Read Online Then Kiss Me by Jade C. Jamison - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jade C. Jamison
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way my mother chafed me, her analogy made sense. But I had to get out there. I had to market my art; I had to sell myself. So at my first opportunity, I went back to the Main Street Art Gallery.
The tall, tight woman whom I’d given my application to before was still manning the desk. She smiled and I thought she might have recognized me. This time, though, I’d walked in armed with framed paintings—two acrylics, one oil, and three watercolors. My oil painting was abstract and strange—if I dropped acid on a regular basis, I would have blamed that painting on my fractured LSD mind, but that was not the case. I’d just been particularly inspired one day. The background was vivid red s and blue s , swirled together but not blending, so there was no purple. Instead, they were clashing. In the foreground was a long, thin arm that looked like it was covered in an old-fashioned black evening glove and in between the woman’s index and middle fingers was an equally old-fashioned cigarette filter holding a lit, smoldering thin white cigarette with a glowing tip. But the edges of everything were fuzzy and muted and the background was just…unsettling. And on top of the blue and red swirls was a trail of gray smoke to the top of the painting. I don’t know what had inspired that picture, aside from the fact that my smoking addiction must have been bothering me subconsciously. It was a disturbing painting—why exactly I don’t know, but I was damn proud of it.
The two acrylics were kind of boring, actually, but I hadn’t been able to get a good feel for what kind of art the gallery liked or what types of art the owner preferred. Looking around her gallery, I couldn’t be sure. And she spent a lot of time looking at those two still l ifes …one a stupid bowl of fruit, the other, a collection of different shapes and colors of drinking glasses. What I liked about that one, though, was how I was able to capture the light playing on the glass. And the watercolors were nature scenes. Why I preferred doing those in watercolor, I’ll never know. Probably because of the precision they required. With acrylic and oil, I could correct my mistakes over and over, but the watercolors demanded perfection from the get go. I had to sketch out the scene first and there, of course, I could make some mistakes, because I could erase the pencil, but once I started painting, I was committed. It was kind of exciting, actually.
Well, the owner ( Isabel ) perused my works for quite some time, and I was sure she was just humoring me. I finally started looking around the gallery at the art there for something to do while she toyed with my emotions (well, and to try to get a good feel for what she was looking for) . But then as I made my way back to the front, she said, “I’ll take this one.” I couldn’t believe my ears. She took my acid trip painting (which I’d entitled “The Party”) and offered to sell it on commission. I didn’t even care what her cut would be. I was just thrilled she was going to give me a chance. And after I left, I decided that once a week, I would try to put myself out there. Next week, I’d go back to the Arts Center and the week after, I’d go to one of the restaurants that sold art. I’d never become a famous artist (or anything even resembling one) if I didn’t get my work out there. So I determined I’d stop being shy (or whatever the fuck the weird embarrassed emotion was I’d feel when I was showing my stuff off) and do my best to get my work seen.
As I was leaving, Isabel said, “If I don’t have problems selling this one, I’ll want more like it.”
Ahhhh …so she liked my weird shit. Can do , I thought. Maybe I could shop my tamer stuff to other places.
In the meantime, I’d keep the cooking job because it was paying the bills.
Oh, and there was Scott, of course. I liked being forced to see him several days a
The tall, tight woman whom I’d given my application to before was still manning the desk. She smiled and I thought she might have recognized me. This time, though, I’d walked in armed with framed paintings—two acrylics, one oil, and three watercolors. My oil painting was abstract and strange—if I dropped acid on a regular basis, I would have blamed that painting on my fractured LSD mind, but that was not the case. I’d just been particularly inspired one day. The background was vivid red s and blue s , swirled together but not blending, so there was no purple. Instead, they were clashing. In the foreground was a long, thin arm that looked like it was covered in an old-fashioned black evening glove and in between the woman’s index and middle fingers was an equally old-fashioned cigarette filter holding a lit, smoldering thin white cigarette with a glowing tip. But the edges of everything were fuzzy and muted and the background was just…unsettling. And on top of the blue and red swirls was a trail of gray smoke to the top of the painting. I don’t know what had inspired that picture, aside from the fact that my smoking addiction must have been bothering me subconsciously. It was a disturbing painting—why exactly I don’t know, but I was damn proud of it.
The two acrylics were kind of boring, actually, but I hadn’t been able to get a good feel for what kind of art the gallery liked or what types of art the owner preferred. Looking around her gallery, I couldn’t be sure. And she spent a lot of time looking at those two still l ifes …one a stupid bowl of fruit, the other, a collection of different shapes and colors of drinking glasses. What I liked about that one, though, was how I was able to capture the light playing on the glass. And the watercolors were nature scenes. Why I preferred doing those in watercolor, I’ll never know. Probably because of the precision they required. With acrylic and oil, I could correct my mistakes over and over, but the watercolors demanded perfection from the get go. I had to sketch out the scene first and there, of course, I could make some mistakes, because I could erase the pencil, but once I started painting, I was committed. It was kind of exciting, actually.
Well, the owner ( Isabel ) perused my works for quite some time, and I was sure she was just humoring me. I finally started looking around the gallery at the art there for something to do while she toyed with my emotions (well, and to try to get a good feel for what she was looking for) . But then as I made my way back to the front, she said, “I’ll take this one.” I couldn’t believe my ears. She took my acid trip painting (which I’d entitled “The Party”) and offered to sell it on commission. I didn’t even care what her cut would be. I was just thrilled she was going to give me a chance. And after I left, I decided that once a week, I would try to put myself out there. Next week, I’d go back to the Arts Center and the week after, I’d go to one of the restaurants that sold art. I’d never become a famous artist (or anything even resembling one) if I didn’t get my work out there. So I determined I’d stop being shy (or whatever the fuck the weird embarrassed emotion was I’d feel when I was showing my stuff off) and do my best to get my work seen.
As I was leaving, Isabel said, “If I don’t have problems selling this one, I’ll want more like it.”
Ahhhh …so she liked my weird shit. Can do , I thought. Maybe I could shop my tamer stuff to other places.
In the meantime, I’d keep the cooking job because it was paying the bills.
Oh, and there was Scott, of course. I liked being forced to see him several days a
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