So Damn Beautiful (A New Adult Romance)

by L. J. Kennedy

  “I know where I fit in this world! I’m the beautifier!” I said out loud. Kendra snored a little bit louder, and this time, it was music to my ears.

  Beauty was such a retro concept in art that it simply had to come back around sometime soon. And I would be just the person to resurrect it. I thought of all the public beautification projects in cities around the world, which were meant to transform urban eyesores into spaces of contemplation—what if we could do something like that with Quentin’s exhibit?

  “My name is Annie Green, and I believe that the best kind of art has the ability to turn heads, change minds, and heal hearts,” I typed furiously on my laptop, determined to show Professor Claremont that I meant business.

  Chapter Eight

  My heart pounded with anticipation. A week had passed since I’d turned in my proposal, and today was the day Professor Claremont would announce (in class, no less) the recipients of the Quentin Pierce curatorship.

  “Hurry, Kendra.” I grabbed her arm as we sped through the Barney Building. “I need to make sure I’m there when she makes the announcement.”

  “If you miss it, I’m sure you can ask her to repeat it,” Kendra replied grumpily. She was a little sore at me because I hadn’t let her finish her brown-rice-seaweed-tempeh bowl at the raw-food spot, which reminded her of California. I had taken my lettuce wrap to go, because I couldn’t be late for what was probably going to be the deciding moment of my college career.

  “Repeat it? It’s never as good as the first time, silly,” I lectured her.

  “Now, that is an utter lie,” Kendra quipped.

  We entered the classroom, which was filled mostly with bored students messing around with apps on their iPhones and a handful of bright-eyed, bushy-tailed young scholars who actually realized how momentous the occasion was. I sat in the second row and pulled Kendra down next to me.

  “Seriously? I can hear from the back, Annie. Yannis is here today, and I wanna ask him about where he thinks I can get the best souvlaki. I’ve had the most gnarly craving for Greek—in more than one way,” she said mournfully.

  “Kendra, please! I need you. If she says I’m one of the winners, I’ll fall out of my seat. . . . On second thought, if she says I’m not one of the winners, I’ll fall out of my seat.”

  Kendra rolled her eyes. “Damage control—I got it. But you owe me for this! For all I know, Yannis isn’t coming back.”

  I grinned at her. “The only reason he even comes to class is you. You should just ask him out already.”

  Kendra gave me a you-must-be-crazy look. “Listen, I believe in the women’s movement and all, but Greeks are very binary when it comes to who’s doing the asking out. It ain’t gonna be me, that’s for sure. If he thinks I’m that bold, he’ll be running in the opposite direction—then I’ll never get the scoop on the best souvlaki!”

  “But you are that bold, Kendra.”

  “Maybe so, but I still want to be treated like a lady—a knock on the door, some roses, and maybe a candlelit dinner.”

  I smiled at my friend. As social and beautiful as Kendra was, she didn’t seem to be making any headway as far as romantic connections went. It probably didn’t help that she was überpicky. As she’d already told me, “I want a guy with the hair of Brad Pitt, the eyes of Elijah Wood, the ass of George Clooney, the wit of Louis C.K., the empathy of Bono, and the quirkiness of James Franco. Oh, and he has to cook like a mofo. And he definitely needs to be able to name all the Kardashians, boys included. And his parents need to still be married . . . aww, don’t give me those puppy eyes, Annie. I’m not looking down on you for coming from a broken home, but everyone knows that boys raised by single moms suffer from that shit more—not to mention, they become players. And I’m not even entertaining that after what went down between Alex Figueroa and me junior year of high school.”

  I almost felt bad about the connection I’d made with Harrison, but Kendra had already assured me that he was out of the running when she found out his family wasn’t in entertainment after all. “I’m not into the preppy guys, and the tobacco thing felt a little too Dynasty for me,” she’d said.

  I frowned when I thought about Harrison. It had been a week, and I hadn’t heard from him yet. Perhaps Elsie had poisoned the Waters by talking smack about me. I wouldn’t have put it past her. I glanced across the aisle at where she was sitting, eyes glued to Professor Claremont, who was sorting through a stack of papers. Apparently, Elsie was just as eager to hear the news as I was.

