Page 87 of Play Book

“The gallery is officially empty,” she says with a giggle.

“What?”

“I sold the last two pieces today. You have nothing left. Zero. Zip. Zilch.”

“Fuck.” Instead of being happy, I’m frustrated. What good is an art gallery with bare walls? I’m proud to have sold every piece of my art, but now what will I do? The classes I’m teaching will be over soon, and I don’t have another show until fall.

My own work is coming along, but I can’t rush it.

I’m going to have to come up with plans B, C, and D sooner rather than later.

“It’s going to be okay, you’re working on new stuff, right?”

“Yes, but I have a three-painting series that’s barely begun and a couple of small self-portraits that I’m not super happy with yet. Creativity takes time, and that doesn’t seem to be something we have an abundance of. I saved up paintings for nearly ten years before I opened the gallery. I never thought they’d all sell so fast.”

“And I’ve put myself out of a job,” she says with a laugh.

“I wish I knew what to do. I can only work so fast, and the two artists I know who want to have shows won’t be ready until fall and spring. That’s six months with nothing.”

“You need to do some networking in the art world.”

“I guess so.”

“Let me reach out to a friend in New York. Maybe she’ll have some ideas.”

“I appreciate you, Stevie.”

“No worries. Have fun on your date tonight!”

She disconnects, and I stare at my reflection in the mirror as I put in a pair of earrings.

Have I made a mistake in stepping back from modeling to focus on my art? I can’t paint fast enough to keep up with demand, and while that sounds like a good thing, I’m not so sure anymore. An empty gallery is…embarrassing. But I had over a hundred and fifty pieces before I opened. And they weren’t cheap. The fact that I sold them all is flattering, and I have a nice padding in my bank account, but what do I do going forward? The art classes brought in a few thousand dollars, and I can do another round because we’d wound up with a waiting list, but I want to spend my time painting and selling my art.

I simply can’t work any faster.

I honestly thought I had at least a year’s worth of art stockpiled. The plan was to finish the three I’ve started, complete the trio I was currently working on, and then do a series of self-portraits as a kind of homage to my modeling career.

Instead, I’m out of stock, time, and inspiration.

It’s hard to produce under this kind of pressure, and I’ve spent all week staring at my canvas without adding a single stroke of paint.

In the past, creativity poured out of me.

Now I feel stressed, pulled in too many directions, and confused about which path is the right one.

Do I want to paint or take on as many modeling and acting jobs as possible until the industry deems me too old?

The doorbell rings and I grab my clutch as I hurry to answer it.

“Hey, babe, just give me—” I freeze as I realize it’s not Canyon standing there, but Joel. “Oh. Hi. Sorry about that.”

“Got a date?” he asks with a grin.

“Yes, Canyon and I are going to dinner and the theater. What’s up?”

“There seems to be a leak in the bathroom.”

“Oh. Is it bad? Is there flooding?”

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