“Truthfully, with all the attention the exhibition received, I didn’t expect you to apply for this position.”
This answer, I’d prepared for. “I wanted to start at DebuTaunt because I truly believe it to be the best gallery Toronto has to offer. Being here and assisting you will help me become a more well-rounded artist.”
“In what sense?” Loretta leans back, crossing her arms. I take a moment to realise that we’re in the hallway, and I may be a lot more comfortable sitting at a desk right now in a private office where my new co-workers couldn’t hear me totally fawning.
“I admire your career. The legacy you’ve built. I believe that I’d need a stronger business sense and an understanding of management in order to—”
“To be me,” she sighs.
I’m losing her. “No,” I say defensively, to which she cocks her head. Shit. Speak! “When I found photography, I felt like a shell of a person.” Oh god, word vomit. “The moment I picked up a camera, I found myself. Respectfully, Loretta, I don’t want to be you. I want to have the career you’ve had. I want to be as successful as you. I want to be respected for my art like you. When I saw your 2012 collection for the Canadian Museum of Contemporary Photography in Ottawa—itchangedme. I want to change people. But that doesn't come from just being a damn good photographer. There's things I can't learn without watching first-hand.”
She blinks, fluttering her eyelids elegantly. And I didn’t expect it. Her indifferent, perhaps bothered, expression softened to something so sincere. A twitch of her lips into a demure smile. A depth to her eyes previously missing. I’m getting through to her. She’s seeing me now, and it’s fucking exhilarating.
“That was my favourite collection,” she says, every word drawn out. “It’s not one that's often talked about.”
I involuntarily shake my head. “That’s such a shame.”
“Well…” She taps her elbow, studying me. “You know how this world can be.”
I nod. I think she’s insinuating that it didn’t receive the same public attention or accolades because it was a presentation mostly focused on the queer experience. Most of the photographs were obscenely vulnerable. Levels of varying naked models, in positions that evoked lust, horror, pride, sadness, joy. It was only a decade ago but even then it was slightly taboo for the museum to host such a provocative collection.
“Clara…” She takes my left hand in hers, admires my lavender-stone ring that belonged to my grandmother, and smiles to herself. “It is not easy to be a woman in this field. It is not easy to carve a spot for yourself in a mountain when your male colleagues have chisels and jackhammers whereas you have nothing but your fingernails.” She pats my wrist before lowering my hand.
I nod like she’s the preacher in the pulpit at the front of my parents' congregation. I damn near sayamen.
“But it’s even harder for us.”
Wait, what?
“When men cannot obtain you, they are far less likely to promote you. Remember that.”
Oh, she thinks I’m engaged. Maybe? I fiddle with my grandmother’s ring and stutter something that sounds like “sorry” as she opens her burgundy-painted lips to speak again.
“I am very intentional with who I hire at this gallery. Who I promote and show. This is a veryintentionalspace.”
I nod. I know that. She only shows the best of the best here. But, why is she—
The phone on my hip begins ringing.
“Answer that. I’m supposed to be in a meeting right now anyway. Laurence will be in shortly, he’ll take you under his wing.” She stops me from reaching for the phone’s holster.
“Thank you for being so candid with me, Clara.” Then, she’s drifting away, silk chiffon tendrils following after her.
And I’m very fucking confused as I hit the call button and say, “thank you for calling DebuTaunt this is Clara speaking,” and watch as Heather grinds her teeth together from the far side of the hallway.
Fuck.
Chapter Four
Evan
“Clara… she thinks you’re gay,” I say for the third time, looking at my sweet, naive friend across the booth from me.
She mumbles her disagreement into her martini and licks her lips after, her throat bobbing. “No.” She swallows again. “No way.” She fiddles with the olive in her glass. “People aren’t that presumptuous.”
“Clara, you complimented agayicon on her most obscure gallery collection aboutgayculture that she put onduringpride month. She told you it’s harder for women likeyou.” I lean across the table slightly, raising my eyebrows. “She thinks you’re gay.”
She pulls her full bottom lip between her teeth, wincing. “Shit.”
