Yet to reduce him to curated fragments would be a betrayal. He remained, always, larger and messier than any frame. When the lights dimmed and patrons departed, the boy who had posed returned to being a person: tender, infuriating, awkwardly generous. He called at odd hours to read a poem he’d written; he sat through long stretches of silence and then, without warning, played a chord progression that made something in his chest settle. The gallery’s applause could not alter the way he soothed an injured stray cat on our stoop, or the time he slept on the couch after a fight and woke with the same reckless kindness intact.
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