“I'll do that.” I would probably just accept whatever Sydney offered me, but I know James will have notes. I'll have to order him to go easy on them. He's used to negotiating with business scions, not with galleries.
“I’ll let you get back to your studio, so you can start planning the new pieces,” Sydney says. “We’ll also need you to think of a name for the show, once you’ve decided all the paintings youwant to hang. When I send the contract, I’ll make sure the specs for the gallery are attached.”
“Great. I’m really looking forward to this, Sydney.”
She smiles. “I am, too. Please, call or email me if you have any more questions. I’m here to help.”
I believe her. The way she talked about my paintings, it was like I was a peer. Someone on her level. Despite her decades of experience, she respects my art, and that’s worth more to me than Pages and Sequel put together.
My body feels like a helium balloon, floating out of the gallery. Not even the cold, damp air can pull me down. I lean against the front wall of the gallery while I let my emotions settle. Half of me wants to laugh, and the other half’s about to cry.
When my phone buzzes, I pull it out and find an email from Sydney waiting for me.
Dear Maura,
Wonderful meeting you today. The contract is attached for your review.
A thought on the show’s title: Self-Erosion?
Looking forward to seeing your new pieces.
Sydney
I immediately forward the email to James. I’m sure he’ll have comments on the contract, though he probably won’t get to them until later tonight.
I wish I could talk to him about it sooner, though.
Impulsively, I screenshot her email and text it to him, too.
Maura
So…I might be a real artist?
His response comes in under a minute.
James
You were before the email. The market just figured it out.
James is waitingfor me when I get home, which is unusual.
“You're here,” I say, surprised.
“I wanted to hear about the meeting.” He gestures toward the couch. “Tell me everything.”
So, I do. I tell him about Sydney's silver jewelry and intimidating elegance, about the gallery's white walls and the way the light fell through the windows. I tell him about my vision for the show, the paintings I want to create, the stories I want to tell.
He listens without interrupting, his full attention on me. It's unnerving and wonderful at the same time. I’ve never done this. Not really. I’ve tried before—with my father, with my au pairs as a kid. But no one has ever shown such patient interest in my art.In me.
“You're going to be incredible,” he says when I finish, and for some reason, I lock up.
“You don't know that.”
“Yes, I do.” He says it with absolute certainty, like he's stating the answer to a mathematical equation. “I've seen how you work. The way you lose yourself in creation. That kind of passion doesn't produce mediocre results.”
I tuck my feet under me, hugging a couch cushion to my chest.
“What about you?” I ask, the spotlight on me suddenly feeling a little too bright. If he looks too closely, he’ll see all the cracks and flaws I know are there. “When's the last time you were passionate about something that wasn't work?”
