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exhausted.
Emily shrugged. “I don’t know. Too many times to count.
We wouldn’t have to have it if you would just accept that I’m
never going to be a lawyer. I want to be an artist. Like you.”
“Slapping paint onto a canvas doesn’t make you an artist. It
takes more than that to survive in this industry.”
Emily blinked, stunned and stung by her mom’s response.
“But you know a million people,” she blurted. “Tons of your
friends would give me a chance. They’d let me get my foot in
the door. Just because my paintings won’t sell for thousands of
dollars doesn’t mean there won’t be a gallery that wouldn’t
want to display them. I wouldn’t expect to have my own show
for years. I’m not asking to be famous; I just want a start. I
want to keep doing what I love doing.”
“You can.” Sandra reached to her left and plucked a glass of
water off the side table. “You just can’t do it for a living.” As a
rule, she didn’t drink unless she was in a social setting, but
Emily could see quite clearly that her mom would have given
her left foot for a drink right about then.
“I don’t understand how you can sit there and be so
hypocritical. You tell me all the time that I shouldn’t want to
be an artist because it’s hard and it takes dedication and time
and it’s mostly about disappointment and forcing yourself to
meet deadlines and expectations and selling yourself, not your
work. I know all of that.” Emily paused. Her mom sipped her
water slowly. “You’re telling me that you don’t think I can do
it. Sell myself. Or maybe you’re actually saying that people
wouldn’t want to buy.”
Sandra nearly choked and set the water glass back down
with a thud on the poor end table. “That’s not what I mean.”