  At that moment, Professor Claremont walked in the room and faced forward, beaming at the class. “Good afternoon, everyone. I’m pleased to say you all did very well on your last response papers, on minimalism and Fluxus. I’m so glad to see this, because if you are interested in furthering your studies in contemporary art, these movements form a vital backbone of our understanding of how artists’ new ways of seeing things led to everything from the clothes we wear today to the way we interact with digital media.”

  “Don’t you hate how much she loves what she teaches?” Kendra muttered next to me.

  “Shhhh,” I whispered back.

  “But now we get to the good part,” Professor Claremont pronounced. Thank goodness she wasn’t waiting until the end of class to tell us!

  “As I mentioned not long ago, I have four students who have been selected for the task of cocurating an exhibit of contemporary New York City movements, under the close guidance and mentorship of Quentin Pierce,” she said. “I am pleased to announce that two students from this very class have been chosen, along with two of my graduate students.”

  My eyes widened. I hadn’t imagined there would actually be two freshmen on the curating committee. Aside from a couple of design majors who knew pop art from A to Z, I couldn’t think of many freshmen who were remotely qualified to produce an exhibit that was likely to garner a ton of attention.

  I sighed to myself. Perhaps what I lacked in experience, I could make up for in pure enthusiasm. At least, that’s what I hoped my paper had evoked for Professor Claremont.

  “The two freshmen who will sit on the curating committee for Quentin Pierce are . . .” She paused dramatically. “Elsie Donegan and Annie Green!”

  A murmur of excitement went through the class, and Kendra turned to me to give me a high five. “Girl, you are on fi-yah! I knew you would nail this!”

  I beamed, but the smile felt frozen on my face. It was like everything on the surface had stilled to a slow-motion blur, similar to the moments in movies where the protagonist reaches a turning point. Underneath, a chaotic flood of emotions surged through me: astonishment, bliss, panic, and relief.

  “Congratulations, Elsie—your comprehensive knowledge of the current artistic climate of New York is staggering and impressive.” Elsie gave a satisfied nod, as if to say, That’s what I thought.

  “And Annie.” Professor Claremont turned to me, an inscrutable smile on her lips. “Your essay on the ability of art to transform the way we view our urban surroundings was inspiring and innovative. I am sure that, together, you will both make Quentin very proud. I know this is last-minute, but the first committee meeting will be this evening. I’ll give you both details after class. Congratulations once again, you two!”

  As other students turned around to congratulate me, my eye caught Elsie’s. She looked simultaneously horrified and livid.

  “Check out Miss Thang,” Kendra whispered. “She looks like a bug just crawled up her cooch! Are you loving this as much as I am?”

  I resolved to put Elsie out of my mind at once. If we were going to be working with two other committee members, I didn’t see any need to get enmeshed in some kind of rivalry. It was a group effort, after all, so she was going to have to learn to live with it.

  I barely paid attention to Professor Claremont’s lecture that afternoon. My thoughts were too busy ricocheting off each other. What was Quentin Pierce actually like? What would putting together a show in a little over a month entail? What kind of ar
tists would I be meeting? How would I meet them? If I was supposed to commission a piece by someone, how would I even begin to choose?

  I have definitely got my work cut out for me, I thought.

  After class, Professor Claremont stopped Elsie and me to let us know the first meeting would be early that evening, on the fortieth floor of an office building just outside Grand Central Station, where Quentin had set up shop specifically for the committee members. “I’m not sure if Quentin will be at this first one, though,” she said apologetically. “He’s been extraordinarily busy . . . and, well, a little difficult to get in touch with. But I know he’s very excited about the show and he’s going to appreciate both of your insights.”

  At that point, Elsie was pretty much ignoring my presence, which was fine with me. “He’s not going to be there, Professor Claremont? But I thought he was supposed to mentor us throughout this process. Isn’t it negligent of him to miss the first meeting?”

