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Chapter One
Bianca
There are those people that come into your life and change everything. You meet them and their presence has such a profound impact that they can’t help but make you a better artist. A better person. They are a trusted advocate that nurtures your strengths and helps you make necessary changes to reach your goals without stifling your creativity. They support you while simultaneously pushing you to new heights. Yes, there are definitely those people out there.
And then there’s this bitch.
“So, you’re saying it lacks passion?” Keeping my voice on an even keel is difficult when I’m trying not to beat someone over the head with a canvas.
“Passion, maturity, whatever you want to call it.” Margot waves a hand dismissively at my painting sitting on the easel near her desk. “Frankly Bianca, it might as well be a child’s finger painting for all the thought that’s gone into it.”
Finger painting?FINGER PAINTING?
I keep the screaming in my head since it’s a much better idea than unleashing on my boss. She’s sitting at her desk, thick red framed glasses perched on the tip of her hawkish nose, and drumming her fingers like she’s impatient for me and my finger painting to get the hell out of her office.
Margot Gault is the owner, operator, and director of The Gault Gallery, and the woman currently tearing down a painting that I’m pretty proud of. At least Iwasproud of it.
When I got this job three months ago, I was beyond excited. I’d been working towards this my entire life. All those classes as a teen, the studying obscure artists, grueling projects in college, and now I was finally where I was supposed to be. Sure, it was just a gallery assistant job for now, but my foot was in the door. WiththeMargot Gault no less. Sure, I’d found documents in her office listing her real name as Maggie Gershowitz, but as Kermit the Frog once said, that was none of my business.
Margot was famous for nurturing young artists and bringing them to the forefront of the Seattle art scene. I had this fantasy where she would see my work, recognize my brilliance, and like magic, my art would be shown amongst the best of the best. I just had to bide my time.
I’d spent months dedicating my every waking moment to this gallery and this is all the feedback I get from her? Don’t get me wrong, I love my job. Even the minutia of updating inventory in the computer gives me a rush. Working in this world was all I’ve ever wanted to do.
Margot would sweep in and out of the gallery every day, dazzling us with tales of discovering new talent or lunches with established artists she had booked for exhibitions. I was in awe of this tiny woman in her fifties, her hair cut into a severe, black as night bob, and lips painted crimson. Her shrewd eyes always enlarged and owlish behind her thick red glasses. If I’m being honest, I’m still in awe, even after she just caused my dreamsto come crashing down into tiny pieces all around me. You’d think the least she could do would be to give me something constructive to work with.
“What do you suggest I do to improve?” My teeth are clenched and I have to make a concentrated effort to relax my hands that have balled into fists at my sides. I can take this as a learning experience at least. After all, Margot knows what she’s talking about.
She lets out a heavy sigh. “Bianca, I can’t tell you how to make your art. You must do that yourself. If I told you what to do, it wouldn’t be your art anymore, it would be mine. Just keep working at it, I’m sure you’ll eventually stumble upon something that gives you the true passion to create.”
I swear to God, if I had anything in my hand right now, I would throw it at the wall. Could she possibly be any less helpful? I’m asking her for advice and she can’t even give me that? So much for being taken under the wing of the great Margot Gault.
It takes a real effort not to snatch my painting from the stand and stomp out the door, slamming it behind me. I’m half Italian and half Irish, I’ve got this fiery temper thing down pat. But since I’m not a child and am in no mood to look for a new job, I just say, “Thank you for looking at it, Margot. I appreciate your time.”
She turns her back to me and starts going through the paperwork piled high on the credenza behind her desk, effectively dismissing me. I calmly take the painting I’ve worked weeks on down from the stand and start to make my way out of her office.
“Bianca, when you find your muse, come back and show me.”
I just nod and close the door ever so softly behind me. A twenty-two-year-old who can’t control her temper is not a good look. I make my way down the metal industrial staircase andhead into the tiny break room that I share with the other gallery staff. The room’s barely large enough to hold our outdated coffee pot, table with three chairs—because Margot insists there’s beauty in odd numbers—and a little shelf of cubbies that would look more fitting in an elementary school than the hottest art gallery in Seattle.
Before shoving my painting onto one of the empty shelves, I take a moment to study it. Sure, it’s probably not the best piece I’ve ever produced but calling it a finger painting is a bit extreme. This thing took me weeks to work on. My fine arts degree has an emphasis on painting, and I work in a number of different mediums, however my subject matter tends to focus on people, whether that be portraits or scenes where they are the focus.
This particular painting is a portrait of my mother that’s done in yellows and blues, her face mostly obscured by her flowing hair. I’ve been feeling a disconnect from her the past four years, ever since I moved to Seattle for school and decided to stay here after I graduated. Luckily, she’s finally decided to move here and I’m excited to get to know her on a more adult level, not just as a child and her mother.
I honestly thought Margot would be impressed with my piece. I mean, I’m not naive enough to think that she was going to fall all over herself and offer me my own exhibition or anything, but I did expect a few encouraging words, maybe an offer to review my other work. Instead, I got finger painting.
I quickly wrap the canvas in a long piece of parchment paper and slide it onto an out of the way shelf so that I can get it home without damaging it, though I guess that wouldn’t be the worst thing. Maybe a tear at one of the edges would make Margot think it was more interesting.
I smooth down my black dress over my wide hips before making my way back out to the main floor where Jenna is standing at the front desk, phone pressed to her ear.
“Of course, Mrs. Clemens,” she says into the phone. “I’ve got your name down right here on our list, you shouldn’t have a problem at the door. We’re all looking forward to seeing you at the exhibition next week.”
When she hangs up the phone, I shoot her a look. “You do realize we don’t actually have a list for next week, right?”
She gives me a wide smile, “You know that, and I know that, but Mrs. Clemens doesn’t.” She gives that high tinkling laugh that always brings a smile to my face. “But it makes her feel special and the more special she feels the more likely she is to buy something.”
I shake my head and let out my own laugh, “Sometimes you’re scary, Jenna. You’re going to be the top gallerist in this city in no time.”
She lets out a dreamy sigh. Jenna isn’t an artist like me. She’s here because she loves art and wants to be the person that discovers new artists and introduces them to the world. She basically wants to be Margot but with better hair. “A girl can dream. Speaking of dreams, what did Margot say about your piece?”
