I laughed. “Breathe, Kendra, breathe! Honestly, we didn’t talk that much before he had to leave, but he was sweet, kind, funny, a good listener.” I noticed Kendra’s smug I-told-you-so expression. “Okay, okay! You were right! Kendra proves Annie wrong—you can check it off your bucket list now!”
Kendra slung her arm through mine. “I’m just happy for you, that’s all. What are you guys doing on your date?”
“He mentioned Splendor in the Grass playing at the park next week, and he suggested we go.”
“Sweet! I love Natalie Wood, but that movie’s total cuddle-and-make-out material. Just wear a dress no bigger than a postage stamp, and make sure you take a giant blanket for when it gets X-rated.”
“Your mind is in the gutter. I barely know him, Kendra. Let’s not get too carried away.”
As we walked toward the front door, Elsie gave me one last grimace and flounced off.
Kendra pouted. “Poor Elsie—did she get her feelings hurt? Gonna go drown her sorrows in a pint and a blow job?”
“Come on, Kendra. I mean, I told her off, but I feel kind of bad for her. The mean-rich-girl facade must get exhausting. Who knows what her family life’s like?”
“I personally couldn’t care less, Annie. She’s had her sights set on destroying you from day one, and my bestie’s enemy is my enemy.” Kendra gave me a mock salute of loyalty. “Damn, girl, I wish you would’ve texted me before telling her off—I would’ve given my left boob to see it.”
“Honestly, I don’t even remember what I said. It was very much a heat-of-the-moment thing. I don’t like getting angry—it makes me feel like an asshole.”
“No way, Annie, don’t apologize. I can see that the real you is starting to come out. You’re finally wielding your can of badass, and I, for one, couldn’t be happier.”
I laughed at Kendra’s description as we stepped outside. I breathed in a huge gulp of the crisp night air. I could hear the faint din of people’s voices and the thudding bass of dance music from the clubs and bars up the street. “Maybe you’re right, Kendra. Shrugging off Miss Nice Girl might be a rite of passage or something.”
“That’s the spirit. And will you at least let me buy you a celebratory cocktail? Getting Harrison Waters to ask you out within the first fifteen minutes of meeting him is no small feat. I can officially say that you, Annie Green, are one lucky slut.”
“I humbly bow to that distinction. And yeah, a cocktail doesn’t sound half bad.” In the back of my head, I was enumerating all the stuff I still had to do—study for midterms and finish my term paper on postwar art, to name just a couple—but I kept thinking back to what Harrison had said. “After all, Kendra, you only live once.”
Chapter Five
It was all I could do to keep my heart from jumping out of my chest, but Professor Claremont’s words were music to my ears.
“Quentin Pierce is going to be in town next week!”
She was unusually chipper as she spoke the words. Funnily enough, many of the students in the class—some of whom couldn’t care less about artists like Chagall or even Warhol—raised their heads from their desks and iPhones and started to mutter to each other excitedly.
“OMG, are you serious?” Kendra hissed next to me. I couldn’t help but smile. Despite the fact that Kendra wasn’t exactly up on the latest trends in the art world (and despite the fact that I admittedly wasn’t too keen on his work), just about everybody knew who Quentin Pierce was. A thirtysomething who’d taken the world by storm faster than Matthew Barney had in the early 2000s, Pierce was a multigenre artist who had achieved international stardom by doing ridiculously detailed drawings for famous DJs at music festivals around the world. He’d supposedly been fueled by LSD trips and torrid affairs with famous pop stars. He also happened to be extremely reclusive and was well known for his refusal to give interviews to anyone (except the occasional exclusive for some obscure high-school newspaper).