  I had to admit I agreed. After Quentin had pulled a no-show at the wine-and-cheese reception, my opinion of him had plummeted further. If he was organizing this event by casting an absentee ballot, I didn’t see how I’d be able to get in his good graces.

  “I understand what you are saying, Elsie, and while I cannot make any promises about Quentin’s involvement, I know he is putting a substantial amount of time and resources into this show, so please rest assured—even if he isn’t at the first meeting, he will be at subsequent ones. And while I myself will not be part of the process of selection, if at any point you need my advice, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  Elsie muttered an unconvincing thanks and stalked off without a backward glance at me.

  “I just wanted to reiterate how proud I am of you, Annie,” Professor Claremont said when we were alone.

  It felt good to finally receive some positive acknowledgment, especially after having convinced myself that she hated me, that I’d proven to be way too headstrong and maybe slightly ignorant.

  “I feel incredibly honored to have been chosen, so I guess I should be the one thanking you, Professor!” I said, suddenly feeling a little starstruck and awkward.

  “I have to admit I was a little gun-shy at first, Annie,” she said, leaning toward me as if she were spilling something completely confidential. “You clearly have the grades and the passion, but I didn’t know if you had the sense of dedication to the moment, to the very specific milieu we are in. I respect the masters as much as anyone, but romanticizing the past doesn’t leave room for contemplating the future. Your words about current municipal efforts to beautify public spaces, along with your own story about the renovated house, were very touching. And I agree that art should transform us while also making us feel perfectly at home right where we are.”

  “I-I’m so glad. I wasn’t sure you’d agree, considering this is Quentin Pierce’s show,” I said—covering my mouth only after I had realized my faux pas. I had essentially criticized Professor Claremont’s good friend and favorite artist right after getting selected to curate his exhibit. Damn it, Annie. Foot . . . mouth . . . ugh! I admonished myself.

  But she just smiled. “You know, while you may not appreciate Quentin’s oeuvre, he’s touched a lot of lives and made many a high-school student rethink tossing out notebooks full of sketches. If that’s not beautiful, I don’t know what is.” She packed the last of her papers and put them in her bag. “Something to think about, Annie.”

  “I will definitely be thinking, Professor Claremont. And thank you so much, once again!” I called out after her.

  I closed my eyes and put my hand on my forehead. I had to cool it with running my mouth, especially if I were to win Quentin over.

  At that moment, I felt my phone vibrate in my bag and, when I reached over to collect it, saw that I’d received a text from a number I didn’t recognize: “Hi Annie, sory I didnt get in touch earler. Are u still up for movie? turns out its tmw so I hope u havnt made plans yet. I can pick u up around 7. let me know. It would be great to see u.”

  Could the day get any better? First the curatorship, and now a text from Harrison. I was used to college boys being completely flaky (maybe due to the overstimulation of living in a city with the hottest girls in the world, meaning the guys weren’t limited to the coed population), but I had a hunch Harrison was different—even if his text-speak was just as atrocious as the next guy’s and he was assuming I didn’t have plans for a Friday night.

  But, to be fair, I didn’t.

  I hesitated before responding. He was, after all, still Elsie’s cousin.

  I thought about what Kendra would say. Probably something like, “Um, hello! That’s all the more reason to rub it in her face and go out with the guy.”

  And, of course, she would have a pretty solid point.

  I texted back, “I would love to go out with you, Harrison. And 7 p.m. is perfect. I’ll see you then.”

  Screw Elsie, I thought. I was happier than I’d been in a long time, and I wasn’t going to let her petty vendetta deflate my happy bubble. I had won the curatorship, fair and square, and now I was on my way to organizing what was arguably the highest-profile art event of the year—and if things went well with Harrison, maybe he’d be my date to the opening. There was no friggin’ way Elsie could knock me off my cloud.

  Chapter Nine

  “Wait, let me make sure I heard that right. You’re assigning me to commission a piece of street art?”

