“No need to apologize. I understand the question. In fact, I appreciate that you asked. It shows you’re serious about your work and not looking for shortcuts.” His tone warms again. “Would you be available to come in this afternoon? I know it’s short notice, but I have a window of time, and I find it’s best to strike while the iron is hot.”
This afternoon. I glance at my watch. It’s just past noon, and I have a client presentation to finish for tomorrow morning. But this is The Jetson Gallery. This is a chance that might not come again.
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “I can be there this afternoon.”
“Excellent. Shall we say three o’clock? And please, do bring examples of your recent work. Physical pieces, if you have them, or high-quality photographs at a minimum.”
“Of course!”
A woman pushing a cart nearby gives me a sharp look and makes a shushing sound. I realize I’ve been talking louder and louder as I got more excited, my voice echoing off the high ceilings of the produce section.
“Sorry,” I mouth to her, then lower my voice. “Three o’clock sounds perfect. Thank you so much, Mr. Gabriel.”
After we hang up, I stand in the middle of Whole Foods for a full minute, staring at my phone. The Jetson Gallery wants to see my work. Because they saw the engagement announcement. Because I’m marrying Ben.
The thought should bother me more than it does. For weeks, I’ve been struggling with the ethics of our fake relationship, the lies we’re telling, the way everything in my life has become performance for public consumption. But this—this is something real and good coming out of the chaos. This is an opportunity that could actually advance my career, not because of Ben’s connections or influence, but because someone saw my work and thought it was worth their time.
I quickly check out and drive home as fast as traffic allows, my mind racing with possibilities. The Jetson Gallery. It has discovered artists who went on to show in New York, in Los Angeles, and even internationally. A recommendation from him could open doors I didn’t even know existed.
Back in my apartment, I spread out photographs of my recent work on the dining table, trying to decide which pieces best represent what I’m capable of. The transformation series I’ve been working on, definitely. The piece about wanting something you can’t have that Ben admired so much. A few others that show range and technical skill.
I also grab the painting I finished the night after that gallery opening, the one I created in a fury of emotion after listening to Sofia gush about my perfect romance. Looking at it now, I can see all the chaos and longing and confusion I was feeling translated into bold strokes and clashing colors. It’s raw and honest in a way that makes me slightly uncomfortable, but it’s also some of the best work I’ve ever done.
The Jetson Gallery is located in River North, in a sleek building that houses several high-end galleries and design firms. I’ve walked past it dozens of times, always peering through the windows at whatever exhibition was current, never imagining I’d be walking through the front door as anything other than a casual observer.
Ron Gabriel is not what I expected. I’d pictured someone pretentious and intimidating, all black clothing and critical stares. Instead, he’s warm and approachable, probably in his fifties, with graying hair and laugh lines around his eyes. He greets me at the front desk and immediately puts me at ease.
“Ms. Hull, thank you so much for coming on such short notice. I hope I didn’t disrupt your day too dramatically.”
“Not at all. Thank you for the opportunity.”
He leads me through the main gallery space, which is currently featuring an exhibition of contemporary sculptures. The work is impressive, but I’m too nervous to focus on it properly.
“We can talk in my office,” he says, opening a door that reveals a space that’s both professional and personal—art books stacked everywhere, photographs of exhibitions and artists covering one wall, and a comfortable seating area with good lighting.
“Please, have a seat. Can I offer you coffee? Water?”
“Coffee would be great, thank you.”
While he prepares single-serve coffees from a machine, I arrange the photographs of my work on the low table between us.
“Ah, let’s see what we have here,” he says, settling into the chair across from me with two steaming mugs.
For the next twenty minutes, Ron studies each photograph carefully, asking questions about technique, about inspiration, about the emotional content of the pieces. His questions are insightful and specific, the kind that can only come from someone who genuinely understands art.
“This one,” he says, picking up the photograph of the piece I painted after the gallery opening. “Tell me about this one.”
“It’s about feeling trapped between what you want and what you’re supposed to want. About the way emotions can become overwhelming when you can’t express them honestly.”
He nods thoughtfully. “The color choices are quite bold. The way you’ve layered the paint creates this sense of movement, of internal struggle. It’s very powerful.”
“Thank you.”
“How long have you been working in this style?”
“About a year, seriously. I mean, I’ve always been drawn to abstract work, but this particular approach to emotional expression is relatively new for me.”
“And what prompted the evolution?”
