Page 19 of The Unfluencer

She cuts me a slight side-eye and sips slowly, her gaze flickering about as, all around us, they pour into the hallway. I raise my hands, conceding her point.

Click-clacking away on her sensible black heels, she waits until we’re clear of the crowd before ducking her tall, lithe frame into her office. The door’s barely closed before she exhales a full-bodied sigh.

“Lord…” She frowns. “Like watching goddamn paint dry.”

We both fall out cackling, leaning on each other just to stay upright. And it’s so genuine, I almost feel bad that I’m not here just to chitchat like old times.

The gag is, we’re not even close to the same age. Dr. Brown’s got at least a couple decades on me. But I’ve got an old spirit. Basically just out here, a sixty-year-old woman at heart, rocking a pressed denim jumpsuit with trap beats looping in my head. But this woman? Make no mistake, she is dope. At least in Georgia, and Ellswood particularly, she’s a literal icon, a legend in Black creative excellence who goes hard for her own. If there’s something or someone noteworthy happening in her city, she’s definitely got the inside track.

And this is why I’m banking on this woman.

Or, in this case, absolutely buttering up an academic and artistic thought leader just to shamelessly pry for even a crumb of information on the estate rep for this hush-hush collection everyone’s talking about.

But desperate times, right?

“Dusty, dull-looking paint,” I pile on, living for every second of this. Just acting a complete fool as I throw in a polite little twerk for good measure, further fueling the shenanigans.

Dr. Brown hollers, breathless and clutching her chest. And, bless her heart, she tries to bend and shake what little her mama gave her. But the Lord definitely skipped her on booty day.

“I know that’s right, ma’am,” I hype her up, tickled as hell—and feeling a little guilty that I’m pouring it on thick and waiting for my opening to bring up the collection. “Let the record show that Dr. Brown is that woman, ladies and gentlemen!”

“Lord show you right.” She straightens, beaming from ear to ear. “They don’t make ’em like this anymore.”

Oh, you don’t know the half of it.

As she trades her heels for no-nonsense sneakers, ready to cover some serious campus ground, she glances at me.

“All right now, don’t get too comfortable,” she says. “We’ve got work to do and tons of ground to cover.”

I stand, summoning all my nerve. “Actually, Dr. Brown, I was hoping to chat for a few… about some industry happenings I’ve heard about recently,” I say, hoping she’s picking up what I’m putting down without me asking outright.

“Industry?” she repeats.

For all of ten seconds, she stares at me unblinking, and I think, Oh, hell. This is it. She’s about to call me out.

But then she studies me for a beat and nods softly.

“Shall we?” she says, ready for the hunt. “We can talk on the way.”

By which she means window-shopping the Hughes talent pool, and I realize what I respect most about her is how she faces challenges—the dry, dull stuff, the obstacles—as nothing more than a means to an end.

The same way she grits her teeth through lectures that spark zero joy, Dr. Brown didn’t even flinch when I told her Gertrude conditioned my inheritance on getting a finance degree instead of fine arts. Instead of backing down, though, Dr. Brown took me under her wing. She wouldn’t let me take my eyes off the prize, mapping out a way for me to double-major. “Those who can’t paint, curate,” she said, basically ensuring I got my bag and my dream gallery.

“We shall,” I say, exiting her office, so grateful we’re still working together, developing artists beyond their degrees, mentoring, exposing students to more opportunities with my gallery. Hopefully disclosing secret artists.

For a solid two hours, we turn the campus inside out, sitting in on lectures and workshops and observing in studios. We visit on-campus galleries, chat with other professors about their most promising students, and review pieces set for Hughes’s juried student exhibitions. The entire time, I’m asking veiled questions.

I start off generally. Have you heard the whispers about that Harrington gallery? They’ve got something big coming. Do you know who’s curating? Who tipped them off? Is it even real?

Of course, stand-up woman that she is, Dr. Brown gives me nothing.

At this point, though, I’m determined.

Tell me I can’t have something, not to ask, and you can basically guarantee that it’s now my personal mission. Purely out of spite.

So, as we continue on Dr. Brown’s rounds, determining that there are some incredible emerging artists who, with a little strategic portfolio planning and professional development, could change the industry—in a couple years—I double down. As soon as we plop down on a bench in the middle of the quad, facing the sprawling green east lawn, I twist to face her.

“Who’s the artist?” I blurt out.