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I’ve declared all of this out loud, of course, practically stumbling over myself with excitement.
Nadiya, to her credit, doesn’t even look slightly put off by my bumbling awkwardness.
“I still pinch myself too. It’s a great gallery,” she says, going out of her way to ensure I don’t feel like a fool.
“How did you? When did you? Who?” I shake my head as my questions pile up one on top of the other.
Matthew laughs and pats my hand. “Elizabeth, here, is an artist seeking representation.”
“Oh really? What mediums do you work with mainly?”
“Pastels, charcoal, and acrylic paint. I like to layer mediums too and build up the canvas. The pastels are my signature though.”
If she’s bored, she’s not letting on, which is a relief.
“Do you have any of your work with—”
“Yes,” I say, leaping into action with absolutely no couth.
I pull out a few sketches I brought with me, ones I was going to show Matthew, and she studies them intently, taking her time.
“I see what you’re going for,” she tells me as she flips through them. “Your color choices are almost reminiscent of Matisse, which is quite jarring at first because there are still remnants of the classical composition.”
“Yes!” I nod enthusiastically. “Exactly! Post-Impressionists like Matisse were stepping away from popular art culture of their time, and I’m sort of spinning that on its head with this series, pulling trademarks of cubism and fauvism and taking them back to the 17th century with a study of Dutch baroque paintings like A Banquet Still Life.”
“Doesn’t your brother own that now?” she asks Matthew.
He nods, sipping his coffee.
She hums in delight, nodding her head. “I like these, Elizabeth. I think they’re conversation starters. Will your final pieces be much larger than this?”
“I hope not. I want them to remain accessible, if not with their price points, then at least with their size. I want collectors to be able to display them in a room easily, whether it be on a bookshelf or console, without having to clear an entire wall.”
“Good. I think you’re on the nose with the sizing.”
Matthew meets my eyes and then casually touches my knee with his hand beneath the table. I hadn’t realized I was jostling my legs so much, and I stop immediately. He moves his hand away and refocuses his attention on Nadiya.
“Are you going to help the poor girl out or not?” he asks with a winning smile.
Nadiya laughs and leans back, setting my pieces on the table.
“I’m not surprised they haven’t been picked up yet. No, don’t look so sullen. You should know by now that art sells not because it’s good, but because the market deems it good. I do think there are a few galleries in Brooklyn that would be interested in this collection, but I won’t point you in that direction because I’m intrigued enough by them myself.”
I blink in confusion, trying to determine what exactly she’s getting at.
“I don’t leave for Paris until next month, but when I do, I’d like to present a completed series to the head gallerist there.” When I don’t immediately respond—due to lack of brain cells, apparently—she laughs and continues, “So basically, I’m asking if you could get me a small series within the next several weeks?”
“Yes!”
I agree, of course, not quite realizing what that will mean. The series, she tells me, needs to consist of at least fifteen pieces—fifteen works of art so wonderful they’ll knock those Parisians’ socks right off.
We finish up at the coffee shop and head outside. I exchange contact information with Nadiya and we plan for when I’ll be in contact with her next, then she heads south on the sidewalk, leaving me beside Matthew.
I turn to him and he beams. I beam right back at him, totally at a loss for words.
“To be honest, I didn’t think it would work out that well,” he says with a laugh. “You owe me.”
“Yes! Anything! What do you want?”
He shakes his head. “No, I’m kidding. You don’t owe me a thing. What should we do now? Celebrate?”
“Are you mad? Absolutely not. There’s no time. I need to go to an art supply store.”
“All right, c’mon then. There’s one a few blocks over, and better still, there’s a camera store right next door.”
We head there together at a breakneck pace, shoulders bumping as we walk and talk. He pays attention to where we’re going better than I do. Every now and then, he’ll reach out to direct me to the side so we don’t cut off the flow of traffic as I talk.
“Paris, Matthew. PARIS!”
“I know. Sounds pretty cool.”
“Better than cool. Cool doesn’t come close to describing how I feel right now. I want to call everyone I know and tell them the good news. I want to call—”
“Who?” he asks.
A sad laugh bursts out of me as I realize the truth. “No one. Honestly, there’s no one I can call.”
