Page 2 of Redamancy (Fated Fixation #2)

“I hope you don’t take offense to that opinion,” she adds. “That’s all it is—it’s just, when you spend as much time in the art world as I do, you see it all the time. Artists who end up in boxes they never venture out of.”

And I can see it, the flash of disinterest as she stares down at my watercolor.

My stomach plummets.

She’s going to write me off as another art school graduate stuck in a box.

“I agree with you,” I blurt out.

Her brows raise. “You do?”

I hesitate, unsure which answer to give her. I could lie—tell her I think my education at Pratt was a massive waste, and I would’ve learned more about art hiking through the Wilhelmina mountains.

I could stick to my guns, tell her there’s not a moment of Pratt that I regret and hope my conviction impresses her.

Or I could just be honest.

“In some ways, Pratt was invaluable. The technical skills I learned, the way I was pushed to the limits of my creativity…” I fidget with the paintbrush. “But it was stifling too. It made it harder to separate my voice from everyone else’s.”

Her green eyes pierce mine. “And have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Separated your voice from everyone else’s?”

I swallow. “I’d like to think so.”

I’d like you to think so.

Ocean’s expression is frustratingly unreadable as she hands my sketchbook back, but then—

“Do you have any other pieces like this, Poppy?”

***

A recent article in The New York Times dubbed the Ars Astrum the “next MOMA,” and now, seeing the shiny, concrete floors, angled skylights, and open layout firsthand, I get it.

The walls are blank right now—as they always are between shows—and the thought of my art hanging on them gives me a buzz better than any Red Bull could.

“Right this way, Poppy.” As Ocean leads me through the wide corridors, a handful of assistants clamor for her attention. She waves them all off. “I’m with an artist right now.”

None of them really argue with her—probably used to Ocean dragging in stray painters like we’re rocks from the sidewalk she’s planning to polish into gems.

Well, she hasn’t agreed to polish me.

Yet.

Although Ocean may assume the universe is sending her artistic talent via park benches and organic juice bars, she’s also not stupid. There’s a reason every artist that’s gotten their name on the placard by the front door has become a smashing success.

Ocean has a real eye for talent, and the watercolor portrait from the juice bar might’ve caught her attention, but now she wants to see everything.

My portfolio, currently tucked under my arm.

“Have a seat wherever you’d like.”

I’m not sure if the hand-braided meditation rug covering most of the floor and the bean bags crammed into the corner could be considered seating, but when she heads for the bean bags, I follow.

Plants with long, twisty stems hang from the ceiling, the diffuser on the windowsill spits out lavender-scented oil, and the singular bookshelf in Ocean’s corner is crammed with a myriad of titles.

I scan them while she tinkers with an ornate copper teapot in the corner: A Guide to Unlocking Psychic Abilities With the Third Eye, Seven Chakras: Explained, Interpreting Auras and Energies in Others , Manifesting Your Dream Life, and Discover Your Earthly Vibrations in Five Easy Steps.

“Here,” Ocean hands over a small porcelain cup steaming with hot tea, and I take a whiff. It smells like freshly mowed grass. “This is my personal herbal blend. Buckwheat and licorice root.”

I can’t think of a worse thing for my still empty, roiling stomach than buckwheat and licorice root, but I thank her like she’s given me a hundred-dollar bill.

She settles cross-legged onto the beanbag across from me. “I’ve tinkered with the recipe over the years, but it stems from the three most enlightening weeks of my life in—”

The Tibetan mountains eight years ago.

I already know.

According to an old WordPress blog she no longer updates, that was the start of Ocean’s spiritual journey. When she returned to the States, she dropped out of college and funneled her entire trust fund into the Ars Astrum.

“Do you like it?” She asks, eyes flickering to the teacup.

“Oh, it’s—” I take a sip, barely holding back a cough when the buckwheat goes down like sandpaper.

Terrible.

“—delicious.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” she beams, and spends the next five minutes explaining the trials and tribulations of her tea-making journey, while I try not to let my nervous energy get the best of me.

I can’t believe it worked.

I’m really here.

And if I weren’t still reeling from the shock of it, it’d probably deeply disturb me to think that an overpriced green juice has officially gotten me leagues farther than four years of art school, a grueling internship at the Smithsonian, and an even more grueling, minimum-wage job at an art gallery just down the street.

“Now,” Ocean clears her throat, sets her finished cup down, and grabs my portfolio.

“I can’t remember the last time I saw a paper portfolio,” she remarks, flipping open the binder. “Everyone seems to have a Squarespace website these days.”

“Well, I debated,” I say. “But there’s just nothing like—”

“Staring down at real ink on paper,” she finishes, eyes gleaming with approval. “I agree.”

Guess the fact that I can’t afford a Squarespace subscription worked in my favor.

Ocean asks no questions as she flips through the portfolio containing prints of my work.

I resist the urge to fidget, unsure how to interpret her silence.

I wish I could read her expression, but it’s frustratingly blank, and at this angle, I can’t even tell which piece she’s looking at.

If she really hated it, she’d have stopped by now…right?

“Have you ever shown your work before?” She finally asks, eyes still fixed on the portfolio.

“A couple of times,” I tell her. “I’ve done some group exhibitions at Pratt and some small galleries here in Chelsea…but never a solo show.” A little nervously, I add, “But I’ve sold every piece I’ve ever shown.”

I had most of them priced at a hundred bucks or less, though.

Even all those coffee bean drawings I did for that cafe in the Bronx.

She hums and flips to the next page. “Have you ever shown this collection before?”

