Page 37 of Painting Celia

“‘Excuse you’…what?”

Oh, she understood some Spanish? Well, it was LA. “Excuse me, queen,” he clarified, his voice sharper than he intended. He waited for a return challenge, but she only looked away.

Tires crunched on gravel as Trevor’s car came around the hairpin turn before her driveway. Thank god. Celia got in the passenger seat without a word. León sat in the back behind her, where he couldn’t see her.

“Glad you came out, Celia,” Trevor said. “I think you’ll like this gallery.”

If she replied, León couldn’t hear her. “What’s this showing like?” he asked. “Is it juried?”

“No,” Trevor said, “just one curator. It’s going to be a pretty big event.”

The car’s tight turns swayed León to the side, where he could just see Celia’s face, staring straight ahead.

“It’s multimedia,” Trevor continued, “covering several large rooms, with a gala on opening night. The works will only be up for two weeks, but there ought to be some deep pockets there the first night. Plenty of collectors.”

“You think I have a chance to get in?” León asked.

“Your work is good, and New York always has cachet,” Trevor said. “I’m just introducing you, though. Knowing the right people pays off. Andrew could network, but he seems content to teach. Not me. I’m going to have them calling me for work rather than having to hustle for it.”

“They already call you, Trevor,” Celia said.

“Bigger people. Vogue is going to call me,” he said confidently.

The gallery wasn’t far by LA standards, and Trevor dominated the conversation as they navigated traffic, naming people it would be handy to meet. León asked questions about framing and catalog requirements. Celia contributed nothing.

Trevor summed up the location as they drove through. They were between the Arts District and Boyle Heights neighborhood, straddling a boundary of the urban renewal battle. Handy for pulling from both populaces, León figured. The artists could ride the bus from the cheap side, and the rich could drive from wherever they lived. Up in the canyons, apparently.

The gallery was similar to that gin bar, a cavernous converted warehouse. A brilliant forest of ceiling fixtures pointed at mostly-bare brick walls. Pieces had come down in preparation for new ones coming.

As they waited for the curator, León watched Celia’s gaze wander around the space. Although she couldn’t stop fiddling with her necklace, she was wearing that deadpan mask she wore around people she didn’t know. Irritating!

A notice near the front desk advertised the upcoming exhibition, with “Last Chance” printed across it. Celia motioned at it, turning away to Trevor.

“They’re closing?”

“Oh, yeah. They’ve done well here, but there’s been opposition from the neighborhood to galleries in the area. Gentrification, you know. They’ve been renovating a smaller gallery downtown.”

“Is that why this show only runs for two weeks?” León asked, crowding forward, back into her line of sight.

“Yeah. They’ll have a longer one in their new space right away, but this show will be big. They have the whole space to fill.”

Celia’s gaze wandered over the brick walls and lofty ceilings. León watched her eyes try to light up, but get snuffed out by that damn control of hers.

“Hard to believe they'd let go of such a cool space,” she said.

The curator appeared, and Trevor made introductions. Celia listened sedately as León listed showings he’d had in New York and produced the sample cards of his best paintings. She was handed a few as they were passed around, a gentle blush rising on her chest, but her face was like stone.

Why had she even come?

Her prim silence was infuriating. She was so appealing when she opened up. She would have charmed this curator without saying a word. Instead, she looked at his cards blankly, even though he could see small telltale signs of interest. Was she even aware she was stuffing the feelings down?

To learn to paint, she’d have to break through that reserve.

León was politely invited to join the exhibition. They had space for three paintings and gave him the delivery date. He did his genuine best to respond enthusiastically. This did matter to his career.

Trevor and the curator began discussing an artist they both knew, and though León knew he should join in, he couldn’t concentrate with Celia bottling up reactions right in front of him. He bowed out of the conversation and took her by the elbow, walking her to the few hanging artworks.

“Tell me what you think of this painting,” he said, biting off the words.

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