It was considered an incredible feat to have an exhibition in a renowned gallery across several major cities. Ravi had done so before the age of 21. Re.Birth had been his debut exhibition, more than 20 pieces of his own creation. Surrealist cartoons and multi-media collages making comments on what he had named the normalcy complex. Disgustingly condescending and held up as a symbol of the depth of those in the art world. Hipsters, artists and hangers-on had flocked to the debut exhibition, ready to find another way to prove to the rest of society that they were inherently 'better' than the rest.

When asked in an interview Ravi showed a cool, detached attitude that further enamoured him in the minds of those that had crowded the exhibitions.

“It’s not like it really means anything,” He had said, refusing to remove his sunglasses for the interview and appearing, for all intents and purposes, like a rap star rather than an artist. “It’s not like I’m telling them things they don’t already know. And that’s why they lap this up. They all know who they are and I’m just giving them an excuse not to change. They can’t change because then I wont have art to make.” He leant back in the chair and glared down the barrel of the camera, refusing to answer any more questions.

Ken had watched the interview for a project during art school. It was his favourite interview really; the equivocal statements seemed to glide right past the interviewer and those that loved Ravi’s art. The way the young man spoke and glared at the viewers, daring them to find the deeper meaning in his words, Ken had been fascinated by it.

The actual art of Re.Birth he had found tawdry and over-done. Comments on consumerism and social constraints; yeah, yeah, plenty of others had beaten him to the punch years ago. And had done a better job of it. Neon colours and silly drawings, heavy handed symbolism and an overuse of the artists own coined phrase. What an ego trip.

Then again with Choi Sungmi as his mother, Ravi had never really struggled through the art world. More ridden to the top on his mother’s canvas tails. Told, probably from birth, that he was destined for great art. Ken had felt the world was yet to see it.

Choi Sungmi had been a break-through artist, her defiant use of uncomfortable colours against the hyper-realism of her paintings set her apart from the rest. Her depiction of civil wrongs in such achingly realistic paintings coupled with the off-colours had sent the art world into a frenzy.

Tours through Europe and America, the classic bourgeois lifestyle of a young artist. Somewhere along the way Ravi had been conceived, born, painted and exhibited as much as the other artworks Choi Sungmi had created. He had grown up in the arms of the art world. Passed from master to master as his mother moved among them. He had spent his childhood in Europe; the traditional countrysides, the cobbled cities, the sunny and garish coastlines, and the snow-topped mountains. Places people dreamed of going, of seeing just once, were his playgrounds. Men and women that others in the world were dying to meet, he played with and annoyed as a child.

All of it, so far, seemed in vain to Ken. He had decided to keep an eye on this fierce young artist, hoping to see something with a little depth appear from his years of serendipitous surroundings. Something that was more than a mockery of his own followers.

Then Real.Eyez had hit the exhibition circuit. Ken felt he almost had the same amount of satisfaction in the work as the artist himself. Here was something worth seeing, something worth saying. The techniques had been refined and the symbolism softer, easier to swallow. It attracted not only the hipper-than-thou followers from his previous works, but also spoke to the wider realms of society.

Ken had visited the museum almost every week that the exhibition was in town. Each time finding a new thing to love about it, a new layer of complexity in the art. He loved it. He would come at all different times of the day, to watch not only the paintings but also the people drawn to them. Sometimes he came at the very opening of the museum when the school groups were lined up outside like the path of a wandering drunk. Sometimes in the hours of lunch when university students would mill through in their contemporary thrift-shopped clothes, trying to discern the meaning of the art. His favourite time was in the evening, when the sun was setting early. He would go in when the light was yellowing at the horizon, and come out into the darkness and streetlights. His overly artistic brain loved to think of it as being made to see again, as being given real eyes. It was a playful thought, using the name of the exhibition in his own silly way.

When Ken emerged from the studio, sliding the door shut behind him as though reluctant to let the art escape, Ravi was still sitting on the floor. His bowl was empty and it seemed he had progressed a fair way through the sketch book.

Ken didn’t speak to him but simply moved into the kitchen to boil the kettle for tea. When it was ready he set a cup down by Ravi and took the empty bowl away. His eyes flickered over the sketch unconsciously. It was a still-life of a piece of forest, where two gnarled tree trunks almost sat against one another. Ken had a sketch of the same scene pinned up in his studio. His was different to Ravi’s. There seemed to be a desperation in this sketch that Ken had somehow missed when he had done it.

With the tea made he took a seat at the table and began sketching the figure of Ravi bent over his book in the window. The silence wrapped around them like a fog, leaving them in one another’s space but completely separated.

Ravi came back to himself when the light had faded to the point that his detail was lost. His neck and back were aching and his feet felt as though they no longer existed. With snaps and cracks, he stretched out on the floor and let his muscles resettle into new positions. His toes began a fierce tingle and shot pins and needles through his feet and ankles. It had been years since he had sat like a rookie and sketched that long. He stared at the plain ceiling and wondered if he should look back over the sketches. It would more than likely depress him, to see his shoddy technique and inability to See any more. He sighed and stretched his hands up over his face, placing them in his view against the ceiling. His long fingers, clean and manicured. They seemed to call to him, unsatisfied with their current state. His whole being was unsatisfied.

The pop of a wine bottle’s cork shot his musings down like a blunderbuss. He sat bolt upright, his back complaining again. He was in another person’s house! It was dark outside, meaning he must have been there for hours! He didn’t even know this man! His muscles tightened as though he were caught in headlights. Wave upon wave of shame and irritation crashed down on him. What was he thinking? How could he have been so… so… How could he have stayed this whole time? He needed to get out of here.

Ken leant down and placed a glass of red wine beside him, not so much as pausing before padding away to the bench and beginning to set out ingredients for dinner.

Ravi stared at the glass, then at Ken. The other man was avoiding his eyes. Ken must have been so astounded that someone could so rudely invade his house as Ravi had done. He was almost certainly trying to get rid of Ravi without making a scene. He was, after all, famous. Ravi wanted to run. The only thing holding him in place was his own