“No,” I say honestly. “This collection…well, it’s something I’ve been working on for a long time.” I clear my throat. “It’s mixed media, as you can see, and I call it ‘Into the Dark.’ It’s an exploration of darkness…”

In me.

“…in people. Humanity, in general, I suppose. All our dark, unsavory parts we don’t want others to see.” I fidget with the hem of my blouse.

“And what drew you to this subject matter?”

“Well, everyone has darkness,” I explain. “Some more than others, but nobody wants to admit it. We put on a mask for the world, and we pretend it doesn’t exist.”

She hums. “So, it’s about forcing the dark into the light?”

“Yes, and no. Forcing the dark into the light implies you’re getting rid of the darkness. This is more about…” I pause, searching for the right words. I’ve only rehearsed this explanation a hundred times. “Bringing the viewer into the dark.” I take a deep breath. “Accepting our—”

—my—

“—inner darkness.”

“I see.” More silence from Ocean, and I worry that I’m boring her to tears, but then she clears her throat. “I’ll be honest with you, Poppy.”

My belly dips.

“This collection…” She flips the page, and I ready myself for the crushing blow. “It’s incredible.”

My heart stops.

What?

“What?” It’s a gasp, not a word.

She nods. “This is honest. I mean, you’re not the first artist to try to explore inner darkness and trauma through art, but at least there’s real darkness here.” She tilts the binder, and I see the piece she’s looking at.

A heavily shadowed pencil drawing meant to resemble one of those old noir films. The perspective peers down at a sidewalk, where the shape of a dead body lies cracked open and bleeding.

“It’s gritty,” she adds.

She flips the page to a surrealist oil painting of me, drowning in the pool.

And then to a more abstract piece vaguely resembling a faceless, unconscious girl sprawled out, orange juice dribbling out of her mouth like blood. “It’s so unsettling,” she murmurs. “I love it. Incredible what the human imagination can devise.”

Well, there wasn’t that much imagination involved with most of these.

And maybe that’s morbid, but it’s not like anyone can tell that silhouette is supposed to be Mickey Mabel. Or the unconscious girl, whom I sort-of poisoned so that I could cheat my way into Lionswood Prep.

Ocean makes it to the last piece, a bloody wrench lying on the garage floor, before she closes the binder. “Well,” she finally looks up at me. “Poppy, your collection is wonderfully raw. Dark. The exact kind of thing we’d love to show at the Ars Astrum.”

My heart soars.

It’s happening.

She’s going to offer me a solo show.

Her lips pucker. “But—”

But?

That sentence isn’t supposed to have a conjunction.

“But?” I breathe.

“But I’m not sure I agree with your thesis statement,” she finishes. “You said this collection is about bringing the viewer into the dark—your version of dark, obviously—and accepting that darkness.”

I don’t move an inch. “Right.”

“But this doesn’t read like acceptance to me,” Ocean says, brows furrowed.

“Each piece feels like an isolated event. They’re dark, and clearly part of a larger story, but the connection is missing.

” She peers at me with those big, green eyes, and I worry, for a moment, she might actually be psychic.

“Like a piece of the puzzle you’ve left out. ”

“Oh.” My throat is dry, and I take another sip of my now-cold buckwheat tea. It doesn’t help. “I mean, I don’t know why you’d—there’s no missing puzzle piece.”

“Are you sure?” Her brows crinkle. “Because this feels incomplete.”

“It’s complete,” I lie.

My heart pounds, and it’s like she’s seeing through me.

How the fuck can she tell?

I down the rest of my tea just to buy a little extra time.

Well, there’s my ex-boyfriend, I almost say. He’s pretty heavily featured in most of these events, but I don’t enjoy thinking about Adrian Ellis, let alone drawing him.

Hell, I’ve got his name blocked on most social media sites, including Google, so I never have to think about him.

In fact, the only thing I like doing with Adrian Ellis is locking him away in a dusty box in the back of my head.

And the thought of opening that box makes me more nauseous than this tea does.

Ocean reaches over to lightly squeeze my knee. “I don’t mean to pry,” she says. “You shouldn’t have to tell any story you don’t want to, but I have a good sense for these things, Poppy. As interested as I am, I can’t show a story that’s only half complete.”

She doesn’t say it outright—but the dismissal is clear. “If you ever change your mind,” she adds, smiling gently. “Or if you’ve got a new collection you’re interested in showing, you can always join our waiting list and see if…”

My heart pounds in my ears.

Right.

The waiting list.

Your three-year waiting list.

I feel my future—the one I’ve been grinding years for—slip through my fingers.

I won’t get an opportunity like this again.

I won’t even get half of an opportunity like this again.

It’ll be back to internships and gallery assistant gigs that don’t include health insurance.

Back to group exhibitions where I’m relegated to the corner and—

Fuck it.

I’ve come this far.

I set my tea down.

“Actually,” I say, and I hope she can’t see the terror in my eyes. “There is something else. There’s another piece I didn’t include here. Well, pieces."

“Really? And it ties the collection all together?”

Unfortunately.

I nod. “And I can just add them in."

She hesitates. “As I said, Poppy. You don’t have to tell any story you don’t want to. I’d never want to pressure you into—”

“You’re not,” I lie. “I want to tell this story.”

There's nothing I want to do less, that is.

She stares at me, silence stretching between us.

Did I hesitate too long?

“Well,” she finally says. “I have an open spot next month, but that seems a little soon—”

That’s way too fucking soon.

“It’s not,” I say. “Not at all.”

Her forehead creases. “Are you sure?”

I am not sure, but I channel the same delusional confidence that got me this interview into my answer. “I’m sure.”

And when Ocean claps her hands together, I try not to think about what I’ve just agreed to showcase to the world.