In The Beginning

First self-portrait

From man, there are balloons released into the vast sky, journeying toward the million moons within her—woman—as a race. The first that reaches one moon, kisses the surface, and bursts in its atmosphere will be the beginning.

The moon expands into an astronaut in love with how his legs draw close to his chest. A nine-month wait tangled in a cord. The astronaut hears muffled voices and their many tones. He thinks them gods—one sensitive to kicking, the other with an ear against the flesh that separates them. “Baby, can you hear me? Just a few more months.”

He will always feel distant to that god disconnected from the cord. This god as his father, and the other god—a goddess—his mother. His father presses hard kisses on his mother’s belly, sending ripples to disturb the gas bubbles in the night. “I love you,” his father would say.

When the astronaut is due to come home, a pair of gloved hands guides him down from the night. He is more than sketchy white lines rendered by a monitor. The doctor like a witness to the bright stars cannot photograph what he sees. So he asks the mother and father to trust him. “He is beautiful.”

The gloved hands wipe his bare body clean and demand a name from his mother and father. Whatever name is given identifies him; he is Francis Moon.

Francis grows up to be unlike the pope of his namesake. Instead, Francis tells his disappointed father that he knows better. He’s not going to study business or science or look for stability. Francis is going to make art.

Francis’ girlfriend tells him over his shoulder that he can make anything out of nothing. “You are like a god.” But he thinks, “No, I’m only playing as one,” and second guesses if he knows what he’s doing.

His mother calls him every evening, still adjusting to her firstborn moving out. She dictates the steps to the recipes of her son’s favorite dish and warns Francis that putting cheese on everything might not be good for his health. His mother thinks this time Francis will agree to talk to his father. But as usual, when they finally hang up, she recaps the conversation to Francis’ father.

She tells him about the upcoming gallery opening, showcasing a few of Francis’ paintings. His mother and father clear their schedule to attend, among the crowd of art snobs and hipsters, as a surprise.

With a glass of champagne in hand, a small group huddles in front of Francis’ portrait titled “First self-portrait.” Illuminating from a black background is a yellow orb. On the lower left, a bluish squiggle with a rounded head touches the orb’s side. “This is a medical illustration of conception,” according to the group’s interpretation. “A clever approach. This can be all our self-portraits.”

They praise the artist for portraying something other than his face. But Francis quietly takes the compliments, doubtful no one will see his work for what it is:

His father asks Francis to sit with him by the kitchen table. Between them lies a textbook open to a drawing of sperm and egg.

His father starts off with “When a man loves a woman, they have the potential to create a baby.” Then takes his time to explain each set of genitals and what that potential really comes down to in conception.

During his father’s pauses, Francis looks at the illustration. “This looks like a balloon reaching towards the moon.”

That then became the beginning of the story, what led to the birth of Francis Moon, according to his father. “For man, there are balloons released into the vast sky, journeying toward the million moons within her.”

When Francis’ father sees the painting, he doesn’t show a reaction but understands the painting isn’t a medical illustration. His son was born differently, he’d say over and over as a defense for all of Francis’ decisions. “My son was born differently,” he’d say beside the new group beside him. “The moon and a balloon.”

The portrait and other works are set to stay on the walls until the end of June for passersby to work out their own interpretations. But “First self-Portrait” already moved the god who left the gallery unashamed.