Callie looks up from her notes. “You know, curating isn’t only about the art. It’s about framing a story people can step into. Making them feel something. What you described, that’s the heart of exhibition work.”
I blink. “Oh.”
“I mean it. It’s important to bring life experiences and perspective. It’s something we don’t always see enough of in candidates. You’ve lived things. That matters here.”
Greg nods. “There really is no substitute for life.”
I nod too, mostly to stop myself from crying.
They shift in their chairs, smiling politely, then Callie leans forward. “Okay, a few rapid-fire questions, if that’s alright?”
“Only if I can give rapid-chaotic answers,” I try for a joke, and Greg smiles again.
“What’s your favorite art period and why?”
“If I had to choose? Late 19th-century Impressionism. The women were finally painting the inside of life—the domestic, the quiet, the overlooked. Mary Cassatt made me feel seen before I even knew I needed that.”
They nod, and Greg adjusts his tortoiseshell glasses before scribbling something down on his own notes.
“What would you do if we gave you a weekend pop-up gallery to highlight local artists?”
“I’d turn it into a community night.” I don’t hesitate. “Local wine, coffee, cheese, and chocolates, local musicians, maybe a kids’ table with coloring pages of the art on display. I want people to feel like art is for them, not something they have to whisper around.”
“Love that.” Callie smiles.
The rest of the interview is a blur of questions and what I’m convinced are awkward answers. At one point, I’m pretty sure I hummed my response.
There's a beat of silence. “Thanks for coming in, Birdie. We’ll be in touch.”
I nod, grip Owen’s lucky briefcase a little tighter, shake each of their hands, and beeline toward the door.
By the time I leave, I’m convinced I bombed it. I made a weird joke about hashtags, overshared about my obsession with symmetrical desk setups, and probably came off like a walking Pinterest board with anxiety issues. I even admitted I can’t focus if my office chair isn’t perfectly centered on the rug. I probably talked too much about dead husbands.
Still, I was real and candid.
That’s new.
___________
I’m halfway through stress-eating popcorn and dissecting every awkward thing I said (Why did I bring up the importance of a good leavening agent in cupcakes? Why did I say ‘moons ago’ like I’m a Middle Ages wizard?) when the phone rings.
Unknown number.
I freeze.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Birdie? This is Callie from the Seattle Art Museum again.”
My heart dives straight into my stomach.
“We’d love to offer you the internship position, if you're still interested.”
There’s a pause.
I forget how to speak.
“Birdie?”
