Chapter Text
Six years later
Johnny Joestar’s World of Stars and Stripes
For many in the art world, the name “Joestar” previously conjured up two associations: that of acclaimed American collector and dealer George Joestar, or of his eldest son, the painter Nicholas Joestar, whose work made a splash before his untimely death at the age of twenty-five. However, that longstanding connection is now being rewritten by a fast and furious newcomer whose aesthetic sensibilities defy easy juxtaposition with his predecessors. That newcomer is Johnny Zeppeli-Joestar, alias “Joekid,” whose long-anticipated first solo exhibition, “World of Stars and Stripes,” opens at the Steel Gallery in Brooklyn next week.
Clearly, the weight of the Joestar name once weighed on Zeppeli-Joestar. He began his career in earnest under the Joekid pseudonym, producing work all but anonymously with the support of his mentor-turned-agent, the mixed media artist Steven Steel. But now, in this bold display of his most daring works to date, Zeppeli-Joestar's head is held high.
“Sure, I’m a Joestar,” he says. “But I’m not just that. I worked under an alias because I wanted the work to speak for itself—and I think it can finally do that, now.”
The work doesn’t just speak for itself: it grabs you by the shoulders and shouts. As Joekid, Zeppeli-Joestar rose to prominence in the New York scene as a firebrand whose work threaded the needle between public appeal, academic rigor, and political controversy. His first series of public works, TUSK I-IV—a guerilla installation in which the artist covered iconic American paintings in the Metropolitan Museum of Art with his own meticulous reproductions, shot through with a handgun—combined the “happenings” of performance art with the overt political messaging of the contemporary artist-activist movement and undeniable technical talent.
The stunt made Joekid a recognizable (if not notorious) name among institutions, dealers, and critics. (Famously, when asked whether the choice of caliber was a purposeful reference to Joestar’s own experience with gun violence—the artist was paralyzed in a shooting by the same make and model of pistol that he’d later use in his work—he responded with a curt, perhaps deserved, “Duh.”) His ruptured rendition of Leutze’s Washington Crossing the Delaware, entitled TUSK ACT IV, is on display in this exhibition, as well as a series of photos and videos documenting the installation process by Zeppeli-Joestar’s friend and collaborator, the street photographer known as “Hot Pants.”
Though the TUSK series kicked off Zeppeli-Joestar’s mainstream recognition, it was far from where it stopped. He’s perhaps best known for engaging in a protracted battle, first of words and then in court, with former president Funny Valentine, who alleged that his painting Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap was obscene and constituted defamation. The painting, which was created under the Joekid alias and depicts Valentine suggestively caressing the lifeless body of Christ, was illegally installed on the grounds of New York’s Trinity Church before Easter services and swiftly went viral. The audacious critique led the then-president to publicly disclose “Joekid’s” as-of-yet-unknown identity in what many considered to be an inappropriate doxxing from the highest office. What followed was a protracted legal case that the public, even those otherwise indifferent to the affairs of the art world, followed closely for almost two years.
On the subject, all Zeppeli-Joestar had to say was this: “He’s a Christofascist and proud of it. He defiles the body of Jesus. It’s not defamation if it’s true.”
Zeppeli-Joestar won the case. He began working under his legal name, and the controversial painting is prominently displayed in this show, like a badge of honor.
But it isn’t all pissing off museum curators and throwing jabs at political figures, especially not in this exhibition. In fact, far more often Zeppeli-Joestar’s work centers a sense of profound tenderness that is at times almost raw. While people might come to the show to see the notorious “D4C” painting for themselves, they’ll almost certainly leave with the impression that that notable adventure is merely a footnote in a long path of becoming.
The most striking piece is, rather, the acclaimed Break My Heart, Break Your Heart (Nicholas and Gyro), which depicts an imagined meeting between the artist’s deceased brother and his longtime partner in a setting reminiscent of Bonheur’s The Horse Fair (a piece cited by both Joestar brothers as an inspiration). The life-sized painting is equal parts haunting and humane, the longing plainly—tragically—felt.
“The two most important people in my life won’t ever meet in reality,” says Zeppeli-Joestar of the piece. “But isn't that what art is for?"
In fact, a sense of “what art is for” pervades the exhibition. For someone who ostensibly descends from art royalty, one might think it easy for Zeppeli-Joestar to take his place for granted. “World of Stars and Stripes,” however, points to just the opposite sentiment: that nothing is guaranteed, that everything must be fought for, that everything matters, from ideas as big as America to emotions like grief.
