by R.S. Grey
The prospect immediately excites me.
“Oh! That’d be great!”
Anya is the artist on display tonight, and she’s drawn in quite a crowd with her series of abstract photographs. Huge framed photos hang on the white walls of the gallery, each one an explosion of geometry and color. Upon scanning the first few photographs in the series, I can immediately see why Nadiya thought it’d be a good idea for me to come to the show. Anya has drawn inspiration from iconic painters much the same way I’m attempting to in my current collection. Her first photograph is an adaption of Picasso’s Les Demoiselles d’Avignone. It employs all the same colors as the painting, but Anya has reduced the iconic female figures and replaced them with stripped-down geometric shapes. Gone are Picasso’s brush strokes. Anya’s done a photo collage of vibrant colors so that the abstract shapes layer on top of each other, forcing my gaze to travel over the photograph in a frenzy. If I could afford it, I’d buy the piece on the spot.
Walt seems to enjoy it just as much as I do. He’s standing beside me, intently focused on it.
“Good, right?” I ask.
He nods. “I like it a lot.”
“C’mon, let’s see the others.”
Matthew drifts off to go get a drink, but Walt and I follow the line of photographs down the wall, taking them in in silence. It occurs to me that we could use this time to circle back and continue that conversation he started with Matthew in the library. The dread hasn’t completely left my stomach and I have so much I want to ask him, to press him on, but it doesn’t seem like the right time or place. I’m here for my work, first and foremost. I want to make a good impression on Nadiya.
I focus on the collection as it takes us through small side rooms around the gallery. The pieces grow in size, and the series comes to an end back in the main room with an adaption of Van Gogh’s Chair. The photograph is six feet by six feet, filled with overlapping white squares and rectangles layered over a black background. I’m still studying it, trying to pick apart the details Anya drew from Van Gogh’s painting, when Nadiya finds us again.
She squeezes my arm, and I turn around to see her standing with a woman I recognize to be Anya. Her headshot accompanied the small descriptions placed beside each of her photographs in the series, though now that I see her in real life, I realize it didn’t do her justice.
Likely in her late 30s or early 40s, her red curly hair is tugged up into a messy bun on top of her head, tendrils spilling out in every direction around her delicate face. Nearly without a stitch of makeup, her pale skin glows in the gallery lighting. Her large green eyes seem to be cartoonishly large and incredibly striking. Her features are somehow both beautiful and strange all at once.
She’s looking at Walt, smiling with a slight narrowing at the edges of her eyes, taking him in as Nadiya introduces us.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says to him, as if I’m not there.
“This is Elizabeth, the artist I was telling you about,” Nadiya says, motioning in my direction.
Anya glances over at me, frowns, and then bursts out with a laugh like I’m intensely amusing. “What are you—a child protégé?”
No one else laughs. There’s a tense awkward silence until Nadiya clears her throat. “She’s young, yes.”
“I think when I was your age I was dating my way through Brazil,” Anya adds with a laugh, glancing back at Walt.
“I’ve never been,” I respond with a tight smile.
She can sense she might have made a misstep because she waves her hand as if to say, Your feelings aren’t my problem.
“Has your art been out on the market for long?”
I shake my head. “Only recently. I graduated from RISD a few months ago.”
This does not impress her.
“You’ll excuse my surprise. It’s just that there’s a commonly held belief among artists I know that it takes time to become great at something, that your voice and purpose are cultivated slowly and an artist might not have anything worthy to say until they’ve lived enough.”
Insecurity pricks at my bones, trying to force my spine to curl, my shoulders to slouch.
She wants me to bend to her age and experience.
Walt tries to drop his hand to the small of my back, likely in a show of solidarity, but I step away. If pressed, I wouldn’t be able to pinpoint the exact reason. Maybe I’m still harboring anger about the conversation from the library. Maybe I want to stand on my own two feet when confronting a person like Anya. Regardless, the tension in our small circle suddenly becomes palpable.
I nod. “It’s an interesting notion, and one I’ve considered many times myself, though obviously I choose to see it from a different angle. I think it was Martha Graham who said, ‘No artist is ahead of his time. He is his time. It’s just that the others are behind the time.’”
My insult sticks.
Anya’s smile widens, but it doesn’t become any more pleasant.
“What’s your art? What do you do?” she asks, waving her hand impatiently.
“Mixed media on canvas, mostly.”
She looks to Nadiya with confusion. “Are galleries still interested in canvas?”
It feels like my ribs squeeze tight as coffee shop art comes roaring back into my mind.
“I think Elizabeth’s art will do really well in the Paris market. Her work is a reinterpretation of the classics. Much like you, she’s an iconoclast, destroying popular notions of what great art is and can be, not to mention the fact that her work carries over a lot of the same cubist ideals yours does.”
I realize, before Nadiya does, that her explanation of my art is only going to annoy Anya more. No artist wants to hear that their work is comparable to someone else’s. It pushes them off their pedestal, strips them of the idea of being a creative genius.
“How charming,” Anya says, her tone dripping with disdain.
A man steps up behind her and taps her shoulder. “Anya, do you have a moment?”
