On the way to the park, we stopped at a corner store where Lisa and Mel bought beer and I got a bottle of water. After I paid, I went outside to wait for them, standing in the tiny bit of shade next to the building. A bunch of posters had been pasted to the wall there: salsa night at El Rio; Frameline: San Francisco International LGBTQ Film Festival; Fresh Meat Productions, with a photo of two Black male dancers, arms entwined. One poster featured an arresting photo of a young Asian woman sitting on the floor next to a large blue-and-white abstract painting. The woman was wearing paint-splattered pants, a frumpy blue sweater, and a slightly sly smile. It made me wonder who had photographed her. The poster advertised a movie called The Worlds of Bernice Bing, which was the closing night film for the Queer Women of Color Media Arts Project Film Festival. There was a small tagline at the bottom of the poster: “A documentary illuminating the visionary Chinese American lesbian artist Bernice Bing.”

I was a little disappointed to find that the date of the screening had already passed. I took out my phone and snapped a photo of the poster, and just as I finished taking the picture, Steph came out of the corner store.

“They’re almost done,” she said, cracking open a bottle of water.

“No worries. Hey, have you ever gone to this film festival?”

Steph came over to look at the Bernice Bing poster. “No. She looks interesting, though.” She studied the photo a beat longer and added, “I like her painting. I’m assuming that’s her painting, anyway.”

“Yeah. I like it, too.”

“I’m not saying I understand it, but I like it.”

“Joan says abstract art is supposed to make you feel things.”

“What does this make you feel?”

I looked more closely at the painting behind Bernice, with her enigmatic smile. “Expansive. It makes me think of space. No, planets. Look at that orangey spot. It’s like that storm on Jupiter, the one that looks like an eye.”

“Hmm, I can see it,” Steph said. “If you look at Bernice, too—her eyes and the eye behind her. It’s like she’s looking at you through her painting.”

I felt a warm rush go through me. “Yes! I love that. And don’t you think—well, she’s looking at the photographer, who’s looking at her, and there’s her painting looking at us. I feel like there’s a lot going on here.”