It looked like a game of Twister. “It reminds me of summer: ice cream, sunsets, the ocean, the color of petals in a garden when the sun pierces through them,” she said with an easy breath.
“How would you sell it?” He raised an eyebrow.
Dahlia smiled; this was her jam, after all. Suddenly, she wasn’t nervous. She was excited.
“I would say it encapsulates summer and marks the best memories of two months spent in paradise. I would ask them what they see. I would appeal to their sentimental nature and make a connection. Art should feel personal and tickle your insides when it catches your eye from across the room.”
“And what about this one?” he asked, pointing to a Picasso-inspired oil painting with two forms interlaced and a tear coming from the male’s eye.
She tilted her head. “I see vulnerability, I see pain and healing. I see belonging and loss. I see the life cycle of a relationship.” It was poignant and beautiful, laced with contradictions. She saw the relationships of everyone she loved in that painting. Yes, they were all different, but love anchored and tethered each one.
“Why do you think he’s crying?”
“Because he feels seen.” She smiled.
“Not because he’s heartbroken?” he firmly asked.
“We see what we want to see, I suppose. The way her arm is laced inside his, I see kinship.”
“Interesting.” He folded his arms.
“Who are your artists typically?” Dahlia asked, needing to be sure her instincts were right.
“Well-known artists that have shown in some of the best Soho and Chelsea galleries, mostly,” he said.
“Do you ever give a newcomer a break?” she asked.
“Not typically.”
“That’s a shame.” She flinched, shocked that she’d said that aloud.
“Well, they don’t draw a crowd the way the more established artists do. And crowd means revenue.”
Dahlia’s eyes darted. In other words, Lil would never have had a chance to be shown here. Did she want to work at a place like this, a place that valued money over authenticity? The answer was that it was a job, one that could enable her to stay at Lil’s.
“Listen, I’ll get right to it.” He cleared his throat. “I’m looking for a gallery manager. It would be part-time at this gallery in the summers and winters in Palm Beach and/or the Aspen Gallery. Wherever you are needed most.”
“Oh.” Her arms went still. That was quick.
“This is what I’ll pay you.” Tomas grabbed a yellow sticky note from behind the desk and scribbled, then folded it before she could see what he’d written.
Without looking into my references?She wanted to ask but didn’t. It was better to act unaffected.
He gave her the folded-up paper. “Think about it. I have another appointment to get to.” He looked at his Rolex. “But please stay and look around. My assistant is here if you have any questions about the artists. I think you’ll find them …”
Sterile. Lacking emotionality, she thought.
“Awakening.”
Dahlia nodded. “Well, thank you.” She held up the folded paper.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said, strutting out the front door and into the thick crowd of patrons.
Dahlia stuck the paper in her purse. She had heard and seen enough.
Making sure the pink shirt was nowhere in sight, she walked to her car. As soon as she got in her hatchback, she opened the small piece of paper. She slapped her hand over her mouth and gasped. “Holy shit.” It was double her salary at MoMA and then some.
But would it make her happy?
