Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
“As I said yesterday, I’ve passed on your message to the team.”
I have a feeling “the team” is the trash can under her desk, so Friday morning, I decide to march down to their gallery on 22nd Street and try to speak to someone directly. I have a few of my sketches with me as well as small canvases and a typed overview of what I plan to do for the series. I assume it’s a good place to start.
I am wrong.
To my credit, I do make it up past the gallery and into their offices on the second floor of the building. There, I’m told to sit. I don’t have an appointment—something they find very annoying—and I try to explain that I tried to get an appointment, but my complaint falls on deaf ears.
I sit there for two hours and forty-three minutes as people pass in front of me without a second thought. Then finally, a young woman steps out of an office, glances back and forth down the hall, and rolls her eyes.
“Oh fine, I’ll deal with her,” she says, walking directly toward me with no embarrassment whatsoever about what she’s just said out loud for me to hear.
When she stops in front of me, I shoot to my feet and introduce myself.
She nods curtly, responding to my greeting with only her name: “Beth.” Then she waves for me to give her my large black portfolio. “Let me see.”
I hand it over hastily and she drops it onto the coffee table, right in the middle of the reception area, and starts to flip through my sketches. She makes soft sounds under her breath, hums of interest, grunts of disappointment. I don’t know how she could possibly be looking everything over that fast. Surely, she needs some time to really consider what I’m presenting to her.
“My goal for the series is to take popular modern-born techniques and—”
“Right. Okay,” she says, cutting me off. “I see what you’re going for, but it’s not the sort of thing we’re after at the moment.” She leafs back through the sketches and tilts her head as she assesses them again. “This one is okay.” She says it slowly, as if it pains her to say so. “I do think it would be better on a larger scale.”
“I could do that, and—”
“No. As I said, this work isn’t what we’re trying to acquire at the moment. Our current lineup is teeming with artists confined to canvas. Moving forward, we’re looking for a multiplicity of forms and materials, sculptures, modern installations—that sort of thing.”
“Oh.”
“This, these,” she says, tapping her pointer finger on my sketch. “It’s coffee shop art.”
Coffee shop art.
Three words that on their own are each pretty great—who doesn’t love coffee—but when smashed together mean something akin to soul-crushing rejection. Coffee shop art is equivalent to doodles on a stained napkin. Might as well just toss it in the trash on your way out. Thanks.
I don’t feel like arguing with her about the merits of art on canvas. Not everyone can put some huge sculpture in the middle of their living room, Beth!
It’s not worth it. I take my bulky portfolio—which now seems to weigh three times more than it did when I arrived—thank her for her help, and leave the gallery.
What a huge waste of time.
It’s already late afternoon, dark and cold outside. The dinner party at Walt’s apartment is tonight and I was supposed to find something to wear while I was out and about, but now I don’t really feel like shopping.
I pass a boutique that has dresses hanging in the window, and with a resigned sigh, I push past the door.
I don’t even care to look up at the racks of clothing as a boisterous sales associate flutters toward me, all smiles and happy hands.
“Hello there, gorgeous. What can I help you find today?”
Meaning in life?
A path forward?
I settle on the easiest answer. “A dress for a dinner party.”
She bats her hand as if to say, Easy-peasy.
“Cocktail casual, or is this something a bit more formal?”
“I…have no idea.”
She winks and shimmies her shoulders, not the least bit daunted by the task ahead. “Let me pull some looks and I’ll meet you back near the dressing rooms.”
By the time I leave my room, dressed and ready for the dinner party, the apartment is already abuzz with activity. In the kitchen, caterers work in an assembly line around the two islands, plating appetizers and prepping what looks to be a multi-course dinner. Servers work on the perimeter, pouring wine into decanters, polishing silver, and ensuring every wine glass is sparkling.
I’ve witnessed scenes like this at my parents’ house growing up, but I’ve never been on this side of it. I’m not sure who’s coordinated everything—likely Mason or April—but the staff looks up at me expectantly when I stroll into the kitchen.