  Claudia Vail—Quentin’s lovely, svelte, and exotic assistant—looked at me with a mixture of annoyance and surprise. It was the first committee meeting, and we were in the cushy environs of our fortieth-floor office space, tucked away in an enormous old building close to Grand Central Station. The outside was stately and illustrious—all stone gargoyles and bronze statues of Greek gods—but the inside was posh and modern. Our space was sleek and full of chairs and tables that looked like they were straight out of a modern designer’s showroom. The artwork was sparse, ranging from translucent eggs on mini-pedestals to giant, monochromatic canvases.

  If the space made me feel a little nervous and out of my element, upon Claudia’s mention of what each of the four committee members would be put to work on, my impulse control was shot.

  “Yes, you heard right, Annie—you are going to be working on street art, according to Quentin’s notes.” At that, she scrolled through an indecipherable PowerPoint presentation on her laptop and nodded in confirmation.

  Street art was encompassed by the likes of Chase Adams. Dark. Mysterious. Dangerous. I didn’t understand it—or like it—at all. I was a good girl from the Midwest, so how in the world would I encapsulate it, not to mention be its champion in the most important moment in my professional life so far?

  The room suddenly felt very warm. Was I going to faint?

  “Speaking of Quentin, where is he?” one of the grad students, Hayden Brooks, said with a note of consternation in her voice as she pushed her tortoiseshell glasses up her nose. “I was under the impression he’d be here.”

  “That was exactly what I said,” Elsie noted, blowing her bangs out of her face and crossing her arms across her chest.

  Claudia was poker-faced. I wondered what she had done to land her job, which many a ladder-climbing art hound would have killed to have. She was only a few years older than we were—maybe twenty-five or twenty-six at most—but with her pin-striped pencil skirt, tailored white blouse, and silky black hair pulled into a bun, she looked like the executive director of some multibillion-dollar corporation—that is, if the corporation were run by models. I didn’t begrudge her the task of heading the committee, however, which was clearly what she would be doing. I didn’t know what exactly she did to assist Quentin, but, given her drill-sergeant sense of orderliness (forms for all of us to fill out, as well as a set-in-stone schedule of delivery dates and events and lectures that would supplement the main exhibit), I figured we were probably in good hands.

  In a clipped voice, she said, “Quentin will be c
hecking in throughout the process, so you can cool your jets, if you please. He is going to be extremely occupied with his end of the show, which is organizing a series that includes both his work and original, never-before-seen pieces by a plethora of respected New York artists, alive and dead. That said, we have a wonderful advisory team of professors, professional curators, and artists who can address any questions you have. And, of course”—and at this she gave us a somewhat forced smile—“you have me. I’ve been Quentin’s eyes and ears on the art scene for seven years now, and I know the contents of his brain just as intimately as my own—so if you have any questions that are specifically for him, I am ninety-nine percent sure I’ll be able to answer them.”

  “Th-then why, exactly, have I been assigned to commission a work of street art?” I asked, somewhat hesitantly, in light of Claudia’s no-nonsense demeanor.

  “Well, because we are commissioning exactly four pieces of art, based on distinct themes. Elsie, given your connections, you’ll be commissioning a commemorative piece—meaning you will find an artist who will create a new work that draws upon the legacy of prominent New York art movements and artists. In other words, something that bridges the past with the future in a seamless way. Hayden, architecture’s really hot right now, so you’ll work with an artist on creating a work of art that will double as a physical monument that represents New York’s place in the art world. Think of the pyramids or the Empire State Building—the more iconic, the better. It will be a sculptural piece that lets us know exactly what god it was built to honor: the god of a new era of art! And, Shawn, you’ll be commissioning a piece that is completely futuristic, like something we’ve never before seen—a piece that captures the changing landscape of our culture and technology.”

  Shawn Pratt, a somewhat stoned-looking guy with a thick beard, a fedora, and a T-shirt emblazoned with the words SUBVERT THE DOMINANT PARADIGM, just nodded and began to take notes on his phone.

  “But . . .” I cleared my throat as everyone looked at me. “I guess it makes sense you’d assign everyone else what you did, based on their interests. I just don’t understand why I’m getting street art. I mean, can’t I do something with, like, botany? You know, the move toward sustainability and green urban spaces is really huge right now.”