During the day, the various skylights, glass ceilings, and reflective surfaces shimmered a dazzling but not blinding force of light across the main atrium and aortic passages, emphasizing ample use of vertical space with winding staircases.
At night, however, the sunken lighting took over, enhancing the entire museum with an astounding array of modern brightness that bathed the careful architecture and beautiful tiling work with majesty, grace, and exquisite accent.
It was one of my favourite places in the city, and it was a tremendous honor to have an exhibit dedicated to my paintings. The fact that I’d gained a fantastic working relationship with the head curator, Adam Garmont, was simply a coveted perk.
With some time to spare before her arrival, I ascended the last few stairs before the drop-off to my corner of the gallery. I turned at the passage away from the ascent, striding alongside the circular railing that gave a stunning view of the lower atrium levels, and passed several galleries featuring recovered artifacts and priceless art that made my head spin.
But that was nothing compared to when I stepped into my gallery.
Gloria Van Lark matched every story I heard of her. With her attention focused on a wintery landscape piece I’d painted on a five-foot canvas, she stood tall, hawkish, with long black hair and half-moon spectacles. She was dressed in form-fitting black attire under a flowing coat, a colorful shawl, and a pair of white, cubic earrings that glistened as the light touched the fine jewelry tips.
Oh sweet Jesus, Gloria Van Lark is here.
I could feel my phone buzz in my pocket, and I moved to silence the tone from my group texts. Although she stood thirty feet away, Gloria’s head twisted to regard me coolly, and her face settled into a small, wicked smile.
“You should know better than to disturb others with your technology, Riley.”
Just hearing her lips speak my name clashed against the incredible embarrassment I felt at the social faux pas. I quickly dug my phone out and silenced it, slipping it back into my purse.
“Miss Van Lark, it is… an absolute pleasure to finally meet you,” I spoke as I approached her, summoning all the courage my heart could muster.
“Charmed,” she spoke almost sarcastically, extending her delicately manicured hand. I noticed a flash of green across her nails as I lightly shook it, matching her pressure.
“What brings you to New Orleans?” I asked politely.
She ignored the question, turning back to face the wintery landscape. “I see that you rely on a clear coat water-based style. Popularized to American culture by the famous Bob Ross.”
“I grew up watching his work,” I nodded, fondly remembering his thick, curly afro, his soft and gentile voice, and the kindness in those old, warm eyes.
“Yes, as did many,” she replied. “He did great things for making the production of passable art accessible to otherwise talentless imbeciles… in some cases, those said imbeciles came to learn a touch of greatness… it was rare, but it happened.”
I nodded along, trying to determine if she was commenting on American culture, or insulting me. I assumed it was probably both.
“I’ve heard of you in passing, Riley.”
“What have you heard of me?” I asked, trying to keep the sheer curiosity out of my tone.
“A number of things: that you’ve a natural at your craft, that you work quickly and efficiently, that you are a humble but confident artist with friendly working relationships with a dozen museums in this city alone… what do you have to say about these things?”
I was caught a little off-guard as she turned her undivided attention to me, the creases around her eyes settling into a deep, analytic gaze.
“I… would say that you haven’t heard wrong,” I responded. “I work hard at this,” I waved to the paintings surrounding us. “I’ve dedicated my life to the craft. I’ve been lucky enough to support myself exclusively through my art… sent on international retreats… that I’ve–”
“Yes, yes, your resume is very impressive,” she drolly commented. “If you honestly think I care even the slightest about your past, then you fail to grasp what will earn a single spot in the Spinnoc.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Tell me, Riley, do you deserve a place in the Spinnoc?”
I didn’t know how to answer this, and I suspected that it was a trick question. Does she want me to be bold, or does she want me to be humble? What does this woman want from me?
I answered the first thing that came to mind.
“…No.”
Her eyes flared open.
I clarified: “Miss Van Lark, with absolutely all due respect… I don’t deserve a spot, but I want one. It’s all I’ve wanted for years… and I feel that I can earn it, if I haven’t already.”
It was only then that I noticed a few other patrons in the gallery, perusing my art. They appeared to recognize me, which wasn’t difficult, given that my face was on a nearby wall-mounted foam board with a short biography. It was a few small groups of people: one, a lithe, elderly woman, was speaking to a younger couple in a hushed tone and watching me.
Gloria Van Lark leaned in closely with a crisp, cold smile, so that only I could hear her response: “I will be in touch, Miss Ricketts.”
With that, she lifted her chin and strolled from the room, leaving me stone-faced and defeated. I knew what that meant. I’d heard the stories.
The legendary curator had turned me down.
My shoulders rose as I took in a deep, hectic breath, struggling to come to grips with the opportunity that had just sailed past me.
“What a bitch,” an old voice whispered quietly to me. I turned my head, snapping back to reality, and noticed the lithe, elderly woman at my side. “Who was that, anyway?”
“Her name is Gloria Van Lark,” I answered mechanically, feeling the life start to slip back into my veins. “She’s a powerful and influential curator… she headhunts for one of the most prestigious museums in the country.”
The old woman chuckled. “She didn’t look all that impressive to me. All that black? Bah. What is it with people and black? You’re in a museum, not a godforsaken funeral! Chirp up!”
I couldn’t help but laugh.
“That’s right, that’s a good girl,” the woman smiled softly. “You’re the one who painted all of this, aren’t you? What was it… Riley Ricketts?”
“That’s me,” I nodded. “Do you like it?”
She gave the room another glance. “If you want an old crone’s opinion… I certainly think you’ve got a knack for this. How long have you been painting?”
“Since I was old enough to hold a paintbrush.”
“Heh. Good answer. A little cliché, but it gets the point across,” she winked. “Anyway… don’t get your hopes down. Sounded like you really respected that woman… I’m sure you’ll get another chance down the line. You never know. Maybe it’s just not your time yet.”
I smiled fondly at her. “You’re very kind.”
“I’m told that sometimes,” she laughed. “Well… I’ve got to get back to my grandson.” She indicated the male half of the younger couple, standing over to the side, near the exit of the room. They didn’t appear to be watching for her. “But before I go, why don’t we look at this one together?”
She pointed me towards one of my earlier pieces, the painting of an arguing couple on a bridge during noon. I had been experimenting with a post-modern influenced style at the time. I wasn’t terribly fond of this one anymore, but it was considered a classic in the circles who appreciated my work.
“Why don’t you tell me what you were thinking when you painted this one?” She whispered behind me.
I fell into a small trance, thinking back on that time in my life. It was before I had won the Finland scholarship, and taken the artist’s retreat. It was from a more chaotic time, when I still struggled with my foster parents and their wishes for the direction I was going to take in life.
I snapped out of my thoughts. “I don’t think
very much when I paint,” I answered. “But this comes from a rough time in my teenage years… at the time, I was conflicted over–”
Glancing back over my shoulder, I noticed that the three of them – elderly museum patron included – were completely gone.
With a soft, recollecting smile, I silently thanked the stranger for her tenderness and her kindnesses, and I turned back to silently regard my old painting once again.
Chapter 10
Lex
I got it into my head that I wanted Riley to see a little more of the kind of lifestyle I usually led. That’s why I booked a private suite in one of the most expensive hotels around, surprising her in her apartment with a room pass.
“The Frione?” She asked, tilting her head as she studied the small, plastic card on its lanyard. “You booked us a room at the freaking Frione?”