My stomach flipped.“Potential?”
Ichika adjusted her glasses, exchanging a quick look with Jean-Michel before addressing me again.“Your style is very ...clean.You shoot beautiful things, beautiful people.There is skill in that, of course, but it’s far easier to capture something objectively lovely than to bring out the beauty in something dark, or ugly.”
She tapped the screen until I was looking at the thumbnails of ten of my photos: Skyler with our horses, a couple of nature shots from back home in California, some of the recent ones I took for Armand—none showing his face, mostly the artist’s workspace—and some black-and-white photos I took of our touristing.
Jean-Michel brushed his finger to the photo that was an isolation shot of Armand’s ink-stained hands, the chaotic littering of pages in soft focus in the background.“I suggested including this one,” he explained.“Very vulnerable, very intimate.Not so sophomoric.”
Ichika agreed.“I’d be interested in showcasing these ten pieces in particular, but we’d ask that you submit another five to round out the collection.Something with gravitas—an exploration of grief, perhaps, or simply a darker grit to balance out your penchant for whimsy.”
Darker grit?What did they want, pictures of dead animals?An exploitative peek into homelessness?A spot of dirt on a recently cleaned floor?My thumb twitched at the phantom feel of my camera in my hands.The wall of creepy dolls mocked me from the periphery.
Don’t be ungrateful, Barclay.This is how you get what you want.You compromise.Jean-Michel’s bending over backward for you to pursue your silly little dream.Take the damn sad pictures.
I grinned sunnily.“Of course, I can definitely do that.”
“Then we’re in business.”She shook my hand with a firmness that reminded me of my mom, and Jean-Michel bumped my shoulder with his, smiling proudly.“I’ll draw up some paperwork.We’ll launch at the beginning of December, so I’ll need your submissions in by next week.Does that suit?”
A week to reassess and completely shift my photographic style.This was fine.“Sure.Thank you so much for the opportunity.”
Ichika inclined her head obligingly.“Do give my best to your mother, and I look forward to seeing your new pieces.”
With that, and with the signing of a contract, I would have my very first art exhibition at an esteemed gallery in London.
Ichika bid us good day, needing to return to do gallery-owner things, which was perfect timing, because I was probably (definitely) in shock.“What.The hell,” I breathed.
Jean-Michel chuckled.“I told you I could spot potential.And you have the talent, so it’s no wonder that Ichika would covet something that special.”
I ran both hands through my hair, wondering if I would hyperventilate.“Thank you for this.Really, I ...I never thought anyone would care about my photos, and definitely not someone so influential and.Cool.”
“Think nothing of it,” Jean-Michel said flippantly.“As I said, I adore giving my friends little treats.”His face turned thoughtful.“I tried to give Armand the benefit of my connections here, once upon a time.”
I couldn’t help but snort.“I’m pretty sure he’d hate this place.”
“You’d be surprised.”Jean-Michel smiled.“Our boy was once quite the connoisseur.Armand is nothing if not dedicated to his art.He chose it over everything else.”He glanced down at me.“Did you know he studied at King’s College?”
I blinked, sure I’d misheard.“He did?”
“Oh yes.”Jean-Michel continued, “Never finished, of course.”
My stomach twisted, and my hands started to itch.He had more info about Armand’s past than I did.“You knew him back then?”
Jean-Michel’s eyes took on a sweet, misty look.“He left university to pursue his art.Quite noble, really.I remember when he was beginning to hone his style.There is not a derivative bone in that boy’s body.”
I tried to imagine Armand in college, young and brave enough to choose the path of a struggling artist over academia.It couldn’t have been easy.“He must’ve benefited from having you as a mentor.”My nerves were still frazzled, so I focused instead on the portrait in front of us.“This really is awful, isn’t it?”
“Obscenely so.”Jean-Michel sighed.“I may purchase the lot for the soul pleasure of burning it.”
I eased into a laugh, though my mind raced.What could I produce to make my art acceptable?Was I even qualified?
And what else hadn’t Armand told me?
Armand Explains How Art Happens
October 26
71 Days Sober
We were out to dinner again.And I was suffering.Because there were three things I didn’t want:
