AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Harrison helped me secure my first, very own apartment in Dumbo, a trendy Brooklyn neighborhood that was just far enough away that I would never see my mother.
He helped me set up everything and made himself available whenever I needed him, but also gave me the space I needed to figure out what I wanted to do.
Rose had even started coming over more and spending the night. She had also begun to distance herself from our mother. Something had happened that pushed her to rebel more, but she wouldn’t talk about it, saying that she would when she was ready.
It was odd, but after only a week of having my own place, surrounded by color and life, I felt lighter. I no longer felt like every decision could make or break me.
The world wasn’t out to get me, and I didn’t have to impress anyone.
I started living for myself; it was new, and I loved it.
I also felt closer to my siblings. There was so much about Harrison that I didn’t know, and Rose seemed like a different person when we weren’t both under our mother’s roof.
It only took a few days of ignoring my mother’s calls while soul searching, missing Luc, and talking to Harrison for me to make a plan.
I needed to be useful.
Thankfully, Harrison also strong-armed our mother into making sure I got every single penny of my trust fund. He was overseeing all of it for me and managing the investments, so I had enough money to be comfortable.
It wasn’t the lavish lifestyle I had in the mansion, not by a long shot, but I was adapting.
I had enough money that I didn’t need to work, but I had no interest in squandering my days shopping and dining at cafés. I was convinced that was what turned women like my mother into bored, hateful shrews—women who had no real purpose and no drive, so they spent their time trying to outdo each other. Be it with self-serving “charity” work, becoming the new middle-aged “it girl,” or outspending each other in the plastic surgeon’s office.
That life seemed shallow, and I couldn’t do it.
I just had no idea what I could do. My education had never been intended to be training for a career. I had no experience working, no marketable skills. Nothing.
“You love art,” Harrison said, sitting on the dark green velvet couch I had bought at an amazing consignment shop a few blocks over. He and Rose were over that night to hang out for a dinner of Chinese takeout eaten straight from the paper boxes with disposable chopsticks.
“I do love art.” I nodded, trying to hold on to a particularly slippery piece of orange chicken. “But sadly, I have no talent.”
“That is ridiculous,” Rose said with a wave of her hand that sent the piece of broccoli she was holding in her chopsticks flying through the air so that it hit Harrison in the face.
Rose and I fell into hysterics while he rolled his eyes and wiped his forehead with a napkin. Then he reached over to steal her container and handed her one with chow mein noodles.
“I was thinking more along the line of being a patron. Sponsoring indie artists, finding talent, then helping that artist break into the art world. Get their pieces shown, be their champion,” he explained as soon as we calmed down. “You could even open your own small gallery. The family is known in the art community. We are on the board for the Met. Why not use those connections and do something similar while supporting up-and-coming artists?”
“Could I do that? I really don’t want to compete for gallery space in Manhattan, and worse, Mother would try to sabotage anything I would do.”
“I wasn’t thinking of Manhattan. I was thinking of smaller, more modern art. Like small up-and-coming artists. Either here in Dumbo or even Williamsburg.” Harrison sat back on the couch, and Rose leaned against him. They both looked tired, and I wondered what their lives would look like if they had broken away like I had.
It was tempting, but I wanted something more hands-on than cutting a check and attending the occasional party.
“That or you just give up and teach,” Harrison joked. “Isn’t that what they say, those that can’t do, teach?”
His words struck a nerve.
Rose was quick to defend me, but it got me thinking.
He had a point. There was no way my passion could be a viable career option as an artist, but it wasn’t really my art I was passionate about. It was the process. It was learning new mediums and playing with them. I had more enthusiasm and passion for the process of creating art than for the final product. Even when looking at the masters, I wanted to know what they were thinking, what they saw that they tried to convey in their work.
“Maybe my mission in life isn’t to create the next great work of art, or even support someone else who does. Maybe I’m supposed to stoke that passion in others and help them find their passion,” I said, interrupting an argument about chopstick etiquette.
Rose looked at me like I had lost my mind.
“Explain.” Harrison set down his beer, took Rose’s chopsticks out of her hand, and gave her a plastic fork.
“What if I’m supposed to teach art, maybe to kids? I know art programs are poorly funded in public schools. What if I could help fill that gap? I could create a school or an after-school program for children to learn and find their own passion.”