Gyro looked up from the article just in time to see that the subway had arrived at his stop. Jumping up from the hard plastic seat, he dashed out of the doors just before they closed.
Shit, that was almost bad! Bad subway timing could be reasonably blamed for many cases of lateness in this city, but tonight, it would’ve been inexcusable.
He half-walked, half-jogged the three blocks from the station, then slipped in through a back door. Waiting for him behind the scenes was Hot Pants, pacing with a number of coathangers draped over their arm.
“Jesus Christ, I thought you’d never come,” they said, then shoved a hanger with pants and a clean white shirt in his direction. “Hurry up.”
“I swear, I got out of the OR as fast as I could.” Gyro threw off his white coat and stripped. He didn’t feel self-conscious; it wasn’t anything HP hadn’t seen already. “Did you see the Times review? It’s fucking glowing!”
“I thought Johnny didn’t care about what the Times had to say,” HP said.
Gyro pulled up the suit pants and they handed him a belt. “He doesn’t, but I’m going to send it to everyone I know.”
He nodded to them for the tie in their hands. “You know. To brag.”
“You, bragging?” HP rolled their eyes as they handed it over. “Perish the thought.”
He tied the tie—fucked it up—tied it again. “Hey, I also sent your Aperture feature to everyone I know.”
“Because one of my photos of you was in it.”
Gyro flashed them a grin, as if to say, guilty as charged. HP shook their head and gave him the last pieces of his outfit: a jacket and his beloved cowboy boots.
“You owe me for this,” they said.
“I’m aware,” Gyro said. He grabbed them by the shoulders and gave them a kiss on both cheeks. “This’ll have to tide you over.”
“Gross,” HP deadpanned as Gyro broke into a run down the hallway.
“...immense pride,” Steel was saying into the microphone when Gyro finally made it into the gallery. The older artist was standing on a temporary stage across the room, holding a flute of champagne in one hand and a microphone in the other. “Not only in what he’s accomplished already, but in what’s still to come.”
He smiled and tipped his head to someone in the front row that Gyro couldn’t see. “Johnny, do you want to say a few words?”
However Johnny responded, Gyro couldn’t hear, but he did hear the gathered attendees laugh and begin to applaud. Gyro began elbowing his way through the crowd as fast as he could.
“Scusi,” he said, throwing some elbows. “No big deal, just the artist’s muse coming through…”
Johnny was making his way up the ramp onto the stage. Gyro saw him glancing around as he tried to navigate his wheelchair over some cables.
He managed to fight his way to the front just in time for Johnny to take the microphone from Steel. When he squinted down into the audience, Gyro was front and center, grinning.
A smile crept its way onto Johnny’s face. Then he adjusted his glasses—a chic new pair with transparent frames that Gyro helped him pick out—and cleared his throat.
“Thanks, everyone, for coming tonight,” he said. “It really means a lot to me.”
He looked around the space. From what Gyro had heard of his, Steel, and Hot Pants’ conversations about the installation, they really tried to make the experience feel less like a sterile gallery and more like viewing art in someone’s living room: the walls were painted a light rose color rather than white, and there was ample seating for folks to relax on. All of the paintings were hung at a height that was still easily viewable from a wheelchair, and some had been set up, unframed, on easels rather than on the wall so that visitors could get closer.
The room was packed. Gyro didn’t get a sense that Johnny was evaluating the crowd, though. Rather, he was looking at all of the works: a mere selection of the hundreds of paintings he’d produced in the years since they’d met. Gyro couldn’t help but imagine that it was like looking at a waterfall after becoming so accustomed to drought.
“To be honest… Five years ago, I never thought I’d be having my own show—let alone one in a space as great as this one, and put on with the help of such wonderful partners.” Johnny rapped his fingers nervously on the microphone. “Um—I should thank Steven Steel again for… well, first for believing in me, back when I was still just an art school dropout, and now for all of his and his gallery’s support.”
He nodded to Steel, and the crowd clapped politely. Steel made a humble, oh, no, please, kind of gesture, but he was beaming. Even though he’d already made his fortune as a successful convert from artist-slash-professor to gallerist, he clearly still lived for moments like these.
Gyro rolled his eyes, but deep down he was grateful, too. After all, if not for Steel's drawing classes, he and Johnny never would’ve met.
“And I also want to thank Hot Pants, who is… somewhere around here, maybe, if we’re lucky,” Johnny said. He covered his eyes, searching for the hot pink bob. “Uh—you’ve probably heard of them, but—they’re the coolest, and helped me stay sane through the whole installation process, and really introduced me to guerilla art, which, you know… changed my life, I guess. So, yeah.”