He was best known for his Masterpiece Hoax, a project in which he intentionally replicated famous masterpieces (the kind you might find hanging in the Louvre) through digital painting—and then tried to auction them off as the real thing. He succeeded with the first few paintings, until some art scholar confirmed they were all fakes, which was when Pierce revealed it was all a giant performance—some kind of commentary on the blurred lines between digital and nondigital art, I guess. I didn’t see what the big deal was, but it seemed to work on other people. In my mind, his art was abrasive and harsh, like an old Nintendo game that had fallen into a Salvador Dalí painting. But he was the most famous artist in, well, the world right now, so I was willing to forgo my druthers for the time being.
“For those of you who are not familiar with Quentin Pierce, he is one of our most important alumni in the arts department here at NYU,” Professor Claremont went on. “His style was generated from his fascination with dreams, esoteric knowledge, and contemporary cognitive-science theories—specifically with respect to the human brain and the way we communicate. Quentin’s work is a remarkable visual commentary on the mysteries of our world, so many of which remain hidden because they’re lodged in our consciousness, rather than in full view. But I digress.
“Quentin is one of my dearest friends and colleagues, and I am ecstatic to say he will be creating a retrospective on some of the most important and influential artists who created work here in New York City, with an emphasis on underground art and public art and the kinds of movements that are being seeded as we speak. However, he will not be doing this alone. Four lucky students of mine will be joining him in organizing this colossal event, which will be the first of its kind.”
“Say what?” Kendra whispered loudly. “I want in on that!”
“Shhh.” I nudged her, eager to hear more.
“Now, as you all know, I teach everyone from undergraduates to PhD candidates in art history, so there is going to be quite a bit of competition for these positions. The president of our school, as well as other prestigious alumni, will be closely involved. Our student curators will specifically be responsible for commissioning a series of new works by a small handful of up-and-coming artists in the community. These will be part of a permanent gallery in our department, as well as a sculpture garden on campus. Needless to say, it is an extremely rare and high-profile opportunity.”
The muttering in the room became louder.
“But Quentin isn’t interested in your experience or how many credentials you’ve racked up so far. He’s more interested in your ideas. Quentin asked me to select my best and brightest, those students who have a clear and prescient vision of the kind of art that is going to skyrocket us into the next century.”
I swear, Professor Claremont looked straight at me when she spoke her next words: “Which is why I’m extending the invitation to apply to all my students, especially my ambitious first-years.”
Then she broke eye contact and addressed the entire class. “Now, most of you who have any kind of background in the arts probably think it’s a world fraught with cronyism and arbitrary trends, but I believe that it is based first and foremost on vision—not simply the kind of vision required for an artist to be successful, but also the kind that a curator or artist representative must be gifted with. Because while the artist may obtain the bulk of the recognition, a curator who is truly excellent will be the one making the real waves and affecting history for decades to come.”
“Oh no, a speech. Kill me now—or, better yet, can we get back to Quentin?” Kendra said.
I ignored her and immediately shot up my hand. “Professor Claremont, what exactly do we have to do to apply? And when’s the deadline?”
People snickered at my enthusiasm, and my cheeks instantly heated. I slowly lowered my arm as Professor Claremont replied with a smile, “I was just getting around to that, Miss Green. All I need from any interested candidate is a one-page statement, no more and no less, telling me what you think is the most important collective contribution of New York artists a
nd what you conceive of when you think of the contributions of future artists in the community.”
I cringed. Why did Professor Claremont always focus so heavily on the future? When I thought of the future, all I could imagine were barren Martian landscapes and cold, empty space stations. Maybe I was old-fashioned at heart, but I would have much preferred to preserve the dying legacy of artists who weren’t cool enough to be taught in most college classes anymore.
My heart sank a bit as Professor Claremont went on with the details. From the buzz in the class, I could tell people were more than just a little excited. And why wouldn’t they be? This was less about making a name for themselves in the art world than it was about starfucking one of the biggest celebrities in modern history. I may have been ambitious, but I wasn’t about to sell out my passion for real art by hopping on the bandwagon of whatever seemed cool in the moment.
At the end of class, Kendra had already walked out the door when Elsie approached me, her eyes narrowed into cool blue slits. She almost looked like one of the angry urban goddesses Quentin Pierce drew.
