I looked at Chase, who was frowning.
“After all these years, the asshole still can’t admit what he did, what he took from me,” he said, shaking his head.
“Chase, it’s not worth it—he’s never going to be able to admit what he did, but at least people still heard. And at least we still have a chance to let them know who he really is.”
I walked boldly over to the mic on the makeshift stage before Chase could respond. Chase, who was known for being a hothead, might not have his accusations taken seriously, but perhaps this was one instance where people would be more likely to listen to an innocent-looking, doe-eyed midwestern girl.
I grabbed the mic. “Excuse me, everyone, I just wanted to introduce myself. My name is Annie Green, and I am one of the student curators for the New New York show.” The sculpture garden exploded in applause, much to my relief. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. I didn’t know what I was going to say, but I knew this was my only chance.
The garden fell into silence as I launched into my speech. “I’m a freshman art-history major, and I grew up in the Midwest, so I was like a kid in a candy store when I got here. I’d always loved art, but I realized I didn’t know all there was to know about some of the most important art movements in modern history, many of which started right in our own backyard. I’ve been privileged to become acquainted with the work of luminaries like Andy Warhol, Diane Arbus, and Keith Haring—all of whom worked in dramatically different artistic vocabularies, but all of whom left an indelible imprint on this city and, in fact, the rest of the world.”
I looked over at Quentin, who was seething silently in the audience. “And then there is Quentin Pierce, possibly the most famous artist in the world. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be standing here. He is the one who put his faith in a handful of students to commission new works by up-and-coming artists, so let’s give him a round of applause.”
People began to clap enthusiastically, and I continued. “Thanks to Quentin, I’ve seen a side of the New York art scene I’d never known existed—a side I have discovered is ugly, venal, pretentious, and empty.” A buzz of astonishment went through the audience.
“Yes, Quentin Pierce has fame, and he has notoriety, but has he really made a significant piece of art since he came into the public eye five years ago? Five years ago, when he usurped the Street Is Life series that was conceived of by then-fifteen-year-old Chase Adams . . . and passed off the work as his own?”
The crowd went crazy. “Oh my God, I remember that series! I think I bought one of the pieces!” a heavyset woman near me exclaimed.
Quentin was gesturing to someone to cut the sound system to keep me from going on, but as security officers lunged toward me, they were intercepted by a small mob of angry guests, who managed to keep them at bay. “Let her speak!”
I took a deep breath, and although my heart was beating, the look of pure adoration in Chase’s eyes kept me strong and steady. “In the process of working on this project with Chase Adams, I’ve learned a lot of things. I’ve learned about honor, integrity, passion, and the willingness to risk your life for your art. I’ve learned that truly innovative, mind-blowing art isn’t emerging from the places you’d expect—it isn’t coming from the scene of self-constructed mystery and exclusivity that Quentin Pierce has extolled for years. No. It is instead coming right from these streets, from the places Mr. Pierce has paid plenty of lip service to but from which he ran far, far away without looking back.”
I looked at Chase as I spoke my next words. “I’ve learned that New York City is a wonderland. It’s vibrant and full of places of hidden beauty—beauty that gets straight to the heart of why this is such a magical place and people like me are drawn from far and wide. We just don’t stop to recognize that the real beauty isn’t in the spectacles that people like Mr. Pierce provide; it’s in the stuff we ignore or take for granted or malign altogether because the letter of the law tells us to.
“People like Chase and his crew have no incentive for fame. Many of these artists don’t come from money, and they won’t be making a small fortune from their work anytime soon. They do it simply for the love of it. And they live by a code of honor we don’t often experience in our day-to-day lives, a code that is about loyalty and cooperation, not competition and backbiting. You can take a walk through Chelsea or go uptown if you want more of the stuff that galleries are filling up with. In fact, there are many pieces that take the language of graffiti and try to call it their own.
“But the truth is, when Mr. Pierce and other artists borrow and steal from the ones who are actually out on the line and making art that stands the risk of getting them arrested, they are making a mockery of this work. They are taking this work out of context. Moreover, they are removing it from the magic of its origins, from the concealed alleyways and crumbling sidewalks of the most beautiful city in the world.” I smiled at Chase. “Thanks, Chase Adams, for keeping it real, for showing me that the streets are where it’s at. The real New York City cannot be contained in a gallery, and this is what I hope Chase’s piece, which he has so generously contributed, reveals.”
A deafening roar of applause practically swept me off the stage. Chase walked over immediately and whisked me into his strong arms.
“Holy hell, Annie,” he said, his voice shaky with astonishment and reverence. “You were magnificent!”
“Didn’t think I had it in me, did you?” I smiled.
“Of course I did! I just didn’t think your brilliance would be wasted on a defense of Chase Adams.”
I kissed him softly. “It wasn’t a defense of Chase Adams, babe. It was a defense of the truth.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a chagrined-looking Elsie standing alone. Although swarms of reporters were beginning to gather around me, I knew I had to say something to her.
She looked shocked as I approached, but before she could say anything, I gave her an enormous hug. “I just want you to know we’re not in competition. Any internship that’s out there is yours. I don’t want it anymore. I’m not sure I ever did.” I glanced back at Chase. “I have something real, something beautiful. There’s no way in hell I’ll let another institution take that away from me.”
