they are already sold. There is nothing here priced at under two thousand pounds, many cost much more than that. I can only conclude that Jared North has done all right for himself.
The rooms fill up during the course of the next hour, and by seven the place is heaving. I find a secluded alcove and slip into the shadows to wait and to watch.
It isn’t long before the gallery owner steps up onto a small podium and coughs into the microphone, the polite signal calling for silence. A hush descends on the room. We all wait, expectant.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, and may I welcome you to the Titus Salt Gallery, here in historic Saltaire. This evening we are delighted to honour a true local talent. Jared North was born and grew up not ten miles from where we now stand. Since then he has travelled the world, capturing every continent on film, but it is his native Yorkshire that is the subject of this evening’s showing. You will have seen examples of his work already and there will be ample opportunity to enjoy it further as the evening progresses. For now though, please join me in welcoming the man himself, Jared North.”
There’s a round of enthusiastic clapping as a man shoulders his way from the back of the room, through the throng of assembled admirers, heading for the podium. His progress takes him right past my alcove, he passes not three feet from me. My Jared.
He has changed. The prison haircut and austere T shirt and jeans have given way to expensive styling. His almost-black hair is longer now, though so is mine. His suit is well cut, and looks to be a designer label though I couldn’t say which one. His features appear less harsh here in the muted lighting of the art gallery than they did in his cell at Armley, though they could not be described as soft even so. His eyes are the colour of dark slate, a shade I’ve remembered with pinpoint accuracy across the years. His jaw is square, his lips full. He reaches the podium and smiles at the crowd surrounding him, displaying even white teeth. It has only been five years, but he doesn’t seem to have aged at all. His tanned face is striking, many would describe him as handsome. To me, he is quite simply breath-taking.
I shrink back into my alcove as he starts to speak.
Jared’s words dwell upon how pleasant it is to be back in Yorkshire, where his roots run deep. He is appreciative of the accolades, the support of those who buy his work, the critics who admire his efforts and recommend his art. He goes on to applaud the Titus Salt Gallery, and the local creative scene, as well as the wider landscape of moors and hills that provides him with a wealth of raw materials.
I hear every other word, no more. My attention is riveted on the man himself—his tall, ripped body, his sensual, mobile features, his smile, his laugh. I never heard him laugh before, but I do now as he responds to a comment from the gallery owner beside him. All too soon, he is done, stepping down from the podium to greet the guests closest to him as the owner exhorts everyone to mingle, to eat and drink, to view the collection and to talk to the gallery staff if they wish to make a purchase.
I creep from my hidey hole and follow Jared around the collection, always remaining a discreet distance away, careful not to attract attention. He is constantly in demand, stopping to chat to groups of people, answering questions, offering advice or observations when asked. He’s at ease, sure of himself. In command.
I suppose he always was.
By about eight-thirty most of the pictures are sporting little red dots. It has been a successful event and the gallery owner is beaming. Many guests are drifting off, and I know I need to leave soon if I hope to remain unnoticed. I still want to talk to Jared, but not here, not in public. I sidle over to the reception desk close to the entrance to pick up a handful of leaflets and his business card, in the hope I might at last be able to get his contact
The rooms fill up during the course of the next hour, and by seven the place is heaving. I find a secluded alcove and slip into the shadows to wait and to watch.
It isn’t long before the gallery owner steps up onto a small podium and coughs into the microphone, the polite signal calling for silence. A hush descends on the room. We all wait, expectant.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, and may I welcome you to the Titus Salt Gallery, here in historic Saltaire. This evening we are delighted to honour a true local talent. Jared North was born and grew up not ten miles from where we now stand. Since then he has travelled the world, capturing every continent on film, but it is his native Yorkshire that is the subject of this evening’s showing. You will have seen examples of his work already and there will be ample opportunity to enjoy it further as the evening progresses. For now though, please join me in welcoming the man himself, Jared North.”
There’s a round of enthusiastic clapping as a man shoulders his way from the back of the room, through the throng of assembled admirers, heading for the podium. His progress takes him right past my alcove, he passes not three feet from me. My Jared.
He has changed. The prison haircut and austere T shirt and jeans have given way to expensive styling. His almost-black hair is longer now, though so is mine. His suit is well cut, and looks to be a designer label though I couldn’t say which one. His features appear less harsh here in the muted lighting of the art gallery than they did in his cell at Armley, though they could not be described as soft even so. His eyes are the colour of dark slate, a shade I’ve remembered with pinpoint accuracy across the years. His jaw is square, his lips full. He reaches the podium and smiles at the crowd surrounding him, displaying even white teeth. It has only been five years, but he doesn’t seem to have aged at all. His tanned face is striking, many would describe him as handsome. To me, he is quite simply breath-taking.
I shrink back into my alcove as he starts to speak.
Jared’s words dwell upon how pleasant it is to be back in Yorkshire, where his roots run deep. He is appreciative of the accolades, the support of those who buy his work, the critics who admire his efforts and recommend his art. He goes on to applaud the Titus Salt Gallery, and the local creative scene, as well as the wider landscape of moors and hills that provides him with a wealth of raw materials.
I hear every other word, no more. My attention is riveted on the man himself—his tall, ripped body, his sensual, mobile features, his smile, his laugh. I never heard him laugh before, but I do now as he responds to a comment from the gallery owner beside him. All too soon, he is done, stepping down from the podium to greet the guests closest to him as the owner exhorts everyone to mingle, to eat and drink, to view the collection and to talk to the gallery staff if they wish to make a purchase.
I creep from my hidey hole and follow Jared around the collection, always remaining a discreet distance away, careful not to attract attention. He is constantly in demand, stopping to chat to groups of people, answering questions, offering advice or observations when asked. He’s at ease, sure of himself. In command.
I suppose he always was.
By about eight-thirty most of the pictures are sporting little red dots. It has been a successful event and the gallery owner is beaming. Many guests are drifting off, and I know I need to leave soon if I hope to remain unnoticed. I still want to talk to Jared, but not here, not in public. I sidle over to the reception desk close to the entrance to pick up a handful of leaflets and his business card, in the hope I might at last be able to get his contact
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