Page 11 of Taking A Chance

There are two kinds of artists: Those who don’t concern themselves and only show up exactly when they’re supposed to, and those who want to make sure every painting goes in exactly the right spot based on lighting and flow. I’m the latter. My exhibit— “Women in Motion”—is part of a larger exhibit featuring other artists.

We all have our own rooms in the gallery. I’ve filled my space with twelve pieces I recently finished, including women I know and strangers alike. Why, I’m not sure, but this particular show has me a little more nervous than usual. Perhaps because these pieces are really important to me. I find the more attached to the art I am, the more anxiety I feel about sharing it.

I make a few adjustments to the originally planned layout, and then the exhibit workers begin to mount them. My top priority is making sure there’s a flow to it. Certain works need to be beside one another to make sense, at least in my mind. A few are intentionally opposing—sharp lines next to soft ones. I’m excited to see how the crowd reacts tonight.

After finishing up, I head to a room in the back to change. Tonight, I have to play the part of afancy artisttype. It’s my least favorite thing about this. I’m just a guy who paints. But half the people I’ve met while doing this are surprised by me, having expected me to be gay. The other half assumes I use my talent as a way to get women into bed. I can’t win. So, I just let everyone think what they want. I live my life exactly the way I choose to. If they’re going to judge me no matter what, I might as well be happy.

I throw on a black suit, keeping my white collared button-up open at the top, and try to tame my shoulder-length hair into submission. It’s mostly smoothed down, not that it matters. I’ll likely run my hands through it ninety times before the night is over. I secure a hair tie around my wrist, just in case, then emerge from the back. Some people have started to trickle in. It’s always slow for the first half hour or so.

“There you are, man,” Ryan says, pulling me over to a group of people to introduce me.

“Which exhibit is yours?” one of the women asks, and I point in the direction of my pieces.

Theyoooandahhas they make their way across the floor to the first of my pieces. As they ask me questions, I explain my perspectives. My reasons for the choices in each piece. Anything they want to hear. I’m pretty much a dancing monkey for the rest of the night. Ryan needs me to talk them into buying. That’s the game. Not that I mind, but I’d much rather feel like I don’t need to perform for a sale.

Then again, the entire reason I have Ryan is so I’m not a literal starving artist. Back in college, when I began painting, it didn’t matter if the pieces sold. It didn’t matter if they were chosen for exhibits. I had my righteous artistic outlook and that was it. Unfortunately, you can’t eat or pay bills with that, so Ryan offered to help. He majored in business anyway, and felt I could be doing a lot better for myself.

After graduation, I got a day job but kept at it. Eventually, with his help, I was able to quit that shit job and make a decent living painting full-time. Sometimes commissioned pieces, other times gallery exhibits that sell out. Honestly, Ryan made the whole thing possible. Without him, I’d likely be eating Ramen every day and living in someone’s basement, painting away and earning shit.

The crowd begins to grow, with more people filtering in by the minute. An hour into the event and the place is crawling with collectors.

I grab a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and scan the room, taking in all the spectators. That’s my favorite part of this. All those faces, all those emotions. Turning my attention to the window, a flash of red catches my eye and I halt my scanning. Outside the gallery on the sidewalk below, Cora’s standing with someone. She’s chatting away with them and laughing. It dawns on me that she’s in line to come inside, but it’s not moving quickly. They tend to make sure the space isn’t overfilled, only letting people in as some let out.

“Ryan?” I yell over my shoulder to my friend.

He’s just behind me, taking a break from entertaining buyers and hitting on one of the waitresses.Typical.

“Yeah, man?” he asks, coming up and placing a hand on my shoulder.

“Go make sure they get in,” I say, tipping back my flute and swallowing the last of the liquid in my glass.

“Whoa, is that the carrot cake from the other night?” he asks, licking his lips.

“Just go,” I say. I swear to god, if he doesn’t stop calling hercarrot cake, I’m going to punch him.

He slips through the crowd and makes his way to the front door. I step back from the window, watching Cora’s red hair cut through the crowd, presumably at the request of Ryan and the doorman.

I find a waiter, swiping three flutes from his tray before I move back toward my paintings. If I know anything, it’s that Ryan will lead them straight over. I sip from one of the flutes, balancing the others by the stems tucked between my fingers. Big hands come in handy sometimes.

Sure enough, I hear Ryan’s voice behind me, and I turn as it grows louder.

“Here he is, the man of the hour,” Ryan says, clasping my shoulder again.

“Hello, love,” I say, stretching out my hand to give Cora and her friend the champagne.

Cora’s jaw hangs open, and I have no doubt she’s shocked as hell that I’m here. She blinks several times in rapid succession as she takes the glasses from me, handing one to her friend who’s smiling wide and staring at me.

“Hi, I’m Declan Walsh,” I say, reaching out to shake her hand.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry. Declan, this is my friend Claire. Claire, Declan,” Cora says, clearly waking up to the situation at hand.

“So nice to officially meet you, Declan. I’ve seen you outside Cora’s apartment. She’s told me so much about you,” Claire says, shaking my hand. Her smile grows even wider somehow.

“Oh, she has?” I tease, eyeing Cora, who shoots back half her glass at the mere mention.

“What are you doing here?” Cora asks as she lowers her flute.

“I should ask you the same thing,” I counter, sipping casually.

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