More scattered applause, and some murmuring as people looked around for the elusive photographer. If Hot Pants was going to let themselves be noticed at this opening, however, it wasn’t at this particular moment.
Johnny looked down at Gyro with mild panic in his eyes. Gyro mimed reaching into his breast pocket.
“Oh—yeah. I have other people to thank, too.” Johnny nodded and pulled out a small piece of paper from his own jacket pocket. “Um… So, I want to extend my gratitude to the individuals and organizations who have supported this opening… including but not limited to…”
As he quickly recited the list, Gyro exhaled in relief. In the week leading up to this, Johnny had been so paranoid that he’d forget some major grant-giver or curator and accidentally burn the bridges he'd worked so hard to build. After complaining about it for the umpteenth time when they were in bed the other night, Gyro finally just told him to write the most important names down.
“And there’s one more person I want to thank.”
Johnny looked down from the stage as Gyro looked up. Their eyes met—and just as every time before, Gyro felt a rush of warmth that made the rest of the world fade away.
“To my husband,” Johnny said, more to Gyro than to the microphone. “Gyro… This wouldn’t be happening if not for you. I mean, I—I wouldn’t have made this—any of this—if not for you. You… You love me, and care for me, and inspire me every single day, even when I’m being an annoying artist type, and—”
He blinked quickly, and Gyro bit his lip. If he cried every time Johnny cried, they’d both be constantly inconsolable—but this time, it was hard not to tear up.
“I’m so glad I get to show the world how beautiful you are to me,” he said. “I love you.”
Johnny quickly handed the microphone back to Steven, before the tears started to fall. Steven grabbed it and went in for the recovery— “All right, everyone, in the tradition of all great openings, be sure to eat and drink as much as you can—” while Johnny wheeled back to the stage ramp. When he made it down, out of sight of the crowd, Gyro was there to meet him.
“Amore mio!” He grabbed Johnny in a tight embrace. “Look at you—it’s so amazing—I’m so proud—”
“Gyro—” Johnny clutched his suit jacket desperately. “Thank you…”
He let out a soft sob. Gyro laughed in response—not out of callousness, but because he knew well by now that tears were Johnny’s reaction to just about any overwhelming emotion, including joy.
Gyro took Johnny’s face in his hands and kissed him. Johnny shivered and kissed him back so hard that, had Gyro not known better, he would’ve thought he was angry. But it delighted him; nobody had ever loved an artist for their lack of passion.
“We could just leave now,” Johnny whispered against his lips. “I said my piece. We could go home and—”
“And deprive me of my opportunity to be your arm candy for the evening?” Gyro feigned deep offense. “In the words of another great artist… I’ll do anything for love, but I won’t do that.”
Johnny frowned. “Did you just call Meat Loaf ‘a great artist’?”
“Nyohoho.” Gyro kissed his pout. “Listen, caro… You’ve earned this. You deserve to be celebrated. Just take a deep breath and enjoy it.”
“All right.” Johnny sighed, and fixed Gyro’s tie. “Only if you promise me one thing…”
Gyro raised his brows. “Mm?”
“That when we get back to the apartment tonight, you’ll ‘celebrate’ me in a different way.” Johnny looked up with those diamond-sharp blue eyes. “Deal?”
Gyro grinned. Such was his fabulous good fortune with Johnny: he was always being asked to do things he planned on doing already.
“Deal,” he said.
They returned, hand in hand, to the crowd. Gyro stood by, beaming, as countless people came by to congratulate Johnny, hand him business cards, raise a glass to him, and so on. They percolated together through the exhibition, Johnny’s paintings passing by like old friends.
“The critic finally put out their article,” Gyro told him between small talk.
“Mmhm.” Johnny dangled his champagne flute between his fingers. He was getting to the point of comfortable drunkenness where he let Gyro push his chair. “Let me guess: they talked about George and Nick?”
“In just the first line,” Gyro said. “The rest was all about you and your work. It was really positive.”
That hadn't always been the case. When Johnny first broke through, albeit under a fake name, the articles weren't half as kind. Rather than being seen as an iconoclast, he was branded a vandal, a cheap Banksy wannabe. That was when Johnny swore off reading any publications; to this day he barely gave interviews.
Ironically, it wasn't until the President himself attacked Johnny's work that people saw what he was doing as legitimate. By publicly condemning him, Valentine had made Johnny someone to watch. And once they began to watch, they couldn't look away.
“Mm.” Johnny rested his chin on the heel of his hand. “Will you send it to your family?”