“So, I bet you’re going to apply for the Quentin Pierce curatorship,” she said, her statement carrying the hint of a threat.
I definitely wasn’t a pushover, but my last experience with a bully had been when I was thirteen and Grace McGovern, the most popular girl in school, had decided to terrorize me for six months straight about my propensity for wearing slacks with a crease straight down each pant leg (courtesy of my mom). I had been stubborn about not buying into peer pressure, at least at first, but my general MO after that had been to try to stay as much on the down-low as possible, so as not to attract the attention of mean girls like Grace and Elsie.
“You’re never going to get it—you already know that, right?” Elsie snapped before I could say anything.
I gripped my book bag more tightly. I could stomach petty remarks and even unasked-for hostility, but one thing I couldn’t abide was a judgment about my ability to “get” something, especially if that something had anything to do with art.
“Not that your opinion matters, but what makes you think I can’t?” I asked breezily.
Elsie tossed back her pretty, asymmetrically cut hair and laughed. “Let’s face it, Blondie, Degas and Whistler may have gotten you gold stars back in Nebraska or whatever boondock hole you crawled out of, but you just don’t have what it takes to make Quentin Pierce’s shortlist. So, unless you want to be a complete laughingstock, I wouldn’t even bother trying.”
Before I could say anything, she flounced out of the classroom, skinny jeans, bad attitude, and all.
My senses were buzzing. Elsie had thrown down the gauntlet, and, as mousy as she might have thought I was, it was hard for me to refuse a good challenge—especially when it came to art.
Besides, nobody told Annie Green what she was or wasn’t capable of. I knew that a curatorship like this wasn’t about adhering to trends or creating reality TV–esque performance art—it was about solid knowledge of what made a work of art valuable and immortal. So, even if I had to muster up every last bit of interest I had, I was going to wax poetic and hand something convincing to Professor Claremont.
Why don’t college movies ever tell you this is what it’s like? I thought, as I headed out the door.
Kendra was waiting for me, a dubious look on her face. “Did something just happen? Tell me you didn’t get into it with Gothic Lolita. ’Cause if you did, I’ll kick her skinny little ass from here to Brooklyn, and I don’t want to ruin my pedicure.”
When I didn’t laugh, Kendra knew something was up. “Seriously, what happened?”
I sighed. “I’m applying for the Quentin Pierce curator position.”
Kendra raised one perfect eyebrow. “Pourquoi? I mean, I think it’s awesome news, but I could tell you totally lost interest when Claremont said the word that shan’t be said—‘future,’ that is. You’re not into his stuff, so why do you care?”
“Because Gothic Lolita added an extra throwdown by emphasizing that hell will freeze over before I’m seen as a serious candidate.”
Kendra snorted. “Bitch might have some street cred on the Upper East Side, and I may not know art, but believe you me, I know what makes for good press. Trust me, you’ve got this, baby.”
I frowned. “How can you be so sure?”
She linked her arm in mine and smiled sweetly. “Because I believe in you. And because we’ll take your Cinderella story and make it golden.”
“Wait—what Cinderella story?”
“Trust me on this, Annie.”
I had no idea how I was going to pull off getting the curatorship, especially since Professor Claremont had been clear about where our personal tastes diverged. But this was New York, the city of dreams coming true. If it could happen to gutter punks like Chase Adams, why not for Annie Green?
Chapter Six
“Do you see him, Annie? Well, do you?”
“Kendra, can you please keep your voice down?”
Kendra gave me a conciliatory pat and looked around, searching for our man of the hour. “Annie, you know he’ll be mobbed the second he steps in here. I mean, look at these people! Money-grubbing fame wannabes, with a few important high rollers thrown in for good measure.”
