Moments Of Beauty by J B Heller

Author:J B Heller [Heller, J B]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General Fiction
Publisher: J.B. Heller
Published: 2017-03-23T00:00:00+00:00

I didn’t know it then, but that storm would never leave me, not until I found her again.

“You know I hate going to the showings, Bee, don’t make me.” I’m begging like a child and I don’t even care. That’s how much I hate going to my own exhibitions. Listening to people pick apart my work and try dissect the meaning behind a particular photograph annoys the shit out of me.

They don’t understand why I shoot the way I do. My photography has been given many labels over the years, the most recent is one I’m pretty sure was made up because my work doesn’t fit into any of their boxes, yet it fits them all. They are calling me a Randomist.

When I read the latest write up heralding me as a pioneer in the art of Randomist Photography I rolled my eyes and threw the article in the bin. What a load of shit. I don’t have a style, never have. I shoot what captures my attention. That’s it. I don’t adhere to the rules of any particular style.

It still annoyed me, Randomist. I mean, fucking really? It makes me sound like a douche.

Bee’s voice brings me back to the present, “Yes, you have to go. You are the reason people pay big money to come to the opening night of these events, Hux. They want to mingle with the talent.”

“You mean the gold-diggers, thirty years younger than their sugar daddy husbands, pay big money to come so they can attempt to grope me when their husbands are off drinking whisky and smoking cigars on the balcony, bragging about how much younger their current trophy wife is,” I say dryly, because that’s exactly what ends up happening.

Bee tsks, “You’re being dramatic, Huxley.”

I raise a brow, “Oh, I’m Huxley now?”

She nods, “Petulant children get called by their full names when behaving like brats,” she says as she performs her this-is-happening-so-deal-with-it move, and puts her hands on her hips, levelling me with her no bullshit stare.

I carry on behaving like a child and throw my hands in the air, “Fine, but don’t expect me to like it.”

She pats me on top of the head as she walks past me pouting on the couch in the living room we’ve shared for nearly five years now. I swipe her hand away, and glare at her retreating form.

“Glare all you like, you’re doing this,” she calls over her shoulder on her way down the short hallway to her bedroom.

I slump back on the couch, she very rarely lets me get out of these events, but I still try every time she informs me of the next one.

Bee has been my best friend for the last five years, and my manager slash publicist for the last three. At first, I thought branching out on my own was a bad idea, but she convinced me to give her six months to make a name for me. She did it in four.

When I first arrived here I had no plans of staying.

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