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"Your art is lovely, but we're looking for something more innovative – something that challenges the boundaries of traditional mediums and techniques," the man beside Lillian explained, his tone kinder yet firm. He ignored her question about Aaron, and she could only surmise thattheAaron Ashwood saw this meeting as beneath him. "It's just not what we're seeking at the moment."
As the words sunk in, Charlotte's world seemed to crumble around her. She had poured her heart and soul into her paintings, hoping they would resonate with those who viewed them. Yet here she was, being told her work wasn't good enough, that it didn't meet the standards of Ashwood. Nor warrant a meeting with both of the gallery heads. She felt a lump in her throat, threatening to choke her.
Daniel’s voice niggled at the back of her mind. She pushed it away.
"Is there anything I can improve? Or perhaps a different series of paintings I could submit?" Charlotte asked, desperation lacing her voice. If only there was a chance, a glimmer of hope that her work could still find a place in this prestigious gallery.
"Unfortunately, Mrs. Moore, we cannot offer any guidance beyond suggesting that you explore different opportunities as an artist," Lillian replied, her eyes void of empathy. “I know many artists of your caliber who find success in the commercial space—window murals, perhaps?”
"Right," Charlotte nodded, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment as she realized they saw her as little more than an amateur. A single tear threatened to escape the corner of her eye, but she blinked it away, refusing to let them see her crumble under the weight of their dismissal. Charlotte swallowed the lump in her throat. She was too shocked to reply to Lillian’s slight. With trembling hands, she reached for her portfolio, her vision blurring as unshed tears threatened to spill over.
"Thank you for considering my work," she whispered, clutching the portfolio tightly to her chest as if it were a shield against the crushing weight of rejection.
The gallery staff exchanged glances before Lillian cleared her throat. "We appreciate your effort, Mrs. Moore, but our clientele is looking for something more... cutting-edge," she said dismissively, a bored expression on her face.
"Of course, I understand," Charlotte replied, her voice barely a whisper. She tried to maintain her composure as she stood, but the indifference in their eyes stung like a slap in the face. It seemed that the passion and emotion she poured into her art meant nothing in the cold, calculated world of commercial viability.
"Thank you for your time," the younger staff member said with a patronizing smile, and it was clear they had moved on from Charlotte and her artwork, dismissing her as just another struggling artist not worth their time or consideration.
As she turned to leave the gallery, this time unescorted, each step felt heavier than the last. The vibrant colors of the artwork on display seemed to taunt her, a cruel reminder of the place her own creations would never hold. The once elegant decor now felt suffocating, pressing in on her from all sides as her disappointment morphed into a deep sense of defeat.
In that moment, Charlotte realized that her dreams of success and recognition hinged on the whims of those who valued commerce over passion—a sobering thought. And as she stepped out into the fading afternoon light, the door clicking shut behind her, a single question echoed through her mind: was it worth it?
The warm breeze that tugged at Charlotte's hair as she stepped onto the sidewalk seemed to mirror her own inner turmoil. Her mind swirled with a cacophony of thoughts, each more disheartening than the last. Was her art truly not good enough? Had she been fooling herself all these years, believing in her talent when it ultimately meant nothing to those who guarded the gates?
"Excuse me," a passerby murmured, brushing past her as she stood there, lost in thought. The interruption snapped Charlotte back to the present moment, and she jolted with a sense of embarrassment. Here she was, standing on a busy street, allowing the opinions of strangers to shake her very foundations.
"Get a hold of yourself, Charlotte," she muttered under her breath, willing her racing heart to slow down. As much as she wanted to believe in her art, to know that it had worth beyond the opinions of gallery staff, the sting of rejection sat heavy on her shoulders. The weight of their dismissal threatened to crush her spirit entirely—if she let it.
Head bowed, Charlotte took one last glance at the gallery she had once viewed as the pinnacle of her dreams. With a deep breath, she made the decision to leave it behind and just deal with the crushing disappointment that had come to define her day.
"Thanks for nothing, Ashwood Fine Arts," she murmured. And with that, she turned on her heel and began to walk away, her every step heavy with the burden of rejection. She moved toward her SUV, each step heavier than the last. The vibrant colors of the city seemed to fade around her, leaving a dull grayness that matched her mood. She reached into her pocket and fumbled with her keys, fingers clumsy in her haste to escape the scene of her disappointment.
"Stupid, stupid," she muttered under her breath, berating herself for having believed that her art could make an impact. "Why did I even bother?"
Finally unlocking her car, she slid into the driver's seat. As she gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles turning white, she thought of the gallery staff's feedback.
"Something new and exciting," they had said. But what did that even mean?
"Maybe they're right," Charlotte whispered, the words painfully torn from her throat. "Maybe I'm just not good enough."
Her mind raced as she considered her options. Should she continue pursuing her art despite the seemingly insurmountable obstacles before her? Or should she give up on her dreams entirely, accepting that her talent simply wasn't enough?
Daniel always says I should give up this silly hobby, Charlotte thought.What's the point of chasing a dream that's out of reach?
For a moment, her heart ached with the endless possibilities she could've explored if only her art had been accepted. The exhibitions, the potential collectors, the chance to share her work with the world - all of it now seemed like a cruel illusion. Charlotte turned the key in the ignition and the engine roared to life as she fought back tears, the taste of disappointment lingering in the air.
Charlotte pulled away from the curb and glanced at the rearview mirror, watching as the gallery disappeared from sight, taking with it the hopes she'd carried for so long.
CHAPTER THREE
The familiar landmarks that marked Charlotte’s journey home blurred by in a wash of greens and browns. She couldn't shake the disappointing outcome of the art gallery meeting from her thoughts; she had poured her heart and soul into those paintings, only to be met with polite disinterest. Add that to the strange man who’d used her art as a photo backdrop, and her day was well and truly spoiled.
Her brow furrowed as she reviewed the conversation at Ashwood over and over again in her head, seeking any clues to where she might have gone wrong. She had always been her own harshest critic, but this was more than just self-doubt. The opinion of the Ashwood staff seemed to mean that there was something fundamentally lacking in her work, and yet Charlotte couldn't quite put her finger on what it was.
Traffic was blessedly light, and the miles flew by. It wasn’t long until she was just a few blocks from home, both dreading having to recount her day to Daniel—and hear about how, despite her sales, she’d be better off giving up on painting—and eagerly anticipating a nice, long bath and a glass of wine.
As she pulled into the driveway, she was startled to notice Daniel's car parked askew in the driveway, its trunk thrown open and boxes and luggage piled high within. Her heart stuttered at the sight, confusion washing over her like an unwelcome tide. She blinked rapidly, trying to clear her vision and make sense of what she was seeing.
