nerve-wracking events happening.
First is a meeting with the curator at Smith Goldstein & Co. to discuss details of my potential exhibit. I have a portfolio of smaller graphite drawings and photos of a few larger ones I have finished. Whether it will be enough to cement myself an opportunity to share my work is one question weighing on my mind.
The second, and perhaps more anxiety-inducing happening for the day, is meeting Archie for drinks. I haven’t seen him since Wednesday morning, but in all fairness, I haven’t left my house. Ensuring I have a well-rounded collection of art pieces has been a lot of work, but I’m pleased with my portfolio.
I enter the prestigious Smith Goldstein & Co. building and take in the opulence of the space. The gleaming maple floors, immaculate gallery lighting, ornate wooden ceiling, warm white walls, and leather benches placed in front of a few select pieces make this the real deal. The kind of place I’ve dreamed of having my work showcased.
From my quick scan of the room, I can see they have a wide selection of mediums. Marble sculptures, abstract oil paintings, photographs, full walls of graffiti prints, and more. I don’t see any graphite drawings. So what I’m about to present could be perceived as unique and something they’re looking for, or out of their element and I’ll be back at Square One.
“Can I help you?” a petite woman with black hair pulled tightly in a pristine bun asks. Her smile is radiant behind her crimson lips, and her dark skin glows under the lighting.
“Yes, please. I’m looking for Mrs. Robbins. I’m Georgia Dewan.”
Her smile ratchets up even brighter, making her eyes join in. “Oh, Georgia. So nice to meet you.” She reaches her hand out to shake mine. My kind of girl. “I’m Sephora Powell, director of sales.”
“Nice to meet you, Sephora.” I finally allow myself to return her smile, which helps ease my nerves.
“Have a look around. I’ll let Sandra know you’re here.” She spins on her red-soled heel and confidently walks toward the back of the gallery.
My early perusal of the space didn’t take in the immensity of the room. It must stretch back a hundred feet and is about forty feet wide. For a downtown Chicago space, it’s massive. The sculptures in various mediums, ranging from clay to metal to marble, are all set on pedestals, protected by plexiglass covers. The wall art is blocked off by velvet ropes so people can’t get within arms’ reach. This place is legit.
A dignified middle-aged woman who reminds me a lot of my mother steps out from behind one of the display walls. “Georgia?”
“Yes.” I turn to face her, offering my hand.
She gives it a firm shake, but her demeanor isn’t as friendly as Sephora’s. Mrs. Robbins is intimidating. “Come into my office. We can speak in there.”
I follow Sandra, feeling myself shrink with each step. My self-doubt comes rushing in, weighing heavily on my shoulders and making each step laborious. We walk into an office that consists of two parts. One area has a large table a few feet out from a blank white wall, and at the far end, sits a large stainless steel desk that looks like it could be a feature in the gallery.
“Rene tells me you’re very talented, Georgia. She spoke very highly of you.”
Well, Rene’s judgment is not something I have confidence in right now, so while I appreciate her boosting me up, this may be another situation in which I’m doomed to drop the ball she’s hiked my way. She’s lucky I love her.
“Friends will do that. She’d say the same thing if I told her I wanted to be an opera singer, and trust me, that wouldn’t go well for anyone.”
Sandra chuckles as she seats herself on a wheeled stool at the corner of the large table. “Why must artists always be so self-deprecating?”
“It’s a requirement for art school. First question on the application, actually.”
“Well, Georgia, I hope your art impresses me as much as your sense of humor. Show me what you’ve got.” She gestures to the table. “Whichever you prefer. Lay them out flat or hang them.”
I look up at the wall and see adjustable clips, and since most of what I have in my portfolio aren’t originals, I don’t have to risk ruining them. I walk over to the wall and hang four of my drawings—well, photographs of my drawings. Then I place the remaining six on the table, half of which are originals.
Sandra stays silent as she carefully slides my work toward herself and examines each one. She takes less time on the photographs, and I’m not sure if it’s because there is less detail or if she’s less impressed. By the time she stands to round the table, I’m chewing a hole through my bottom lip.
“You capture emotion very well.”
“Thank you.” I stand and wait for the ‘but’ statement.
“Rene was right. You are very talented.”
A sigh rushes out of me fast enough, I practically deflate. “Thank you,” I repeat.
“I’ll be honest, Georgia; there isn’t much of a market for graphite. It’s stunning and your ability to capture the realism of certain moments is phenomenal, but selling it is the hard part.”
Now I’m deflating for a different reason. I have a feeling I’m about to be told to change my medium and give people what they want, or go back to school for something more practical because I’ll never make a career of this.
“But luckily, I’ve never been one to cater to what people want. I give them what they don’t know they need, and this body of work you have, they need it.”
