AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Desmond has put in a word for me at the drag club where he performs. He says that, as well as bar and coat-check staff, they are always in need of dressers for the artists, and helpers backstage. If I’m willing to muck in and help out there should be a few hours a week for me. Of course, I’ll be working nights, so that would free up my daytime hours to paint. I get butterfly excitement when I think about that.
In the lounge of my apartment, I sadly survey the display wall of my art collection. I have made the decision to sell it off, piece by piece. This painful conclusion has been a long time coming. I’ve been putting it off because I love each and every one of my paintings, drawings, sculptures, and ceramics. But it’s like living with bundles of dollars pinned to the wall. Each one of my precious pieces of art has a value and if I’m going to explore my own creative path, I need to trade them in to cover rent and expenses. It’s a question of necessity. I can’t be too sentimental about it. But I will cry as each one is swapped for cash. I have made a list and ordered them from first to last according to their approximate value, then matched each one with the date of my rent checks.
“Don’t worry, Contessa. We are not going to be homeless. This is part of my plan.”
My cat looks up at me and says, “Well, I’m going to move in permanently with the gay boys if you insist on being a pauper.”
“Thanks so much for your support.”
“Just know this, Olivia. I am not a slumming-it kind of cat.” Contessa stretches and yawns then curls up on the sofa for a snooze.
I open the drawer where I have hidden the Bartoli. I’m surprised to see that it is still in there where I placed it and hasn’t disappeared or disintegrated. I take it out to hold in my hands. I admire the delicate brushwork.
I always believed it was an original and not a copy, but now I’m not so sure. The picture represents a feeling; a moment that I shared with Gianni; one that I believed was real and not fake. Looking at the surface of the picture and the lines of color, I really couldn’t tell anymore. This painting would be the last one I was going to part with. It should be the first, but I wasn’t yet ready to let go of the past. Just yet. The flame of my first love still flickered faintly. I put the Ponte Vecchio back in the drawer, feeling slightly foolish as I imagine Gianni with a whole heap of other similar paintings in his house, which he gave out, left and right, to girls he met on the bridge, when he said that he loved them. How idiotic I feel at being taken in by his hollow words. But still.
I sold two of my favorite sculptures and I am sad. They were auctioned today, and I should be happy because they far exceeded the reserve price. I asked Henry, the restorer the gallery uses, to give me an approximate value of the pair of bronze dancers when I went to his studio with his favorite coffee and a donut with chocolate sprinkles.
“You don’t have to bribe me,” he says gently handling one of the elegantly poised figures. “I’m happy to do this for a friend, but, you know, if they turn out to be worth millions of dollars, remember your poor friends when you’re living it up on your private yacht somewhere gorgeous.” We laugh.
“Henry. You’re the best.”
So, I can cover expenses for the next few weeks and I’m feeling timidly optimistic. My last day at the gallery came and went. I shut the door for the last time and that was it. I’m sure that most of the staff won’t even notice my absence. It felt good to be gone.
I’ve started work at The Queens of NYC Cabaret. I was a bit nervous when I turned up that first night, but Desmond was there, and he introduced me to everyone. He said, because I am an artist, I would be most useful in the dressing rooms, helping the queens get ready for the show.
“Alright, darlings!” Desmond claps his hands to get attention from the doorway. “This is Olivia. Be nice, okay?”
I’m greeted with a chorus of “Hi, Olivia,” and blinded by the dazzle of sequins and colorful feathers. I follow Desmond into the dressing room where I’m bombarded with requests to zip up, pull on, clip in, comb out, and perform last-minute hand sewing on satin gloves and corsets.
The stage manager comes in to announce five minutes to curtain up. Three towering, sparkling queens in ankle-breaking platforms trot out, waving and blowing kisses as they go. Desmond, who is not working tonight, but kindly here to show me around, sits on one of the chairs in front of a mirror ringed with light bulbs. He idly runs his hands through his hair and pouts at himself.
“You think you can handle it?” he asks, then swivels the chair to face me.
“Sure. It’s chaotic but fun.”
“Oh, tonight has been tame compared to some nights, Olivia.” He laughs. “I have seen blood on that dancefloor more than once.”
I pick up a discarded tangerine tutu, put it on a clothes hanger, and hang it on the rail.
Desmond watches for a moment, then says, “You know, Olivia, what you need now is a makeover.”
“Excuse me?”
“Well. The way I see it… You have a new job. You have a brand-new brave direction. You have reclaimed you. You are, in fact, the new Olivia. And yet, you still look like the old one.”
“I am the old one, Desmond. But thanks for your kind words.”
“How about a haircut? A cut and a color. A new do for a new you.”
“You won’t stop, will you?”
“Nope.”
I would like to say I had a choice in my new look for a new me, but I didn’t. After the show, I was forcibly held down in a chair by wigged and eyelashed drag artists, while one of them took to my hair with a pair of scissors. Then I was subjected to blond highlights and finally strands of pink were painted on, which I was told was not permanent, but as yet, they have not washed out.
I’m warming to my new pink hairdo. But I don’t really give it much thought because during daylight hours I am immersed in my artwork. I had forgotten just how much I love making marks on a surface. But I am mindful that I need to produce a collection worthy of a show and that is a big pressure. My mood oscillates between ‘Yes. Let’s smash this!’ and ‘Oh no. What am I doing?’
I begin by using my sketchbook drawings as a starting point. I showed them to Desmond and Sandy who made fun of them, of course. Then, they were very supportive. They said that the charcoal ones were the strongest.
