BRIAN DEMARS In each chapter, the reader is taken into the complex life of a frustrated photographer, Tim (Fang). Not only is he trying gain a foothold in the art world, Tim is trying to navigate two worlds—the goth subculture that defined much of his past and the sometimes stifling normalcy of being a wedding photographer tasked with keeping his grandfather’s photo studio afloat. But then enters Amelia (Raven), a teacher and painter. Through their shared experiences of feeling marginalized in a cookie–cutter world and finding a necessary escape in art, they begin to form a bond that, eventually, turns into a genuine love story. Seen through the lens of a photographer and the brushstrokes of a painter, Tim and Amelia uncover their true selves as they collaborate in the creation of art and build the foundation of a lasting relationship.
HEARTBROKEN AT THE CEMETERY BY BRIAN DEMARS
bdemars63@gmail.com
@briandemars9
Excerpt from Heartbroken at The Cemetery headed back out to the patio, carefully walking around “ Iaimless patrons engaged in conversation. Looking around, I noticed my friends had already left. I sat at an open bench, lighting another clove. Would the new endeavor be worth it or not? Was there more notoriety by doing model shoots? I had the talent, and equipment, but could I afford to pay them at that moment with the rent coming up?
A tall woman wearing a sleeveless black dress wandered through the clusters of patrons. She cupped a glass of red wine in her right hand. One careless person almost bumped her with his elbow. Sidestepping, she made her way around two people lost in conversation, crossing her arms like a mummy King Tut’s sarcophagus. She turned in my direction with hesitation, our eyes met. She paused, then glanced away for a moment as if searching for someone. The spot on the bench where I sat was vacant. She took a breath before approaching. Her eyes were unique, the left was hazel, the right green. Her narrow face was linear with her short black bob haircut. Her septum and lip were pierced. She towered over me like a redwood tree.
“May I have a seat? There’s too many people for my liking around,” she said. “Sure,” I replied, taking a drag from my clove. She sat next to me, took a deep breath and gave me an awkward smile. Sipping from the wine, her lipstick left a red print on the rim of the glass. She crossed her fishnet–clad legs, straightened her posture. “Say, I hate to ask, but can I bum one of those?” she asked, eyeing my clove. I looked around the patio. There were plenty of other people smoking. I didn’t understand why she was approaching me out of all of them. She was way too attractive to want anything to do with the likes of me. I was as scrawny as a burnt–out matchstick, long– haired, and had a beard like a rogue marooned by his mates at sea. Handing her the pack she drew one with long narrow fingers, her nails painted black and manicured to sharp points resembling talons. On her inner right wrist was a tattoo of a raven sitting on a branch. “Perched and sat and nothing more” was written in cursive underneath the bird. “Thank you,” she replied. “It’s been forever since I’ve smoked one.”
“Did you quit?” I asked. “I used to smoke regularly, but when I started teaching, I cut down,” she replied. “What subject do you teach? English? Math? Theater?” I asked. “None of the above, middle school art. I have a dual degree in fine arts and art education,” she said. “I’m an artist myself. Photography is my medium and I own a studio downtown. I’m Fang, by the way,” I said, extending my hand. “Raven. It’s a pleasure,” she replied, taking it. “What do you like to paint?” I asked. She took out her phone, tucked the clove to the corner of her mouth, and pulled up an image of a hawk holding a heart in its talons. The sky in the background was a blending of grey and black, with shards of broken glass and razor blades raining down. I squinted at the details. “What’s the title?” I asked. “Huh? Oh, it’s called Hawk Saving Heart From Breaking. I like to paint surreal works,” she said with a nod.
“Are you inspired by Salvador Dali? Or Man Ray?” I asked. “I have respect for Dali, his color schemes and figures stand out on the canvas. My inspiration comes from H.R. Giger, Frida Kahlo, and Dorothea Tanning. Have you heard of any of them?” She exaggerated the word “artist” pronouncing it “ahhtists,” as if with a Boston accent. Yet, there wasn’t a harshness, like the way Bostonians spoke. There was a softness of being raised in a proper atmosphere. “I think I have?” I said, scratching my chin. Raven raised her eyebrows, then glanced back to her phone. She pulled up an image of a hammer– headed alien. “Why does that look familiar?” I asked. “If you’ve seen the Alien movies with Sigourney Weaver, this is the artwork that inspired the creation of those creatures,” Raven said. “Giger is the artist who painted them. “Okay, yeah, I never knew that,” I said. Raven continued to scroll through her phone. She showed me a picture of a painting. The female figure
had her spinal column exposed, yet instead of being the color of bone, it was steel.
“Uh, it was because of …” she paused. “Let me see some of your photography.”
“This is The Broken Column by Frida Kahlo. Her figure painting and style is an inspiration for my own,” she said.
She was clearly hiding whatever had been the inspiration, which was understandable since we had just met. Yet, in the back of my mind, I pondered if heartbreak had been the motivation to compose that dark piece. Or perhaps some other dark event in her life. I made a mental note that one common theme in her art was birds, including the tattoo on her wrist. I took out my own phone and showed her an image of a glass being shattered in black and white.
Raven scrunched her lips as she scrolled through Google, pulled up a painting of a nude woman sitting with her back exposed. Two ravens sat on either side with black cord in their beaks, sewing up wounds of where wings had been. Scarlet lines of blood trickled from the wounds. The figure centered in the middle of the canvas floated amongst the clouds. “Wow, this is amazing. I admire the colors, especially the blood,” I said. “Thank you. It’s part of a fallen angel series I did a long time ago. It took a couple of years to finish the entire thing,” she replied, flicking an ash. “What was the inspiration?” I asked. Raven took a deep breath, pushing her lip ring back and forth. She shuffled on the bench and took a sip from her wine.
Raven squinted at the screen while taking a drag from her clove. “I like the breaking glass. You caught the shattering beautifully.” “Thanks, my friend Blaze and I had to drop god knows how many bottles to get this shot. I placed the camera on the ground with him standing over it. We made a hell of a mess.” I showed her another picture, this one capturing a cemetery in winter. The slate stones were sticking up through the deep snow as the wind blew around the falling flakes.
“
“May I see one of your inspired works?” I asked.