1
I’m heading out!” I shout to my roommate, Christine, as I shove on my favorite heeled black boots and balance my oil painting next to the door. In the wall mirror, I try to fix my makeup from last night.Maybe a little smudged eyeliner reads creative professional rather than irresponsible twenty-nine-year-old?
“Good luck today,” Christine says from the hall. She just woke up, wearing her boyfriend’s oversize shirt and boy shorts, toothbrush in hand. “You’re the best artist I know—you deserve this.”
I give her a grateful smile. Christine is my closest friend. We met freshman year at RISD—she was a film major—and moved to New York together. Now she’s directing a web series and go-go dancing to make ends meet. Since my mom died last year, we’ve gotten even closer.
“Thank you,” I tell her. “Biggest meeting of my life. Pray for me!” Grabbing the edge of the canvas, I carefully slip it into the plastic sleeve.Please let the oils be dry.
“I’m praying, manifesting, crossing all the things!” she shouts as I run out the door.
I sprint down the four flights of stairs of our Lower East Side walk-up and race for Delancey-Essex, barely registering the October chill in the air or the leaves that have turnedfiery shades of red and orange. Last week Isabella Hawthorne, the owner of the Hawthorne Gallery—the highly acclaimed contemporary gallery on the Upper East Side—asked to see my latest painting for her upcoming show, and I haven’t been able to think of anything else since.
I take the F train uptown, and when I arrive outside the Hawthorne Gallery, I gently remove the plastic sleeve from the painting. My shoulders relax—despite the rough journey, it looks undamaged. I admire the realistic oil painting: a woman lying in bed as she looks at the viewer. It was inspired by Velázquez’sRokeby Venusand a picture of twenty-five-year-old me taken by my ex-situationship, James. High from the thrill after our first gallery show, we’d been in bed when he got out his thirty-five-millimeter camera and took the shot.
That night we’d rented a small warehouse, hired a DJ and a tattoo artist, and hosted the show ourselves, which featured his photography and my oil paintings. I didn’t sell a single painting and lost money on the venture, but some part of me is still proud that we pulled it off. It gave me the courage to go for a career as an artist.
But now that I’m almost thirty, I need to get my life together. My career is not where I want it to be, I’m sick of bartending, and most months I can barely make rent even when the tip money is good. It kills me to have to withdraw from the modest inheritance my mother gave me when she passed.
“Hannah Brennan?” a posh English accent asks. I look up to find a guy in his twenties standing in front of the elevator. He gives me an impatient smile. “Isabella sent me down to see if you were here. She doesn’t have much time.” He presses the elevator button, guiding me swiftly inside.
I hear Isabella say before I see her, once we reach her floor, “Hello, Hannah.” My skin ignites with nerves at thesound of her voice. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it.”
Isabella is the definition of high-powered sophistication. Though she must be around fifty, she could pass for late thirties, with sleek blond hair cropped to her chin, red lipstick, and impeccable style. Today she is in a white linen blazer and layers of gold custom-designed jewelry that could be featured in a museum.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” I tell her, still catching my breath. I’ve known Isabella since I was a teenager, and yet I still feel intimidated in her presence. My mom and Isabella met at Columbia in an art history class. They were roommates for years in their twenties, and although their lives ended up in very different places, Isabella remained one of her closest friends. At least once a year she would have us over to her enormous house on the Upper East Side for dinner.
“Darling, are you sleeping?” Isabella gives me a once-over as if she can smell the club on my skin from Saturday night. “Come,” she says, turning and leading me down the hall. “Let’s talk in my office.”
Inside, I carefully set my painting on the ground and take a seat across from her. From behind her desk, she looks down at me. My hands twist together, and I sink into the chair, holding my breath.
“I’m really glad you could make it here today,” Isabella says, her gaze locking on mine. Her eyes, which I’ve always thought were brown, look almost yellow in this light and have a distinct feline quality. In fact, all her movements have this quality: poised yet feral. Focused, precise, calculated, as if she is deciding whether or not to sink her claws into me. “One of the artists pulled out of our show, and a slot opened up. You and I have been discussing opportunities for your work—this could be a good next step.”
I sit up straighter and attempt to contain my excitement. This is the biggest opportunity I’ve gotten all year—no, in my entire life. I only wish that my mother were alive to witness it. “I would love that.” I reach for my painting. “Do you want to see it?” My heart picks up the pace as I lift it into view. “I did so many versions, but this is the one I like best.” I point to the canvas where I’ve spent months perfecting the subtle golden sunlight from a window and the shadow on her thigh. I hope that the subject doesn’t too closely resemble me, and that it’s not too provocative to have her tangled in bedsheets, half nude. A pang of sadness as I remember that night: how much I wanted to tell James that I was falling in love with him, and yet I knew that he didn’t feel the same.
I hold my breath as Isabella stares at the painting for a long time, tilting her head to one side. The knot in my stomach twists as a panicky, fluttering feeling takes hold just above it.
“Mm,” Isabella says with a frown. “I’m afraid this won’t be a fit for our gallery.”
“Excuse me?” It wasn’t that I was expecting her to fall in love with my work, but I thought things were moving in a good direction. “Respectfully, could I ask why not?”
“Respectfully, Hannah,” she says, in a tone that is neither respectful nor kind, “our gallery leans more abstract contemporary. This”—she waves her fingers over the canvas—“is impressive, really, darling. It reminds me of some students’ work from the Vermeer chiaroscuro class.”
I swallow the knot in my throat. Vermeer is one of my favorite artists—and, of course, he’s a master—but I feel like anyone would know my poor man’s Vermeer is not what she’s after. My face burns with embarrassment.
“You see,” she continues, “it’s stunning, really, but my buyers want something much more ... how do I say this ... original.”
The word hangs in the silence between us.
“I can be original, just give me a week. I have a painting you’ll like. It just needs a bit more work,” I tell her, though my voice comes out strained. I feel lightheaded and tug at the collar of my sweater. I don’t think I’ll last another minute in here.
“All right, you can have this week.” She sighs. “I want to support you, Hannah, darling—you know how much I loved your mother.” She pauses, her features softening, and says, “You look more and more like Olivia every day.”
I nearly lose the strand of control I’ve had over my emotions. My mother died in a car accident last December, almost a year ago, and it was like a part of me had died with her. I grew up without a father, and so my mother was the only family I had. I couldn’t cry—the tears felt as if they were trapped inside my throat. Not a week before she passed, my mother had told me that she regretted not trying to find my father now that I was an adult. For a few months afterward I tried searching through her old albums for clues about him, but it was too painful.
She never wanted to talk much about him, but from what I’d gathered over the years, my mother had a wild partying streak in college, and he didn’t mean much to her. I’ve sometimes wondered what he’s like, whether he’s creative like I am, whether he likes to read or hates cilantro, and if good music brings tears to his eyes.
Isabella seemed to realize that the only way out of the sadness was through my art. A month after the funeral, she showed up with several large canvases and a bag of oil paints and brushes and told me to get out of bed.