“Of course,” Gyro said. He made sure all of his siblings knew how talented his husband was. “They’re beyond hyped to see the exhibit this summer. You’re going to have to clear your schedule to give them a private tour.”
Perhaps against logic, Gyro’s relationship with his family had improved since he and Johnny began dating. After all, it was Johnny who convinced him to finally switch his specialization from trauma surgery—long a hallmark of the Zeppeli family—to orthopedics. Gyro had been certain that his father would never talk to him again if he deprived him of both a professional and a literal heir. But when he finally told Gregorio, his father just kind of… moved on, without much of a reaction, as if Gyro hadn’t even spoken.
That hadn’t felt great, but… once everything was out in the open, he felt better about going back to Naples to visit more often. Now, the Zeppelis would soon be making their first visit to New York.
“Is that group going to include your dad? Because, if so…” Johnny gestured to the painting behind him, which happened to be a nude of Gyro. “I can have some of these covered up.”
“Hah! No, thank God.” Gyro used to feel strange about having those particular portraits, tasteful though they were, hanging on the walls in public galleries… but once you’ve seen yourself naked in the Whitney Biennial, nothing can embarrass you. “I think he’d sooner go to the moon than an art gallery. I mean, we’re lucky we got him to come to America at all.”
“Can’t blame him,” Johnny said dryly.
“Careful, now, Mr. Zeppeli-Joestar,” Gyro said. “You don’t want to be accused of being anti-American again.”
Johnny snorted. “Come at me, ya’ll McCarthy-ass wannabes. I got a perfect record.”
Gyro had to smile at that. The Johnny of today was a far cry from the one Gyro knew three years ago, who spent the majority of his time freaking out over the President’s lawsuit, no matter how baseless it was. Or the one from four years ago, consumed with regret when the Met, one of his favorite museums, declared that he was banned for life (even though they didn’t know his identity at the time and later rescinded his banishment). Or the one at the beginning, who paced his small apartment in his wheelchair, practically wearing grooves into the floor, convinced that he had to use his art to say something, but agonizing over what he could and should say.
Gyro loved all of those versions of Johnny. But he would daresay that the one he had now—the confident, accomplished artist who spoke his mind and didn’t back down from a fight—was his favorite so far.
They came to a stop in front of the exhibition’s centerpiece: the piece based on The Horse Fair. Johnny had placed Gyro and Nicholas in the foreground, having a conversation as they watched the parade. Gyro was rendered clearly, with as much care as always, while Nick was more shimmery, almost translucent in places, a memory of a memory. Behind them, the herd moved with more elegance than urgency, no men with crops urging them on, no bridles or bits in their mouths. The background was less distinct, but Gyro knew it well: it was the landscape that hung above their bed, even now.
The first time Gyro saw the piece, he almost wept. Even now, it got him choked up.
He squeezed Johnny’s shoulders. Johnny put his hands over Gyro’s, saying nothing, but it didn’t matter. He’d already put it all on the canvas.
“Johnny! Gyro!”
Gyro turned, ready to scold whoever was interrupting their moment—only to realize it was Steel. He’d returned steering a young blonde woman by the shoulders, who smiled shyly at the two of them.
“Lots of good stuff happening out there tonight,” Steel said, grinning. “I’ve already gotten a dozen inquiries about the pieces that are for sale.”
Gyro felt Johnny exhale. He patted his shoulder, as if to say, I told you so. You never really knew what the buyers were going to go for, and though Gyro was confident the market would see something it liked in Johnny’s latest works, Johnny never felt that way until the deals were done. Such was the life of a working artist.
“That’s great,” Johnny said. “Thank you again for all you’ve done here, Steven.”
“I knew you had it in you.” Steel gazed at the large canvas, his smile turning nostalgic. “I only wish your brother was here to see it."
Johnny swallowed, then nodded. Gyro traced a comforting spiral against his skin with his thumb.
Steel cleared his throat and gestured to the girl he’d brought over. “You remember my daughter, right?”
Gyro did not, but Johnny dipped his head. “Of course. Hi, Lucy.”
Lucy gave a small wave, while Steel beamed proudly.
“She just got her acceptance letter last week,” he said. “And I tell you, I did not pull a single string! She did it all on her own merits.”
Lucy blushed. “Dad…”
“She’s also pursuing painting,” Steel went on. “Her portfolio is really remarkable, and I don’t just say that because I taught her everything she knows—”
“Dad.” Lucy gave him a pleading look before turning back to Johnny, her cheeks still red. “I—I just wanted to say congratulations. I love your work so much—it’s just—it’s so…”
She wrung her hands, blinking fast. “It really speaks to me.”
