All The Colors Of You || Bang Chan

Chapter Eleven - Perrie

We stand in my kitchen side by side.
I am cutting tomatoes into slices. Chan is poking holes into the pizza dough with a fork.

Music is playing in the background, my favorite playlist full of songs from a time way before I was born. Right now, Billie Joel is singing 'Vienna' for us, and I am as quiet as a mouse because Chan is humming along.
I don't think he's aware of it, but I am.
His voice is low and warm; sometimes he switches to the actual lyrics, murmuring the words in melody, before continuing with a wordless hum again.

Both our glasses are filled halfway with the red sangria, a few pieces of oranges and strawberries floating beside ice cubes on top.
There are a few lights on, but overall it is rather dim around my apartment.
It feels like the world has reduced itself to just this room - like the entire universe isn't bigger than my kitchen.

"What a good song," Chan says now happily as the song switches to the next one, "I used to listen to a lot of this music back in Australia before I came to Korea. So this is really nice."
I glance at him sideways.
He's very concentrated on pouring the tomato sauce onto the dough, spreading it carefully with a spoon.
"I did too," I say then, "When I was a kid. My mom raised me on this kind of music, all that 80s and 90s stuff."

Lost in thought, I add, "She used to tell me how 'they don't make music like that anymore' and how 'nowadays everything sounds the same'. She also grew up with the music from the 80s, so she had all her own memories for the songs."
Chan pauses to cover the dough in sauce and looks at me with a thoughtful face.
"You must miss her," he says then, "Being so far away from her."
I face him.
"As much as you must miss your family, I'm sure," I respond and there's small understanding smile on both our lips.

For a while we concentrate on the pizza and listen to the music.
But then Chan starts cutting red bell peppers into stripes and holds up a small piece to my lips.
I take it between my teeth, accidentally grazing his fingertips with my lips.
He sucks in a breath and I giggle.
He's so easy to tease, and I haven't even really started yet.
He catches himself quickly, though, and clears his throat.

"So you're an artist," he starts and I raise an eyebrow, "What's something you dream of doing with your art? Like, where do you want to go with it?"
I swallow the piece of bell pepper and steal a new one, before climbing onto the counter beside the pizza sheet. I sit with my legs dangling over the edge and watch Chan work the big knife. His fingers hold the knife safe and securely, the knuckles are slightly more pink that the rest of his skin. I can see a few veins snaking around the back of his hands.

"I don't know," I say and shrug. Chan looks up at me and blinks, and I blush.
"If we're being honest," I continue, "I always just wanted to do exactly what I'm doing right now. Painting and selling. Making a living with my paintings. Bring joy to the people."
"Yeah, but if you could do more," Chan leans forward on his hand. "If you could do anything. What would it be?"
His fingers curl around the edge of the counter, brushing against my thigh.
For a second, I can't concentrate on anything besides his fingers right next to my leg.

I shake my head to clear my thoughts and take a deep breath.
"I guess if I could do anything with my art," I finally say, "I would want a great art gallery to put my pieces in an exhibition. And I'd want it to be a really classy event, you know? Like you see in the movies sometimes, with champagne and photographers, and an auction or something."
I glance down to my hands and add, "I think every artist wants that, don't you? To show the things they're so proud of. To be celebrated for creating meaningful pieces. I try to be so noble and humble about it, but the truth is: it would be really cool the be recognized for my talent. To have people scramble to get their hands on one of my pieces."

It's an ugly truth.
I tell myself all the time that what I'm doing is enough. That painting strangers and sending those portraits away is enough.
But it's not, not really.
I want more.
Deep down in my soul I know it, I want to be a real artist with an exhibition and a painting on the walls of the most esteemed gallery. I want people to look at my work in a museum.
I want eccentric art collectors pay thousands of dollars for a painting of mine, just to have it and brag about it.
I want to be that good.
I want to be considered as a master of my craft.

It's an ugly truth, it's a greedy idea. It's ungrateful.
I should be happy with what I'm doing. Not everyone can live the life I am leading. Not everyone gets the chance to do what I do.
But it is the core of my being and no matter how much I try to fight it, the thought constantly circles my mind.

"What keeps you from having an exhibition?"
Chan seems unfazed by my gluttonous wish.
I sigh and take another sip of my drink, clinking the glass carefully against his.
"Well, there are a few different ways to do that," I say, "I could stage one myself, but I don't have the location or financial means to hold the entire event in the scheme I want it to happen. Plus, it wouldn't be the same. I want to be recognized, you know? The other option is having a museum or a gallery approach me and invite me to exhibit my pieces in their location and under their name. That would be the best thing ever, to be fair."
I sigh. "But so far, none of the galleries I've talked to have interest in my work. A lot of them think I have 'nothing to say', or that my work 'lacks a story and a vision'."

My voice drips with sarcasm as I gesture around my words.
Chan finishes slicing the pepper and starts assembling his side of the pizza.
He says, "I don't agree with them. I think you have a lot to say."
He looks up at me and smirks, showing me his dimple.
"I can't wait for the invitation when you do get your exhibition. I'll definitely want to buy an original Periwinkle Becket piece. It'll be worth a million bucks in thirty years."
As he clinks his glass against mine to take a sip, my chest is close to bursting open.