I’m relieved when he steals her away, and the second she’s out of earshot, Nadiya turns to me with a teeth-clenched smile. “Okay, well that did not go how I thought it would.”
“It’s fine,” I assure her.
“I know she can be a bit grumpy—”
I shrug. “No worries. I’m not someone who has to necessarily like an artist to appreciate their art. Her collection is wonderful.”
She presses her hand to her stomach in relief. “Good. I’m glad you aren’t running out of here offended, because I want to walk you through a few concepts I think could work for your show in Paris.”
I nod enthusiastically and Walt steps back, letting me know he’s going to find Matthew.
Nadiya takes me back through Anya’s photographs, pointing out details of the show that she’d like to mimic when we present my collection. Stein’s gallery in Paris is much smaller, she tells me, so my work will need to be condensed onto fewer walls, which means each piece in the series will really need to present nicely alongside the one that comes before and after it. She and I talk through how best to achieve that—discussing the merits of custom frames and lighting—then I catch sight of a man I recognize over her shoulder.
Twenty-Six
It takes my brain a moment to place Olivier as the man I met and danced with at the Global Wildlife Conservation fundraiser, and it seems to take him a moment to recognize me as well. I watch his pale blue eyes as they take me in and then crinkle with recognition as he smiles.
He’s as handsome as I remember, his black hair slightly less tamed than at the fundraiser, the longer strands brushing the collar of his coat. His stubble is thicker too, like it’s been a day or two since he’s taken a razor to it.
“Nadiya, you always did have the best taste in friends,” he says, interrupting our conversation.
Her sentence cuts off as she glances back to see Olivier, and she laughs in delight. “Olivier! I was hoping you’d make it tonight!”
He leans down to kiss
her cheek, his eyes staying locked with mine. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he tells her. “Though now I realize I should have cut out of work even earlier.”
Nadiya follows his gaze to me, surprised, I’m sure, to realize we know each other. Her lips part and she’s about to speak, but Olivier beats her to it.
“Elizabeth,” he says with a quiet snap of his fingers, as if my name just came back to him.
“Yes. Hi,” I say, rocking back on my heels. “Nice to see you again.”
Olivier senses Nadiya’s intrigue, answering her question before she even has to ask it. “I met Elizabeth recently at a fundraiser. She outbid me on a Magritte, and I’m still bitter about it.”
Nadiya’s eyebrows rise in shock. “Oh really? I’d heard that was going up for auction.”
“It was my husband who outbid you,” I clarify.
“Yes, right. That pesky husband of yours,” he says, sounding as if it’s all in good fun. He glances over my shoulder briefly before catching my gaze again. “Where is he anyway? Make my night and tell me he let you come here alone.”
“He’s here somewhere,” I say, flustered by his ability to flirt so unabashedly.
“Olivier, play nice,” Nadiya teases.
“I’m always nice. Look, I’ll prove it. Elizabeth, Nadiya, would either of you like a drink?”
Nadiya takes a step back. “You two go ahead. I need to keep making my rounds.” She squeezes my forearm gently before she leaves. “Keep thinking about what we were talking about and we can touch base again in a day or two.”
As she walks away, Olivier seems to relish the fact that we’ve been left alone.
“I was serious about that drink you know. I haven’t had dinner yet either. Come on, walk with me.”
“I should find Walt.”
He turns me gently, pressing on my shoulder, and pushes us along, deeper into the throng of guests hovering around the food and beverage tables. “Why? Don’t you see him enough as it is? Besides, I want to hear about what you and Nadiya were discussing when I walked up. I didn’t realize you were an artist.”
“I am. I mean, don’t get excited. I’m not necessarily a successful one yet.”
He thinks that over for a moment as he grabs two plates and starts to walk along the small buffet of food.
“Aren’t most noteworthy artists only really appreciated posthumously?”
I laugh. “Oh good, so I have to die before I’m taken seriously?”
“’Fraid so. Here, want a crab cake?” When I don’t reply, he looks back at me. “What?”
“It’s just…you’re so…” I shake my head in confusion. “I truly can’t decide whether I like you or not.”
He grins and adds more food to the plate he’s making me. “Let me give you a second crab cake and see if that helps you make up your mind.”
“I’m not even hungry.”
“Don’t make me eat alone.”
I don’t know how we end up in one of the side rooms, plates and drinks in hand, looking over Anya’s photographs. I keep trying to slip away, making excuses, but he’s too charming for his own good.
“Just stay for a moment. I don’t want to look sad and alone in here with these plates of food.”
I sigh and give up trying to escape him.
I shift my chin toward one of the photographs.
“Do you know her? Anya?” I ask.
“We’ve met before, at galleries and things. The art world in New York is smaller than you’d think.”
“And? What do you think about her?”
“Oh, she’s a total asshole. Everyone knows that, but look at her work.” He points toward the wall. “It doesn’t really matter what I think about her. Her photographs speak for themselves.”
“Yeah, I had the same thought.”
“You won’t have to worry about that though,” he says.
I can feel his gaze on the side of my face as my attention remains on Anya’s photos.
“What do you mean?” I ask, working up the courage to turn to him.
