Fearless by Annie Jocoby

environmental ethics. As abstract as her message was, I got it. I got her. Her art told me everything that I needed to know about her, and that was that she was an extremely gifted, intelligent and sensitive soul.
    Which was why I felt like tearing Jacobs a new asshole when I read his scathing review of her showing at the Luhring. I was livid, reading what he had to say about her. I couldn’t understand, at all, why this art critic would publish something that was obviously so biased. Anybody with half a brain could understand that Dalilah was a rare talent. Anybody. Yet this asshole acted as if she was some kind of second-rate hack.
    Then I read more about Jacobs, and it all became clear. He apparently has a daughter who was a struggling artist. She was around 20 years old when Dalilah was getting her major showings. His daughter was also trying to get recognition in the genre of urban expressionism. It seemed to me to be a classic case of tearing down the competition. As unprofessional as that was for an art critic to do that, it seemed to be the only logical explanation. I could just imagine how an 11 year old would feel, seeing her work torn like that in such a savage and scathing manner. No wonder she quit. She had the talent of somebody twice her age, but the maturity level of a child.
    I only hoped that she could overcome her mental blocks and start painting again. The world needed someone like her, and for her to be cowering in the background, when she clearly should be front and center and creating a major name for herself in the art world, would be absolutely a tragedy and a waste. It would be as if Basquiat had quit before he was able to compose the masterpieces that he did. It was tragic enough that Basquiat died at the age of 27, the same age as so many other great artists and singers, but if he had quit art at the age of 11, that would have been an even worse tragedy.
    So, Dalilah was an enigma. A fascinating, beautiful enigma. Who also came from an extraordinarily wealthy family. I found that out as well in my Googling. Which was part of the reason why I was feeling the need to hide my own working-class background. As silly as it sounded to try to cover up who I was, as she was going to find out, sooner or later, I still felt the need to try to make her think that I was at least somewhat her equal. If only so that she could trust me to do a good job with her portrait.
    I tried to put it out of my mind that she and I could ever be something more. As much as I was drawn to her, I just couldn’t see something like that ever happening. So, I had made up my mind that it was not something that I would ever try to pursue.
    Just then, my phone started ringing. It was Jake, who was my best buddy. He and I often hung out, and he was a part of my weekly poker game as well. Sometimes he was my baking buddy, and other times we would just get together and listen to music and shoot the shit. At that moment, he had been involved with a rather stunning restaurant hostess, and they had been hot and heavy. So, I hadn’t actually seen him in quite awhile.
    “Hey,” I said. “What’s up?”
    “Dude,” he said. “I just got dumped.”
    “Crap. When?”
    “Just now. Wanna hang out?”
    “Sure.” Why not? I wasn’t working that evening, and my latest work in progress, which was a surrealistic view of Times Square, wasn’t exactly going swimmingly. Maybe it was time for a little brew and commiseration.
    “Meet you at the b-ball court,” he said.
    “On my way.”
    So, I got on my jacket and shorts, got my battered basketball out of my closet, and headed down to the court that we always played in. Hopefully there wouldn’t be a game going on there already, so that Jake and I might actually be able to get a game going. I was a decent player, and Jake was excellent, so I usually looked forward to these matches. I always wanted somebody to push me, so that I could become better, even when it came to something as