Elsie was so flustered and amazed that she didn’t even pull away. When I stepped back, she simply stared at me, a flustered look on her face, before storming off toward the exit.
I looked after her for a few moments. It wasn’t like I thought this would actually break our feud, but I hoped it would result in some kind of truce.
I walked back to Chase. I didn’t know how long we had before Quentin broke up our happy party, but I figured we might as well take advantage of all the photographers and reporters clamoring for sound bites. I had no interest in adding more sensationalism to the mix, but if I had a chance to tell the truth and redeem Chase, I was definitely taking it.
Chase grabbed my hand and squeezed tightly. “Thank you,” he mouthed, but the look in his eyes was more than sufficient for me.
“So, Annie, tell us how you and Chase met,” one of the reporters piped up.
I laughed. “Let’s stick to talking about Chase’s art,” I said. I looked over at Chase and smiled. It was hard to believe that the events of the last few weeks had brought us to this night. It was hard to believe that through all the minor and major skirmishes, we’d emerged—if not wiser, then at the very least with a hell of a story to tell.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Wherever I went the following week, I could see people staring at me, trying to be subtle about it but failing. Some of them were people who I didn’t even think were NYU students, so the Quentin opening had clearly made quite a splash in the larger community. I couldn’t tell whether or not their glances were admiring or envious, and frankly, I didn’t care. The extensiveness of the press coverage made me want to put on a trench coat and giant sunglasses and remain incognito for at least the next several months. While I was loath to check out the dozens of a
rt and fashion blogs and magazines that had caught wind of the Quentin-Chase showdown and my part in it, Kendra was more than happy to draw attention to my newfound celebrity.
“Yeah, that’s right, people, eat your heart out!” she’d practically screamed through a megaphone when curious passersby had first stopped to size me up and whisper. “This is the woman who won the heart of Chase Adams and smacked down the heterosexist-white-male fiefdom of Quentin Pierce! Recognize!”
I’d laughed despite myself. “Heterosexist-white-male fiefdom?”
She’d shrugged. “So sue me! Women’s Studies 101 is one of the only classes I’m taking this semester that doesn’t make my eyes glaze over. Professor Claremont should be taking notes.”
I frowned when I thought about Professor Claremont. She’d canceled her undergraduate classes that week for reasons unknown, but apparently she was still holding office hours. As I made my way over to her office, tucked into a quiet spot of the Barney Building, I wondered what I could possibly say to salvage the last threads of my reputation. My speech had flown in the face of everything I’d once believed about the art world, but on some level, it was a testament to everything I had learned from Professor Claremont: the importance and value of critical thinking; the ability to look at art through a larger historical context, as well as a perspective that engaged your personal values; and, above all, integrity.
While I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to get from seeing her, I knew that I wanted to offer some kind of explanation for what had happened—especially since she’d been the primary drive for Quentin Pierce to do the show to begin with. If I’d made a spectacle of myself, for good or bad, I hated to think Professor Claremont might suffer the fallout.
When I found her in her office, poring over some files, I noted that she looked a little harried. All the same, she smiled at me when she saw me.
“Well, if it isn’t the famous Annie Green. What a delightful surprise,” she said. Nothing about her statement reeked of sarcasm, but I still felt a little guarded when she motioned me in to have a seat.
“Professor, I just wanted to explain a few things to you . . .” My words trailed off as she gazed at me expectantly, but I suddenly felt self-conscious and inarticulate. “I know you and Quentin were really good friends, and I would never . . . I just want to make sure we’re cool.”
She smiled, although I kicked myself inwardly for that vapid peace offering. “Funny, in my fifteen years teaching, I’ve never had a student check in with me to see if we’re ‘cool.’”
“I’m sorry, what I meant to say was—”
She interrupted me by putting her hand up and closing her eyes. “No, Annie. It’s okay. You really don’t have to explain yourself. You have no idea how many students walk through these doors feeling like they have to apologize for being passionate about something, or for having an opinion that clashes with institutionally accepted facts.” She smiled at me warmly. “That’s why I’ve always admired your spirit, Annie. You came into my classroom and I recognized you at once—everything about you was like an open book. You were so receptive to learning, but never at the expense of what you knew to be true.”
“You . . . recognized me?”
“You reminded me of myself when I was younger. Believe it or not, I also grew up in a small town, and even though I was all over art, I didn’t have the first clue about what it took to succeed as an art historian or critic. So my patience and my intellect were tested quite a bit when I got to New York, and I ended up growing well outside that safe little potted-plant container I’d been so accustomed to inhabiting. But you know what I realized?”
“What?”
“It wasn’t just because of the opportunities I had that I progressed so much. It was because I forced myself to be so open, to the extent that these fixed ideas I had about life, about the world, were completely transformed.” She laughed. “It’s crazy how stubborn eighteen-year-olds can be, isn’t it? But I always saw that same receptivity, paired with hard-nosed wisdom, in you. It’s what makes you such a great asset. It’s what made you such a phenomenal addition to Quentin’s committee.”
