The Gallery

[Aria Montgomery]

Eloquently named The Gallery, the structure occupied the full expanse of a glass-enclosed building on the corner of Vanderbuilt and Grant Streets. Found in a lesser populated area in the city, modern architecture sat upon historical charm as the streets were still cobble stoned and survived the turn of centuries despite the world around it evolving with technology. The narrow sidewalks still had black, wrought iron lamp posts and dingy, metal stands that once alerted the police or fire department for any emergencies. Some of the buildings were renovated from an earlier time yet maintained the elegance and charm of an era long since abandoned in favor of glass, steel, and modern lines which enhanced the skyline of the city.

Outside the glass walls and the double-doors of 333 Grant Street, red velvet rope was strung up on either side of the entranceway, bridging the gap between the doors and the curb for passengers of limos and town cars to feel greeted and welcome long before stepping inside the gallery. A handsome man in his mid-thirties stood by the threshold, armed with a clipboard and pen, busy checking off names of guests before they were allowed access to the gala opening. There was no banner to indicate which artist was being honored, and nothing was on display other than potted black orchids set in small, delicate pots along the front wall on each side of the door.

Despite the glass facade of the outside walls, passers-by could no see into the impeccable interior of the gallery. Stark white walls on three sides housed portraits of color, each one framed in the exact manner as the next -- black wood with solid lines and a lacquered finish. No one artist was the same except for a display of photographs marked simply: MW. Those were framed in white and put on easels with pitch black legs and sharp angles. The dark marble floors stretched from the front door to each wall, and continued to back corridors which were cordoned off from the general public; a work of art in and of itself, the sheen of the floor absorbed the pristine white of the walls and turned it into a majestic flow of shadows.

The A-list event drew all sorts of guests ranging from politicians, professional athletes, real estate moguls, and the wealthiest of the city's population. Art critiques from every publication stood shoulder-to-shoulder, regaling in the tales of the artists on display -- none of them known by name nor their reputation. Until now. The work, each piece, told a story; the canvas was the page and the paint its ink. Bold slashes of red on white told the grim tale of a victim's last breath, while a collage of morbid colors hinted at a madman's soul. The photographs captured injured spirits, the collapse of one's strength, and the loss of hope. And the people loved it.

"Aria," Marguerite Valas, a renowned editor from the Times' Art & Style section, graced a kiss to either of the tall woman's cheeks. "You've done it again."

"Ah, well, the gallery is only as good as the work it shows," Aria Montgomery replied easily, reciting words that were once a well-rehearsed mantra but now were sincere and honest. "These are the best of the best of young talent." As the owner and curator of the Gallery, Aria was dressed in a classic Valentino dress. The black silk was offset by a single band of white along her waist, enhancing the trim figure of her stature. A dark bangle bracelet fit on her left wrist, and a bold black diamond sat upon her right-hand's ring finger. Such grim colors might have drained the color from the one wearing them, but nothing ever deterred Aria's flawless appearance. Kohl around her eyes complimented the blue of her eyes, making them shimmer under thick lashes that curled in feminine poise and offered an occasional seductive blink. She knew precisely when to smile seconds before a flash of a camera went off, and somehow always knew when a reporter searched for a quote. "Mark my words," she said, rounding a set of journalists from various outlets. "... and the world will know their names."

[Michael Wolf]

Of course, Michael had intended on showing up properly as intended. Not only was The Gallery a way to have his own work seen, it was a way to see others' pieces, and speak with some of them. And it shouldn't have been surprising at all that, when he showed up, the kid had cleaned up nicely. A light five o'clock shadow just barely visible due to the shadow the brim of the black fedora managed to cast over his face. An open blazer was worn, a black t-shirt beneath it, and a pair of black khaki-material pants, summed up with those infamous (but quite clean, thank you) black Doc Marten boots. He wasn't exactly dressed to kill, though then again, that wasn't at all what he was there for.

He made his appearance by means of walking. Straight up into the crowd that lingered at the red-ropes, and the man with the clipboard waiting to check familiar names off the list as they were permitted entrance. Up until the very moment his name was questioned, he'd commenced in small talk with some of those behind him: and, needless to say, had them laughing in no time so that, by the time he turned to face the man, he was grinning quite broadly. "Michael Wolf, sir." The heavy accent was detectable in even just the uttering of his name, and within just a moment, he was granted passage into the gala.

