A languid and ethereal blue hued image of a woman with long golden hair and only a bed sheet draped over her. Her head is turned away so that you can only see a side profile of her face, whilst a four-poster antique bed sits in the background. “It’s you,” Jackson whispers in my ear, enfolding his arms around my waist. I smile and tilt my face up to his. “I guessed that,” I reply silkily before softly kissing him. “It’s beautiful. When did you paint it?” “I started it the day you left the mansion. I figured if I couldn’t get you out of my head, then the next best thing was to take all those thoughts and just…draw them.” I look around at the multitude of Jackson’s paintings, the light and dark images that have captivated almost everyone in here. From New York’s highest elite to New York’s hippest youth, all different levels of society have come to the gallery to see the emotions bleeding from his canvases.
