Page 54

“I love this one, Megan. Have you named it yet?”
I’m having lunch with Miss Linda John, the assistant curator of the Los Angeles Starlight Art Foundation. She seems really interested in a new piece I’ve been working on for a while now.
“No, I don’t name my pieces until they’re finished. A lot can change with just a few strokes, and I like to give them time to morph into what they will become before I title them.”
“Ah, that makes sense. Could you perhaps at least tell me the inspiration behind the piece? You’re such an upbeat person with a baby coming soon,” she points to my growing stomach. “Congratulations, by the way.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m asking about your inspiration because the shadows of this one skew a bit dark to me.”
“But you like it?”
“Yes, there’s a weight to it I find particularly interesting.”
“I firmly believe that most people have both dark and light parts of themselves. I guess I’ve just been tapping into the darker areas lately,” I smile uncomfortably, not particularly enjoying where this conversation is headed.
Hell yeah, my work has been dark lately. I was kidnapped by a middle-aged gangster and broke up with the overprotective father of my baby all in the same damn month. I paint the darkness to safely escape it, not chat about it over lunch.
“Well, it’s fabulous, and I’m confident that the foundation will be very interested in curating this piece for our exhibit next year. The show will feature all local artists, and this piece fits the theme of the show: In The Shade and The Shadows. Oh, and did I mention that it’s a year-long installation?”
“A year?”
For new artists like me, art show exhibits typically last about a week. A year-long run is rare.
“Yes.”
“I’m thrilled that the foundation is even considering me.” I swallow a bite of my chicken piccata. “But I need to ask.”The one question I’ve been dreading to ask.“How did you discover my work?”
I pay close attention to the focus of her gaze when I ask Miss John the question because if I think she’s holding something back, like if this is somehow due to Hunter–the underworld patron saint of the arts, I’m out.
She stares me straight in the eyes when she answers, and I wonder if maybe she’s trying a little too hard to be convincing. That’s one of the problems with being in a relationship with someone like Hunter: you start to suspect everyone and everything.
“Our organization follows the careers of many young people in local university art programs. It’s part of our ethos to amplify the voices of new artists.”
Duh, Megan.
Get a grip. You know that.
“Right, I just wondered if a particular professor recommended my work or something?”
Or a dangerous millionaire I know.
“You remember there was a write-up about you in the Times after your last show, right?” She gives me a pacifying look. “Many people in the local art community know about your work from that.”
“Yes, of course.” I nod, embarrassed by my skepticism.
With everything going on in my life, I forgot about the article. Shame on me. Now that she brings it up, I recall how it was a well-written piece about several emerging artists from the Los Angeles area, including myself.
“After reading the article, I searched for a way to contact you online but noticed that you hadn’t set up a portfolio website yet, so I contacted your school. They gave me your cell phone number. I hope that was okay?”
“Yes, at some point, I’m sure I checked a box that said it was okay to share my contact information, and I’m so glad I did, or I wouldn’t be sitting here with you.”
She smiles comfortably.
“Just so I’m clear, these exhibits take a while to plan, and we won’t be able to decide on your inclusion until we’ve seen your final piece.”
“Understood.”