It shouldn't have been too odd at all that Mike had his bag with him, all his typical necessities within even as he started the slow stroll from piece to piece, and he did - for a brief time - pause in front of those photos signed with a quick M.W. Only to admire his own work, hm? So what? He could be a bit of an egoist. In half a breath later, though, it was then that he spotted Aria even from a distance-- and despite the journalists and camera flashes that were not his own, he made his slow approach. However, he said next to nothing. Hey, no one said anything about him being impatient! To most, Mike was a winner: a keeper, really. He had manners, and he was indeed polite. Only once she was free did he speak up.

"'ey, beautiful." How's that for a warm greeting. "Lon' time, eh?"

[Aria Montgomery]

Aria Montgomery gave the illusion of being perfect. Every silken piece of blonde was coifed, styled in such a way as to compliment the flawless glow of her skin. Worn loose and long, every inch of the wheat-gold strands was brushed to a shine, adding a light bounce to the ends whenever she moved a certain way. Even her clothes --from the designer dress to expensive shoes-- favored her with the gift of adhering to sheer perfection. The black silk of her outfit detailed every one of her purposeful gestures, liquid and fluid in the way it draped over the subtle curves of her hips and hugged her legs until the hem ended somewhere in the middle of her thighs. She was grace personified, and the refined lilt of a British accent only served up her regal persona on a silver platter. "Michael," she purred his name more than she spoke it. "I've been waiting all evening to show you off."

Untangling from the throng of journalists, Aria situated herself at the photographer's side and angled the palm of her hand by his elbow to draw him away from one group in favor of another. "Tonight is a great success. And though we're lacking one guest, I shall be sure to inform him of the gathering when next we speak." The small crowd congregated by some of the easels holding Michael's photographs were a mix of faces -- young, older, men and women; they were from different economic backgrounds and skilled in varying arts. But they all had one thing in common: their interest in Louis Wrightman. The man had touched the lives of many -- whether they were those who craved a chance to study his masterful mind or those who wished to emulate his artwork. And tonight, they gathered to celebrate their work in tribute to the man who sought to create a masterpiece. "Naturally, he'll be interested to know who was here."

Camera flashes went off in tandem, capturing the image of Aria and Michael by one of the photographer's pieces. "I think he'll also be interested to know who wasn't. But, for now, let me introduce you to a few people."

[Michael Wolf]

The way Aria purred his name left him with a near-sheepish sort of smile; and it was almost eerie how Michael could go from bouncy and fun-loving, to serious, in the blink of an eye. He could have almost passed as a professional.. especially considering his own get up for the evening. Almost. There was still just a bit too much 'spunk' to him, despite the lack of shades and that nearly ever-present Nikon of his. "All evenin'? Sorry to 'ave kept y'waitin'." Still, a grin was quick to resurface, and he allowed himself to be lead away from the journalists, to the next group lingering by the photographs.

It took very little time for him to survey the varying group, and the bounce on the heels of his boots was just about involuntary as he worked his hands into the pockets of his slacks. "Aye, one is missin'.." he admitted in a lower tone; all but a murmur, but only because with the photographer, came more information. He'd gotten a few pictures, after all, that didn't quite fall into the artwork category.. ..well, depending on how you viewed them. He didn't at all mean The Artist, but he was - quite well aware - that there were two he knew of missing. A tip of his chin was given, as though the camera flashes didn't bother him in the least: when you lived behind one yourself, you got used to it.

"As y'wish, 'course," he chimed, turning his gaze to Aria momentarily. "Then, we've got t'talk, eh?" Both brows raised, though it was likely unnoticeable from under the brim of his tipped-forward fedora, in unison with one of those sharp, charming grins.. Afterwards, though, Mike's attention went to the group standing idly by.

[Drake Slaughter]

There were times that having press credentials with the NY Times was a godsend. It made getting into gala's a lot easier and didn't involve windows, back doors or other forms of subterfuge. People usually wanted some sort of publicity and he could give them what they wanted. For a price, of course.

His hair longer than normal and artfully styled in something that seemed haphazard but had taken a lot of time to get right. His clothing fit the look too since he was dressed more, well, artsy. A long shirt with a formal jacket, dark jeans and comfortable hiking boots were his attire for the night. And the boots didn't have mud on them, thank you very much. He had a camera bag slung over his shoulder and the bouncer almost took it. Considering he wasn't the bad kind of journalist, he managed to retain ownership of his prized bag and headed into the gala a little less refined than everyone else but that didn't seem to bother him.

He was playing a role after all. A role he knew well and one he could feign in his sleep. It was who he was when he wasn't performing the tricks of the trade that his handler would ask of him. This was the easy part. Just being a person.

He extended his hand when greeted. "Hello, Tyler Hayes. New York Times. A pleasure to meet you."