Gyro felt Johnny inhale. He paused for a moment. Then, he smiled.
“Thank you,” he said. “You’re a painter, too?”
“Um—yeah.” Lucy clasped her hands in front of her.
“You should send me your portfolio. If you’re looking for critiques, that is. I’d be happy to take a look.”
“R-Really?” Lucy’s eyes sparkled. “Y—Yeah, of course! I would love that! Thank you!”
“No problem.” Johnny nodded to Steel, who gave them a hands-folded thank you gesture behind Lucy’s back. “Your dad has my email. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”
Lucy nodded furiously. Steel patted her shoulder.
“We’ll let you get back to enjoying your evening,” he said. “I’ll send you the offers on Monday.”
“Sounds good.”
After they’d left—Steel with his head held high, Lucy with a new bounce in her step—Gyro raised his brows at Johnny.
“You know, you don’t owe Steel any favors,” he said, under his breath so that the other attendees wouldn’t hear. “He’s getting rich off of your work, too.”
“It’s not repaying anything,” Johnny said. “Just paying it forward.”
He jerked his head towards the back of the room. Gyro nodded and followed him to slip out of the gallery into a private hallway.
“I’ve had enough schmoozing,” Johnny said. “Steel’s got it from here.”
“As you wish.” Gyro pulled out his phone. “Want me to call a car?”
“We’re only a few blocks away. Let’s get some fresh air.”
They gathered up their things and slipped out the back door onto the familiar streets of their Brooklyn neighborhood, where they'd moved last year to be closer to the gallery. It was dark—as dark as it ever got in New York under the ubiquitous streetlights, at least—and a light, misty drizzle was coming down. Gyro looked to Johnny, expecting him to re-evaluate the decision to walk (or roll, as it were), but instead he turned his face up to the rain.
Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, and then sighed it out again with a slight hum. Gyro just watched him, hands in his pockets. He used to wonder what Johnny thought about in quiet moments like this, but now he knew. Johnny didn’t think in words. He thought in paintings. Whatever was on his mind now would be revealed in a few weeks’ time on a canvas.
Johnny opened his eyes. His glasses were spotty with raindrops, so he took them off. Then, he silently gestured Gyro closer.
As ever, Gyro obeyed. He leaned in, slowly, until Johnny took hold of his tie and pulled him in for a kiss.
Gyro kissed him back. The faint sounds of merrymaking from the gallery, car tires over wet pavement, and rain joining the puddles on the street, faded into the background. For a moment, they were no longer a celebrated artist and accomplished surgeon, but just another two lovers in New York City.
Eventually, Johnny released him. Gyro pulled back, his skin tingling. They gazed at one another for a moment—and then, Johnny narrowed his eyes.
“Don’t move,” he said.
Gyro half-laughed, half-sighed. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.” Johnny backed up his chair so he was under the building’s awning, sheltered from the rain. He grabbed his backpack hanging from the back and hastily unzipped it.
Gyro tipped his head back, starting to grin. He knew it wasn’t the expression Johnny wanted, but he couldn’t stop himself. They still were what they had been at the start—what they’d be, he could only imagine, at the end.
--
Gyro, once more.
Johnny had come to draw and paint other things, but he would always come back to this. Gyro, again; Gyro, his light, his inspiration, once more, just one more time. It would never be enough.
Yet he kept sketching. Even knowing that it was futile—that he would never be truly satisfied enough to put the pencil down—he had to try. He had to throw himself at the image he wanted, over and over again.
Gyro, face turned to the sky, smiling in spite of the rain. In his borrowed black suit and tie, because he barely ever wore anything without at least a little color. Cheeks warm from champagne, golden hair turning bronze with water, his favorite green lipstick smudged with Johnny's blue.
This was his image. Something only he could make. A grand idea was great—some might say he’d even had a few himself—but this was inimitable.
Nick… Johnny breathed in the brisk, vigorous air of the city his brother had loved so much. Wherever you are, I hope you’re proud.
After a moment, Gyro did what he always did while modeling: he turned and looked at the artist. He pulled that little trick almost every time he posed, and it made some sketches turn out strangely, but Johnny never had the heart to tell him to stop. Because even now, after hundreds of sessions and thousands upon thousands of sketches, it still thrilled him with the awe of a sculptor seeing his work come to life.
Johnny tried to turn to a fresh page in his sketchbook, only to realize there were none left. He had filled every blank page.
THE END