"The Keeper of the Garden."
24"x30"
Acrylic, Mixed Media on Hardboard
I was walking in West Hollywood — a street I’d walked many times —when I paused and looked up at something I’d never seen. Hotel Savoy.
Its art deco and Moorish façade towered stories above the adjacent houses. Chipped plaster walls, arched windows, and swaying palms.
I climbed the stairs, curious.
The air smelled of incense. I heard indiscernible chatter. The grand, soaring lobby was empty. No real sounds except my echoing footsteps on tile.
I went deeper, down a hallway that bent where it shouldn’t, and came upon a central courtyard with a garden. Lush and overgrown. The trees and flowers curved into shapes that were almost plant-like.
I walked further.
And there, in the center, she sat. Naked. Her hair was sculpted in flapper-era waves. She looked carved from alabaster.
She didn’t look at me.
“Hello,” I said.
“The garden appears to want something,” she replied flatly, still not looking.
“Look around and pick something you like. Anything. If you want something, the garden will gladly trade.”
“Trade?” I echoed, puzzled.
A branch reached out and touched me — and I saw a memory.
A feeling of deep joy.
I was wearing shoes.
An entire day at a wedding that was not mine.
I touched more leaves, petals, vines.
I saw memories of wealth and power.
A man shaking hands on a balcony.
A woman signing her name on a building.
A velvet pouch overflowing with coins.
Some memories felt ancient.
Each time I released a plant, I could no longer recall what I’d seen or felt.
My pulse quickened.
With each touch, something revealed itself.
“Madam,” a voice broke my trance. “Dinner is served.”
He stood motionless, a few feet from her, dressed in an ill-fitting tuxedo. He did not blink.
Her eyes pivoted to me.
“Come,” she said. “It will be delicious.”
