“Yeah, that could be right.” I rub the back of my neck. I designed my own website, but I haven’t put much effort into making it any good. My technical skills have gotten me as far as I can go on my own, but it’s kind of like my apartment. Just the necessities. “It’s a work in progress.”
“I got bored waiting, so I went to your Instagram instead and looked through everything.”
Just like that, she’s turned the tables. Now I’m the one naked and on display. Ever since I quit my job, I’ve desperately wanted people to justlookat my pictures, hire me for a gig or two. But suddenly, I wish she hadn’t. My work is nothing like her words. It isn’t worthy of her almost-stormy, definitely-confusing gray eyes.
We stare at each other.
Stalemate.
Neither of us wants to talk about our work. It’s too personal. Too raw. I actually care what she thinks, and maybe she feels the same.
“It’s good, your stuff,” she says finally. “But . . .”
My stomach drops. Well, fuck. I guess we are going to talk about it. “But what?”
“I’m—how do I explain this? One of my responsibilities at work is judging art.”
I set her journal on the cushion next to me. “What do you do?”
“Market research for an ad agency. You know how you go into a dentist’s office or a chain restaurant or even a clothing store and they have art displayed? Photos on the walls or sculptures out front?” She waits for me to nod. “I help businesses choose art that speaks to their customers. Or in some cases, doesn’t.”
“Why does a customer care what’s on the wall?”
“Because you don’t want art that’s so good, people get distracted from your product. Or you don’t want a patient to see something aggressive while waiting to have their mouth torn apart. Right?”
“I guess. I never really thought about it.”
“There’s a lot that goes into that.” She purses her lips. “I have a team that collects and analyzes data on consumers. We’ll run focus groups to see how people interpret certain images or colors, types of clothing, hair color. If you’re selling parkas, you don’t want people looking at a beach.”
I drink from my mug to hide my expression. Is my artwork the beach in this situation? After everything I just confessed this is beginning to feel like a sucker punch.
“That’s why I was at theCity Still Lifeexhibit,” she says. “To network and buy some things for clients.”
The coffee tastes stale all of a sudden. “So it wasn’t crap then.”
“No, it was. I went there for cliché pieces. When I want non-crap, I go elsewhere.”
“So you’re the final authority on these things?”
“I don’t know if I’d say that, but by now, I can almost always predict how a piece will make someone feel.”
“Isn’t there a word for that, when you see what you want to see? Confirmation bias.”
“No, that’s not what I mean.” She crosses her legs, the leather of her boots creaking. “I’ve just been doing this a while.”
She can’t be much older than twenty-five, twenty-six, which seems young for someone to have all the answers. “Not to discredit you, but I’m fairly certain each person would react differently.”
“You’d be surprised. And anyway, we’re looking at the majority.” She says all this straight-faced, like art is akin to science. “I determine what’s practical. I’m an objective voice in a largely subjective industry.”
“I’ve never heard of a job like that,” I say, mostly because I don’t like the idea of it and I’m a little stung that she of all people is implying my work isn’t viable.
She flinches. “It’s real. It’s what I do. Art analyst.”
“All right, well.” I lean my elbows onto my knees. “Go ahead and say what you were going to say. That stuff you saw—it’s not all current. There’s a lot more.”
“Okay.”
She chugs her coffee like it’s fucking Gatorade. I should offer her more, but I’m feeling like a giant exposed nerve right now, and I don’t really want to move. Maybe it’s a good thing if she doesn’t like what she saw. I want to move people, not have them treat my work like it’s scenery. It’s how I connect. It didn’t occur to me before Halston that the person I was trying to connect with might reject my art.
