“Freya, these are…” I turn in a slow circle, trying to take in everything at once. “These are incredible.”
“You think so?” She sounds genuinely uncertain, like she’s not sure whether I’m being polite or honest.
“I think so. When did you do these?”
“Most of them over the past six months. I’ve been working on a series about transformation, about how we become different versions of ourselves depending on circumstances.”
I stop in front of a canvas that’s dominated by swirling patterns in shades of green and gray, with touches of gold that catch the light. There’s something about it that makes my chest tight, though I can’t articulate why.
“This one,” I say, pointing to the green and gray piece. “What’s it about?”
Freya comes to stand beside me, close enough that I can smell her shampoo mixed with the faint scent of paint.
“It’s about wanting something you can’t have,” she says quietly. “About the way desire can transform you, even when you know it’s hopeless.”
Something in her tone makes me look at her sideways, but she’s studying the painting with an expression I can’t read.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, and I mean it. “They’re all beautiful. Freya, you’re incredibly talented.”
“Thank you.” She moves away from me, straightening brushes that don’t need straightening. “But talent doesn’t pay the bills.”
“You should be getting this work out there more,” I say, studying the paintings again. “Have you approached any galleries recently?”
“A few smaller ones. Mostly form rejections so far, but that’s normal. You have to develop a thick skin in this business.” She sits down on the small couch in the corner of the studio, looking frustrated. “The art world is all about who you know, and I know basically nobody.”
“I could help with that,” I say. “I know people—collectors, business leaders who buy art for their offices or homes. I could make some introductions.”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than I expected. “I appreciate the offer, Ben, I really do. But I want to make it on my own merit, not because I’m connected to you.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it?” She looks at me with an expression that’s almost challenging. “If I succeed because of introductions you make, because of your name and your connections, is that really my success?”
I want to argue with her, to point out that networking is how every industry works, that using available resources isn’t thesame as not earning your success. But something in her voice stops me.
“I understand,” I say instead.
“Do you?”
“I think so. You want to know that you succeeded because of your talent and your work, not because of who you’re associated with.”
“Exactly.” She relaxes slightly. “I know it might take longer, and I know it might be harder, but I need to know that whatever success I have is mine.”
I look around the studio again, at the evidence of her talent and dedication surrounding us. “It will be yours, Freya. Anyone who sees this work will know that.”
“You really think they’re good? You’re not just being nice because we’re… whatever we are?”
“Business partners?” I suggest.
“Right. Business partners.”
But the words feel inadequate for what we are, what we’ve been to each other for most of our lives. Business partners don’t know each other’s childhood fears or remember exactly how the other person takes their coffee. Business partners don’t have the kind of easy familiarity that comes from years of friendship, even when that friendship is currently complicated by contracts and performance schedules.
“I think they’re extraordinary,” I tell her honestly. “And I think anyone who sees them will agree.”
“Thank you.” She stands up and moves to adjust one of the canvases, but I can tell she’s pleased by my response. “That means a lot.”
“How many pieces do you have in this series?”