I was astonished to hear her say so. “Are you kidding me?” I blurted out. “I completely failed.” I wasn’t feeling sorry for myself—I was simply parroting what had to be the general consensus about the evening, outside the enclaves of people who’d latched on to the story because they thought Chase and I were a hot-ticket item.
She shook her head, her eyes completely serious. “Don’t ever think that, Annie. People are still talking about you, and it’s not because you were wearing photograph-worthy shoes. It’s because you had something important to say, not just more of the cliché drivel this world has taken for holy writ. In fact, you still stand a very good chance of landing the Le Chevalier internship.”
I looked into my lap. The Le Chevalier internship at the Metropolitan Museum of Art was highly prestigious, and it was given to one New York–based college student every year. Quentin Pierce also happened to be on the jury. “No,” I said, feeling defeated at the very thought of the thing that, less than a month ago, had been my sole aim in life. “There’s no way. Not with Quentin on the jury.”
An indecipherable look came over Professor Claremont’s pretty features. She stiffly said, “Actually, Quentin has stepped down from his post on the jury.” She nodded when she took in my shocked face. “This recent retrospective was a success, but the university trustees were scandalized by Chase Adams’s allegations against Quentin. And they’re the ones who cofund the Le Chevalier internship.”
“Oh,” I said, not knowing what else to offer. “You know, Quentin was barely around to offer supervision on the pieces in the sculpture garden. He didn’t really know what was going to happen.”
“Maybe that’s the problem,” Professor Claremont sighed. “You kids did a fine job with the whole thing—don’t get me wrong. But perhaps if Quentin wasn’t so busy stroking the egos of Hollywood moguls, he could have been more in touch with what was happening right in his old backyard.” She pursed her lips, and I could tell she was willing herself not to say anything more about Quentin.
“I’m sorry, Professor. I know he was a good friend of yours,” I said awkwardly.
She gave me a somewhat cynical grin. “Still is. We go way back, you know. And I love Quentin, but sometimes his methods are questionable.” She sighed. “It’s a complex world, Annie. One doesn’t always realize the importance of little decisions they made many years ago. Maybe Quentin will, someday. Maybe he won’t.”
My throat tightened a little bit. “I realize that . . . but all the same, I think while some decisions might not be easy, they’re the obvious ones. The right ones. I didn’t think I’d end up making that speech Saturday night, but it was the right thing to do.”
She studied me for a moment. “You really could have the Le Chevalier, you know. Hell, I’d write a letter of recommendation and hand-deliver it if you wanted me to.”
I put my hands together in a gesture of appreciation. “Thank you so much, Professor. But honestly, I’m not sure I want it.”
“Are you sure? This could be the proverbial feather in your cap.”
“I don’t know—I was thinking about working with a program that promotes street art in the community, maybe even teaches kids how to unleash their own creative minds on walls and sidewalks.” Chase and I had talked about starting our own organization for at-risk kids. It was probably something that was far off in the future, but it still sparked my imagination and made me smile when I thought about it.
Professor Claremont shook her head in impressed disbelief. “You’ve changed so much, Annie.”
I blushed. “Well, yes and no. I mean, I still love art. It’s just . . . different now.”
She gave me a look of conspiratorial glee. “Chase Adams, right? I heard you two have been . . . er, enjoying each other’s company.”
I winced to think that my professor had bought into the tabloid gossip. “Rumo
rs sure get around, don’t they?”
She smiled. “I’m Internet-immune, actually. Ms. Blake is a good friend of mine. She’s the one who told me about it.”
I’d almost forgotten I’d spilled the beans to Ms. Blake a week or so ago, when I’d visited her to get some advice on classes to select for next semester, now that I wasn’t 100 percent positive I’d be doing the curator track. She hadn’t said much, but her taciturn responses had made me reveal more than I’d normally be comfortable with, if only to get her to understand why I was changing route midstream.
She’d only shrugged. “What you do is your business, Ms. Green. After all, college is where you let down your hair and dare to experiment.”
All the same, I didn’t want Professor Claremont to think Chase was my only impetus for wanting to explore other options. “Chase is great, but he’s just one of many factors that have made me realize there’s probably a lot more to life than those aspirations I came to NYU with,” I said.
“I can respect that,” Professor Claremont responded. “But still, if you ever change your mind . . .”
When I walked out of her office, I felt relieved that I had the support of the one person in the art world whose opinions actually mattered to me. I was grateful for Professor Claremont, but I still felt somewhat affected by the look of sadness and dismay in her eyes when she had spoken of Quentin Pierce. I know she’d trusted and believed in her friend, but perhaps, no matter how seasoned you were in this business, disappointment was par for the course.
The air was filled with anticipation and uncertainty as I stepped outside into the slightly overcast December afternoon. Chase was already waiting for me. I grinned as I walked up to him, and he enveloped me in a giant bear hug. I breathed in his scent deeply and stood in his embrace for several long moments. I could feel the eyes of passersby boring into us, and I could hear their agitated murmurs of recognition. But for now, our attention was focused solely on each other. I tousled Chase’s dark hair and touched my nose to his.
So Damn Beautiful (A New Adult Romance) Page 30