My jaw drops, but it’s lost all muscle control, so I can’t close my mouth. Another stroke of luck, Sandra is looking at my art instead of my goldfish face.
It takes far too many seconds for me to compose myself. “Wow, that’s… thank you. That’s such a compliment.”
“Well, it’s not without critique.” She spins around and points at my one drawing of a Chicago police officer on a horse smiling down at a little boy holding a balloon. “Everything you’ve brought, except this one, is depressing. The emotions each one evokes are distinctively sad. I want to give you your time to shine, Georgia, and find you your audience, but I need some range. Don’t fill my gallery with stuff that’s going to send everyone straight to the nearest pub to drown their sorrows.”
Yikes. Am I really that depressing? Archie said the same thing about the drawing in my apartment, but to me, there is beauty and love evident in those moments. Humans often underestimate how strong they are until they’re in desolate circumstances. But maybe I need to focus more on the obvious moments.
“I can do that. I can create a range. Do you have a timeframe in mind? And a number you’re aiming for?”
“I’d like you to have at least fifteen distinct works. They should all be cohesive and shout Georgia Dewan from the paper, but I want variety. We have an opening in six weeks, if you think you can make that happen.”
Six weeks to create five additional works? That’s a really tough ask. But this is an opportunity I can’t squander.
“Okay. I’ll come up with a few new concepts and run them by you?”
“Sounds good to me. Check in with me in two weeks and we’ll see how you’re getting on, okay? I’ve got some other stuff to get to, so I’m going to pass you over to Sephora to work up a contract that covers all the messy stuff. Commissions and what not. She’ll take care of you.” Sandra leaves me with a tight smile, a firm handshake, and a ball of nerves.
My contract discussions with Sephora occupy the next sixty minutes of my life, and by the time we’re done, my head is a jumbled mess of numbers. She kept asking me about pricing and commission percentages like it matters to me. Any income is better than zero, right? I’m hardly in a place to argue the difference between twenty-five and thirty percent.
In the end, it’s all settled, except for the fact I have a lot of work to do.
On my way out the door, I yank my phone from my jacket pocket and my shaky hands nearly drop it. I step outside, releasing a deep breath, allowing it to dissipate in the cool air like a fog. Once more, and my hands are steady so I can call my best friends.
Michelle picks up on the second ring, and after she gives me the all clear she can talk for a minute, I add Rene to the call.
“I’ve been dying all morning. Tell me everything,” Michelle demands once Rene picks up.
“Me too. Dish, girl. We need to know, like yesterday.”
I decide to take a detour to Oak Street Beach instead of going directly to Chicago Station, just so I can have a minute to decompress from the excitement and anxiety brewing inside me. “Well, good news and not so great news. Good news is, I signed a tentative contract.”
Both women squeal in the background, then Michelle shouts something to Savannah about not ripping heads off of her dolls. That’s mildly concerning.
“Ohh-kay. You should keep an eye on that. You’re raising a potential serial killer,” Rene responds.
“Oh, stuff it. She’s explaining to me why her dolls drew all over the wall, because they’re stupid and don’t even have brains. Ugh, this child exhausts me.”
This conversation has taken its own detour.
Rene and I both stay silent until I attempt to get it back on track.
“Anyway, not so great news is that I have two weeks to present her with a better range of material because she says everything I showed her today is depressing.”
“What? That’s not like you. I thought your whole thing was that look of love. Finding happiness in people’s eyes and trying to capture it.” Michelle shouts at Savannah again, but she’s covered the phone so I can’t make out what she’s saying.
“I thought that’s what I was sharing. I mean, aside from the one drawing of a couple crying over a tombstone, which I perceived as a great representation of love, I thought most of them showed those emotions in small moments, you know?”
Rene scoffs, then adds, “Art is based on perception, Boo. She might be an expert, but that doesn’t mean she sees your vision.”
“That might be true, but if she didn’t, with her discerning eye, I can’t expect the general public to see it. So I’m going to try to come up with some more material and give her that range.”
“Well, if anyone can do it, it’s you,” Michelle says.
“She’s right. You’ve got this, Boo. Just don’t let anyone else get in your head. Find your own inspiration and create what you want to create. That will resonate with people a lot more than some forced work to fit a brief, okay?”
I thank both of my friends and say goodbye so they can get back to their day.
Oak Street Beach is nearly abandoned now, short of one guy about my age playing fetch with his fluffy dog. I take a seat on my usual bench and watch them for a moment, trying to force inspiration, then remember Rene’s words. Now that this possibility is looking more like a reality, I don’t want anything to risk messing it up. I also don’t want to go spreading the news like wildfire, only to have Sandra tell me in two weeks that my concepts are rubbish and terminate my contract.
After thirty minutes, my face is frozen from the cold air off of the lake pelting my cheeks. I turn back toward Chicago Station to head home so I can prepare for the next nerve-wracking event of the day.