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I lean in, pretending to scrutinize it with an expert eye. "It's... visceral," I venture, hoping the vagueness of my response sounds thoughtful. "It evokes a sense of organized chaos, don't you think?"
William's lips curve into a knowing smile. "Ah, chaos with a hint of order. A bit like life, wouldn't you say?" His gaze meets mine, and there's a spark there that goes beyond our conversation about art.
I nod, emboldened by his warm demeanor. "Exactly. And isn't that what art is all about? Reflecting our experiences back at us?"
We move on, stopping before a classic Renaissance piece. "Now, this," William says, his voice filled with reverence, "is the pinnacle of technique. Every brushstroke is deliberate, each detail meticulously crafted. Look at the way the eyes… even the horses’ eyes follow you no matter where you stand."
I find myself drawn into William’s passion, his love for art making it all the more captivating. "It's beautiful," I agree, "but I must admit, I have a soft spot for the Impressionists. There's something about the way they capture light and movement that feels so... alive."
"Do you paint?" he asks suddenly, turning to face me with genuine curiosity in his eyes.
I hesitate, then decide there's no harm in sharing this small truth.
"I guess you could say I dabble with the paint brush," I confess with a modest shrug. "But nothing as grand as this."
"Art is not defined by the grandeur of the exhibition," William counters. "It's the expression that counts, the emotion conveyed. Would you show me some of your work?"
The question catches me off guard, a flutter of nervous excitement stirring in my chest.
William Willoughby wants to see my work! This could be a total game changer.
But then I snap out of it, this day is not about me. It’s about the Art Queen.
"Perhaps one day," I say, the words laced with a promise I hope I can keep.
William nods. “I was impressed by your grandmother’s work. It’s surprising we haven’t included her in our exhibitions before.”
Our exchange is cut short as he points to a piece by a contemporary artist, a bold contrast to the classical works we've been discussing. "Now this artist," he says with a hint of excitement, "challenges our perceptions. She blurs the lines between the digital and the physical world."
I follow his lead, engaging in the back and forth about art, feeling the connection between us strengthen with each shared opinion and laugh. It's a dance of dialogue, a verbal sparring that's both exhilarating and enlightening.
Soon enough, my nerves are settled, and I’m not even thinking about the fact I grabbed his soggy umbrella instead of his hand.
And hopefully, he’s forgot about that too.
We tour the gallery, and I find myself swept up in William's enthusiasm for the art that surrounds us.
His knowledge is extensive, and every explanation he offers is punctuated by a smile that reaches his eyes.
It's easy to laugh with him, to engage in playful debates about the meaning behind abstract pieces, and to forget for a moment that I am here under false pretenses. There's an easiness between us, a flirtatious dance of words and glances that makes the day fly by in a blur of color and light.
As we round another corner, William's tone turns serious.
“The reason why we insist on meeting our artists in person is we’ve been stung in the past,” he says. “And I wanted to meet you, to be sure you are not some forty-something guy in his mother’s basement playing a prank.”
I force a smile as a sickly sense of dread floods my veins.
He speaks of the art world's darker side—frauds, lawsuits, and the ceaseless battle against those who would steal the creations of others.
"Honesty," he says, "is the most valuable currency we have. Now I insist on meeting every artist in person, and it's a rule that's never steered me wrong."
The weight of his gaze holds me captive, and I swallow hard.
"Of course," I reply, trying to keep my voice level. "That's entirely understandable."
He nods, satisfied with my response, then lays out his terms.
“Only after we arrange this meeting with the Art Queen," he continues, the softness gone from his voice, “will I consider including her works in all Willoughby establishments."
