I close my eyes and envision the sparkling paints waiting at home for me in my studio. If the coping goes terribly wrong, at least I know I can go home and paint up the feelings.
Taking a deep breath, I open the door.
I've been to the Whitmer before, but I've never seen it like this. The gallery is completely empty. No people, no paintings. I know from stalking their website online that their new exhibit will open in two days. This emptiness is only temporary. Still, itgives me a chance to see the display space as a blank page, ready for me to fill.
The lights are low, lending a warmth to the plain white walls. As I walk past the reception desk, my nose is filled with the scent of plaster and fresh paint. They’re just remnants of cleaning up after the last exhibit, but they remind me of my studio. Slowly, my heartbeat starts to slow.
I stray forward towards the longest wall in the gallery. I press my palm to the wall, feeling the subtle texture from the paintbrush. Closing my eyes, I picture color. I could start with something bold here, a blazing red or a sunny turquoise. A big impression to start off the show with a bang.
Or I could do something huge and more subtle. Maybe a gradient with luminous ivories, grays, and browns, like a weathered cliff. Something that would draw people in and make them stop to look more closely.
“I see you're getting acquainted with our gallery,” a low feminine voice says behind me.
I yelp in surprise, my hand going to my chest as I whirl around. An elegant, gray-haired woman wearing chunky jewelry and all black clothing stands behind me, her manicured hands clasped in front of her. Her high cheekbones and square jaw lend her a stark, harsh beauty.
“Sorry to scare you,” she says, a hint of amusement in her voice. “I'm Sydney, and you must be Maura.”
“Pleased to meet you in person.” My hands stretches forward automatically, my years of etiquette lessons kicking in. “The gallery is beautiful.”
“Yes, I'm rather fond of it.”
“How long have you worked here?”
“A few decades, give or take,” Sydney says. “I'm practically part of the furniture by now. Have you been to a show here before?”
I nod eagerly. “I come whenever I can. I still look at pictures of those driftwood sculptures you had a few years back. They felt so massive. Standing here now, I can’t believe they even fit.”
Sydney smiles, revealing a gap in her front teeth that adds an element of unbalance to her face. It makes her look even more striking, and I wonder whether she hasn’t been a muse as well as a gallerist. “Yes, I remember that exhibit well. Rodney is a master of perspective. I’m not surprised his work spoke to you.”
“Oh?”
“He’s drawn to natural materials, just like you are. Manipulating wild elements into your vision. Have you ever tried bringing wood into your paintings?”
I chuckle. “Only to reinforce my canvases. I'm more interested in stones and minerals.”
“Yes, it was quartz and coal you used on the painting that caught my eye at the Copper Cup.The Thunderstorm, I think you called it?”
“Yes. It’s one of my favorites.” Frankly, I can't believe that's the one she liked. It's one of my smallest paintings, a foot by a foot, and not one of my most colorful. It holds a special place in my heart, because I was able to evoke the feeling of absence and emptiness I envisioned. It’s almost like a little black hole of a painting, rough and ragged.
“Do the majority of your paintings have weather themes, or is that just your current interest?”
“Actually, I've been a little fixated on changes around the earth’s surface recently. Eruptions and magma, extreme heat and pressure, contrasted with the slow changes of erosion. Obviously, there’s a weather component to erosion, so it feels like a natural continuation.”
Sydney’s eyes widen. “Fascinating. Especially since you’re doing a sort of extreme erosion yourself, breaking the minerals down.”
“Exactly. That’s why I like to grind and break the stones myself, so I feel like it’s my hands on the work. I’m about to get some industrial equipment so I can break down some tougher stones, but I’m still mixing all the paint myself. I just want to make sure I put a piece of myself into every painting, you know? So it holds onto my memory in a way.” I shake my head. “I’m sorry, I’m talking too much.”
“No, it’s fascinating.” Sydney fiddles with her pendant necklace, which looks like jade. “I’ll want you to do a few more interviews about it with our PR team so they can promote your show. They’ll email you for your availability next week.”
I blink. “That soon?”
“Our next exhibit ends in three weeks, and we’d like to start yours a few days after. We’d feature mostly existing work, but I hope you’ll have time for a few new pieces.”
I swallow a crazed laugh. Despite all the emails, it hasn’t felt completely real until now. I’m going to have an actual gallery show, at one of the city’s best galleries. This isn’t just some crazy, wonderful dream. It’s happening,reallyhappening.
“I'm supposed to ask you about a commission share,” I blurt out, remembering James’s advice.
Sydney smiles. “Of course. We won't formalize anything until you've signed the contract. I'll email you over our standard agreement for your team to review. I'd like to get it signed in the next two days, so please, send me any notes as soon as possible.”