I looked around. If I’d felt out of place at Harrison’s party, I was definitely a fish out of water here. We were at a wine-and-cheese reception at some fancy SoHo gallery (so fancy, in fact, it didn’t have a name or a marquee, just a posh warehouse space with exposed ceilings and giant bay windows), and it was in honor of none other than Quentin Pierce. He hadn’t actually created much new “art,” since he’d been busy shooting music videos in Los Angeles with acts like Radiohead and Nicki Minaj. But word had gotten around he was back in town for the NYU retrospective, so his old art friends—along with wealthy patrons and major press, like the New Yorker and the New York Times—hadn’t hesitated to hit him up.
Kendra and I were in an ocean of beautiful people and those who were clearly just there to see and be seen. (Apparently, there were movie stars in tow.) But Quentin Pierce was nowhere to be found.
“This is stupid, Kendra. This guy’s a douche bag. He probably won’t even show up, just to make some kind of antiestablishment statement—pretty lame, considering he’s such a vital part of the system he’s attempting to undermine.”
“Hey, don’t knock the system! BTW, movie and rock gods wouldn’t exist if the little people didn’t need stars to worship! Besides, you’re shit-talking my area of expertise,” Kendra exclaimed. “Not to mention you’re supposed to be letting Professor Claremont know you are now officially schooled on the fine line between highbrow and lowbrow. I don’t know how you hope to get this curatorship if you don’t even like the artist you’ll be working for.”
I had to admit she had a point. And from what I could see, even if Professor Claremont had hinted I was in the running (as one of her “ambitious” first-year students), I still felt like I was a ways off from impressing upon her just how much I deserved the curatorship.
Actually, it had been Professor Claremont who’d suggested just a couple days earlier that the students of her Art 101 class check out the exhibit that Kendra and I were currently at. It wasn’t open to the public, but the first ten people to express interest could get on the guest list, considering that she and Quentin were such good friends.
As soon as the announcement was made, Kendra (who refrained from sitting next to me whenever Yannis Papadapoulos, a sexy foreign-exchange student who could barely speak English, decided to remember to show up to class) texted me: “LET’S GET IN ON THIS, OK?”
I looked over at Elsie, who was probably scheming about ways to bar my passage, given that everyone knew we were head-to-head in this competition. Elsie wasn’t paying attention to me, however, and had a characteristic frown on her pretty face. She raised her hand and said, “Professor Claremont?”
“Yes, Miss Donegan?”
“I’m not going to be
able to make the show if it’s in a couple days, because I have a family function to attend. Do you know if there will be other opportunities to meet Quentin, or at least to get some sort of insight into his presence in the local scene? I’d really prefer to hear it from the horse’s mouth, if you know what I’m saying.”
I looked down at my phone. Another text from Kendra: “PRETTY FUNNY COMING FROM A HORSE’S ASS!”
I put my hand over my mouth to suppress a giggle. But I had to hand it to Elsie. Her sense of entitlement had reached a new high (or low, depending on who was judging).
Professor Claremont smiled—a little too tightly, I thought. I was pretty sure that as ignorant as I sometimes came across as, Elsie’s whiny and demanding attitude wasn’t scoring her too many points with Professor Claremont, either. “Don’t worry, Elsie, going to the show isn’t going to give you a leg up on the competition. And you won’t be getting extra credit for going—it’s just a suggestion I’m delivering in a very voluble tone, given how much I love Quentin’s work. Also, I’m not entirely sure if Quentin will be there, since I know he’s finishing up some work on the West Coast and I haven’t been able to confirm with him.”
From the looks of it in the warehouse, Quentin had decided to pass up the wine and cheese in favor of Justin Bieber, Lady Gaga, or whatever celebrity’s image was in need of some avant-garde jazzing up these days. More and more people were streaming through the doors, but I didn’t spot Quentin (although the only photographs I’d actually ever seen of him pictured him in such ostentatious outfits and out-there haircuts that I wasn’t sure I would have recognized him had he walked right up to me; style-wise, he was about as versatile as a chameleon on speed). I almost wished Elsie were here—it would have been morbidly satisfying to watch her brown-nose the people she actually did know.
So Damn Beautiful (A New Adult Romance) Page 5
