Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Every time I arrived at the gallery this week to help with setup and final layout decisions, it felt just as surreal as the time before. Even now, I want to pinch myself. Why am I here? How could I possibly be worthy of a show like this?
Coffee shop art.
Right.
I guess we’ll see what happens.
“Out we go. Don’t forget to smile,” Agnès tells me before she opens the back door of the car.
I’m the last one to step out onto the sidewalk, and I feel all eyes on me as I head toward the entrance of the gallery. I’m not even in heels and still, I’m worried I’ll trip and fall.
“Elizabeth. Can we have a word?” a journalist asks, stopping me before I can walk inside. I look to Agnès, and she nods in confirmation.
Immediately, I’m swarmed by a small group of them, asking me questions, throwing me softballs. They want to know how I’m feeling tonight, what this collection means to me. I have no idea how I answer. Words just spill out of me, and as I walk away a few minutes later, I try to recall what on earth I could have said. Did I even string together complete sentences? Agnès assures me I did fine.
“Did I seem nervous?”
“Only a bit,” she says with a wink.
Right.
I take a deep breath and walk into the gallery, frozen in disbelief as I take in my completed collection for the very first time. My canvases hang in a straight line along the white plaster walls, encased in ornate custom frames. Antique brass gallery lights illuminate each one, highlighting the details of the layered pastels and paint. My work has come to life.
Tears well up in the corners of my eyes. Nadiya grabs my hand and squeezes. Someone snaps a photo, and I’m made aware that I’m still being watched. In fact, I’ll have eyes on me this whole evening.
“Doors officially open in ten minutes,” Agnès tells us. “Work the room once people start to arrive. Don’t hide in a corner.”
I look to Nadiya, and she smiles. “Don’t worry, I’ll be by your side.”
True to her word, she doesn’t leave me once the doors open to the public. I glance at the entrance, expectant, but there’s not exactly a mad dash of people trying to get in. Most of the reporters have left now that they got what they needed. A couple wanders in, looks around curiously as if they aren’t sure what exactly is going on, and then leaves quickly. Nadiya gives me a reassuring glance.
Slowly, people trickle in, and then over the course of half an hour, half a dozen attendees turns into a dozen, and so on, until there’s enough of a crowd that I’m not left alone for long.
The language barrier isn’t so tough. Nadiya speaks French, so she helps translate. A good number of attendees speak patchy English, which makes it all the easier to talk about my art.
The first time I see a discrete black “sold” sign placed beside one of my canvases, I feel like my body is vibrating. It’s a complete adrenaline rush. The piece was for sale for $1,400. After the gallery and Nadiya take their cut, I’ll still be left with a nice chunk of money. I wish I could say that didn’t matter, that I create art for my soul and nothing else, but the truth is, if I want art to be my job and not just my hobby, I need to make money.
I think Nadiya was right about the price points and sizing for my work. Once the first piece sells, there’s a domino effect, as if now that my art has been deemed “worthy”, people aren’t hesitating to scoop up pieces. Down the line, “sold” signs are placed beside canvases. Buyers ask me to pose for photos in front of my work. I smile, though I feel slightly numb. I doubt I’ll be able to truly comprehend all of this until I’m back at my hotel room later, alone.
“Could you please sign my program?” a woman asks with an American accent, holding out the small white booklet that details each piece in the collection.
I nod. “Of course. Yes.”
I pat my dress, as if looking for phantom pockets, then grimace. “I don’t have a pen.”
“Oh, hold on, let me look,” she says, starting to dig in her purse.
I turn to Nadiya to ask her if she has one, and when I do, my gaze catches on the entrance of the gallery, or more precisely, the man standing there.
It’s hard to comprehend what I’m seeing in those first few seconds as Walt comes into view, bracketed by the doorway, backlit by the gentle light of the street. The Seine flows behind him and he stands absolutely still, taking me in.