red welts which were in stark contrast to her snow white skin. Her body had now become a representation of the experience and presented it in an entirely different way. Her body had become the art work. The crowd cheered and applauded for more than ten minutes.
"That poor model," Lola rolled her eyes at her friend while they discussed the show afterwards, "I think it's so cruel what he did to her.''
But her attention was drawn away from the conversation by a hand which gently curled firmly around her upper arm.
"You do not approve?" a deep, articulated foreign accent vibrated through her.
Turning around, her gaze was met by a tall man, whose fingers relaxed its grip and softly caressed down her exposed skin until it reached her hand where his fingers slipped in between hers.
Lola did not recognize him immediately and was taken aback by the dark toned man with a thick mane of unruly curls towering over her. Dressed in a white cotton shirt which was held together by no more than two or three buttons and a pair of faded jeans which had bleached torn threads dangling from holes at both knees. He wore a pair of sandals which peered out from below the worn seams of his jeans.
"Uhm, no. Uhm, what are we talking about?" she stuttered, still confused about why he was talking to her. "And you are?" she fired back with resumed confidence.
"My apologies, I am Raoul. I'm the artist. I brought you... all of this tonight," both his arms gestured round the exhibition hall, while he laughed loudly.
Her friend awkwardly stepped forward and held out her hand to introduce herself, but Raoul remained fixated on Lola.
"Oh my God!" Lola feigned an excited reply, slapping her forehead with the palm of her hand. "Oh course, you are the artist," she pronounced the words mockingly and laughed, "how silly of me. Yes, I did not enjoy the degradation of another female form under the guise of art. When all you offered was an evening of smutty entertainment." She paused as she stepped forward and looked up at him," but I really liked your cock," she added and stared at him intently to gauge his response to her taunt.
An uncomfortable paused moment dragged by before Raoul's head flung back with a roar of laughter which came from the pit of his stomach.
"Guay! Yes, yes. Fóllame! I was going for, how do you say, 'verdad desnuda', uhm... the naked truth," he replied, shrugging while his shoulders shook with laughter.
Lola stood boldly with her chest out in a defiant posture but simultaneously felt hypnotized by Raoul's emerald green eyes which were locked onto hers. She felt trapped and could not look away. He spoke slowly and deliberately, each word penetrating her chest and causing flutters which tingled down into her stomach.
"May I ask your name... Una mujer hermosa y atrevida?"
"Lola," immediately blurted out, followed by an involuntary giggle, "Lola, just Lola, yes. And forgive my candour, Raoul. I just don't get the show aspect of your art."
She suddenly felt silly about being rude.
"Lola, I want you to uhm, visit my studio? Would you uhm, considerar, becoming my musa for a day? I require such honesty like you. Me encantaría pintarte! And I would love to paint you. Maybe I can help you understand my work better."
She could feel her cheeks glowing and knew she was blushing. She tried to cool it down by touching her face with the back of her hand. Flamingly flushed, she suddenly felt like a naughty, wide-eyed schoolgirl.
"Uhm, ok... wow! I am no model, Raoul. Much less how to be a muse," she giggled again, before trying to look serious.
"You are 'exactamente' what I am looking for, Lola," he insisted and called for someone over his shoulder. A youngish man quickly moved towards them.
"Yes, Raoul?"
"Tim, this is Lola. Arrange a day next week for her to visit my studio, por favor," he instructed and turned back to her. "Tim will take care of the preparativos, uh... the arrangements. I really looking forward to see you again. Unfortunately, I have to go away to some guests now. Say yes?" he implored while his hands rested on her shoulders.
"Uhm, ok. Yes!" she agreed without giving it much thought.
He pulled her closer, wrapped his arms around her and hugged her.
