He leaned back and turned a photo sideways, then straight. “And colour?”
“Less.” It was my immediate answer. I wasn’t even sure what he was asking, but it felt right. I’d found that I was using little to none at all in everything outside of painting. Even then, I was muting the pigments.
He thumbed through my next pieces and paused on a charcoal sketch. “This is unresolved.”
“That’s the point.”
He looked up. “What do you hate in contemporary shows?”
I blinked. “Hate?”
“Yes.” His face was all patience.
This was by far the weirdest job interview I’d ever had. “I would have to say . . . I hate when galleries treat the audience like they have to feel something. Or the same thing, I guess. Like there’s one right answer.”
His expression remained impassive. “And what do you love?”
That one was easier. “When the space makes a conversation happen. When a piece yanks a line out of another piece across the room and you don’t know why until your stomach tells your head to catch up.”
He was silent a moment, then he lifted the piece in his hand. “This goes in the opening.”
My heart stalled. “I—what?”
“Opening,” he repeated, like he understood my short-circuiting brain. “We’ll show one of yours alongside three established artists. I’ll want process photos and a short statement.” His eyes scanned my portfolio again, then lifted to mine. “But tell me, do you want to beshownorinvolved?”
My mouth answered before my anxiety could think. “Involved,” I said. “I love making, but curation is—” I groped for an explanation, “My end game. I want to help people discover.”
His eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t talking about curation.”
“Oh, I know, I was just saying that eventually?—”
“Good taste and the ability to express oneself to collectors must be honed over time.”
I nodded, practically swallowing my tongue. “Of course.” My eyes dropped, my cheeks flaming. Why had I said that? Of course he wasn’t going to offer me a job when we’d barely just met.
“But I do need help with outreach. Organization and exhibit prep.”
My head shot up, and I blurted, “Yes,” before I could think. “I’ll do all of it—or any of it, I should say. I’d be honoured.”
The corner of Norman’s mouth twitched. “Perfect.” He strode back to stand behind the desk and pulled something from the top drawer. “Pay is nine dollars an hour.”
My eyes widened. That was two dollars per hour more than what I ever made working on campus.
“Hours will be flexible. You can prioritize school as needed, but I will expect a certain level of commitment.”
“Of course.”
He smiled, writing something on the papers in front of him. “It will be a win-win, really.”
I forced my lungs to fill. “I would hope so.”
Norman paused his writing. “I can’t have a historic display without paying homage to Canada’s love affair with hockey, and having you here will only mean good press.”
My giddiness morphed into confusion. Hockey? And me? How were those two things going to garner publicity?
I tried not to panic, searching for any explanation that made sense. I did go to hockey games. The Outlaws had gone to nationals, but what did that have to do with Norman’s gallery?
“I’m not quite sure what you mean.” After giving Logan crap about honesty, I decided to take my own advice and ask.