“Well, we enjoy Anya’s art in spite of who she is. With you…you’ll be adored. People will want your art in their homes because they’ll want to possess a tiny piece of you however they can get it.”
He says these words and his blue eyes are impossibly earnest, which makes absolutely no sense. It’s obvious what a playboy he is, how confident he comes across. He’s just the sort of man you want to put in his place.
“You can’t just say things like that.”
He laughs. “You think I’m laying it on, but it’s the truth. I’d buy your work sight unseen.”
I slap my hand against my forehead. “How do you not see how offensive that is to say to an artist?”
He smirks, not the least bit deterred. “Is it?”
“Yes,” I reply with a harsh tone, assuming he’ll back down.
“Fine. Let me see your art sometime and maybe I’ll change my mind,” he flirts. Then his eyes dart over my shoulder and his grin dims only slightly. “Ah, shame.”
“What is?”
“Your husband has finally found us,” he says after taking a sip of his drink. “I thought I’d tucked us far enough away that I’d have you to myself for a little longer.”
I turn to look and sure enough, Walt and Matthew are strolling into the side room off the main gallery. I expect Walt to look upset, or at least annoyed to find me here talking to Olivier. But his dark eyes meet mine and he smiles, seemingly happy to have found me. Then his gaze shifts to Olivier, and that smile falters for a moment.
“Olivier, was it?” he asks as they approach.
Olivier nods. “Good to see you again. How’s the Magritte?”
“It’s due to be delivered next week.”
Olivier’s eyes fall on me when he replies, “I’m jealous.”
I look down to the ground, feeling somehow guilty.
“I have an early morning. Are you about ready to go, Elizabeth?” Walt asks me, already stepping back from the group and angling his head toward the entrance of the room.
“You work on Sundays?” Olivier asks, looking less than impressed.
Walt eyes him with mild impatience. “I do when I have to. Our senior vice president who oversees the China region is flying back to Shanghai tomorrow afternoon. I need to meet with him before then.” Then he looks to me, his impatience for Olivier rubbing off on me. “If you’d like to stay, I’ll have my driver come back for you.”
Some part of me is both relieved that he wants to take me home and angry that he offered to let me stay. Too confused by the warring emotions, I simply nod.
“It was nice seeing you again,” I say, politely smiling toward Olivier.
“Same goes for you. And I meant what I said—I’d love to see your art.”
I nod and turn to Walt, waiting to see what he’ll do. Half of me expects him to grab my hand and tug me out of the room, but he only gestures for me to go ahead of him as we leave the gallery. I wave to Nadiya as we pass her talking in a group, miming a phone beside my ear to let her know we’ll be in touch, and then all too soon, we’re out on the sidewalk, loading into the back of Walt’s SUV.
I slide in first, and Walt takes the seat by the other window. Matthew hops up front.
“Mind taking me back to my apartment first?” he asks, and we both agree it’s fine.
Walt is quiet on the drive, glancing down at his phone and reading through emails. It sounds like he has work to do in the morning so I try not to bother him as we wind through the New York streets.
I’m glad for the silence as I stare out the window and work through the last few hours. Almost as soon as I buckled my seatbelt, the conversation from the library surged back into the forefront of my thoughts. All the insecurities and confusion seem to have only multiplied in the hours since Walt first spoke about dissolving the trust and our marriage.
It’s late by the time we arrive back at our apartment. We thank Walt’s driver and head into the
quiet lobby of our building. The elevator doors open for us immediately, and we step inside.
“That was an interesting collection,” Walt says, swiping his keycard for the penthouse floor. “I’d like to reach out to my adviser about acquiring more photography for the apartment.”
This is the first substantial thing he’s said to me since we left the gallery, and for some reason, it’s the last thing I want to hear.
I hum and look at the numbers lighting up above the elevator doors as we continue climbing floors.
“Elizabeth?”
I hum again. It seems to be the only communication I’m capable of at the moment.
“Are you upset?”
I keep watching those numbers illuminating, waiting, waiting, waiting until they reach 35, and then the elevator doors swoop open, and I reply with a simple “Yes” before stepping out into the entry gallery.
Walt steps out behind me at a lazy pace, following after me as I walk toward my room. I don’t bother flipping on my light. There’s enough spilling in from the hallway.
I go inside and take a seat on my bed, bending down to start unlacing my boots. I toe them off, and when I look up, I find Walt standing in the doorway, encased there. His broad shoulders fill the space. His cunning eyes are on me. He doesn’t look the least bit upset, or sad, merely…patient. Like he has all the time in the world to wait for me to stop acting petulant.
Somehow, that only makes my blood run hotter.
“Would you like to tell me why you’re upset?” he asks.
“Not particularly.”
He frowns, obviously frustrated by my inability to meet him halfway.
He pushes off the doorframe and walks toward me. I stand up and crane my neck to look him in the eyes.
“It’s been a long day,” I say, hoping that will do the trick. “I think I’d just like to get some sleep if that’s all right with you.”
I try to move around him and he blocks my path, his hand falling to the center of my chest. He doesn’t mean it to be domineering. It’s a gentle touch, and yet the sheer size of his hand is still overwhelming. I look down at it as he speaks.
