Part 1: My successful tale of life after college and starting my own gallery.
The sound of my phone ringing awoke me from my deep sleep, something I hadn't been getting a lot of lately. Without opening my eyes, I reached out blindly to feel for my phone on the bedside table. I grabbed it and answered it just as I was yawning and partially opening my eyes.
"Hello?" I said/yawned.
"Bells? Were you seriously sleeping at 2 in the afternoon?" a familiar voice questioned me with a partly incredulous and partly amused tone. I glanced over to the clock sitting next to me and confirmed that I had indeed slept until the afternoon.
"Give me a break, Eddie-boy. I was working until 4 this morning and I was exhausted."
"Don't call me that. And I guessed as much. What time does the exhibit start? Don't you have to primp and all that"
"What are we, back in the 1800s? I don't primp. The exhibit starts at 6 so I have plenty of time to get ready," I said, emphasizing the "get ready" part.
"Excuse me for using proper English. Geez homie, cut yo boy some slack," he said, trying to sound gangster. I cracked up into the phone as I listened to his silky smooth voice attempt to sound anything other than educated and proper.
"If you are done attempting to get hip with the lingo, I think I'll just go check on the setup. I wish you were coming, Edward," I trailed off sadly. It had been almost 4 years since I had left school and Edward. He was finishing his last year of Medical School before he came back to Seattle to do his residency at the same hospital as his father. Because of expenses and bad timing, we hadn't even crossed paths in those 4 years.
"I know, Bells. I should be there, but I can't. I am taking my finals in two weeks and then I'm coming home. For good. And I will practically live in your gallery at every moment that I'm not at the hospital." I smiled.
"I'll have to set up a cot in the back room, right next to mine. Cohabitation, but not really habitation. I could even bring in those emergency toilet things that have the curtains around them. We would never have to leave, except for when you go to the hospital. Then I guess you could use the bathroom there so the emergency toilet thing isn't really necessary. Except I would still need it. So that's going on my grocery list. Right under the extra cot and top ramen." He laughed his hearty laugh that filled my heart to the brim.
"Sounds like an excellent plan." He hesitated a moment before continuing. "Are you nervous?"
"More than I ever thought I would be."
"I wish I was there."
"I wish you were too."
"But guess what?"
"What?"
"You're going to have the emergency toilet thing to puke into so you don't even have to worry about that." I laughed.
"True that." We were silent for a few moments until the ringing of my landline made me jump back to the present.
"That's my other line," I said regretfully.
"Someone's popular today. I should go anyways. I'm supposed to be studying. Good luck tonight, Bells. You're going to knock their socks off."
"Bye hot stuff. Don't forget to call me tomorrow!" I finished quickly.
"Wouldn't dream of it." And then he was gone. I sprang out of bed and sprinted the couple steps into the kitchen just in time to catch the call before it went to voicemail.
"Hello?" I answered breathlessly.
"Isabella! I'm so glad you answered. I was wondering when you were planning on joining us at the grand opening of YOUR gallery," the voice on the other side questioned sarcastically.
"Hello Gianna." My representation, Gianna, was a piece of work. She was a gorgeous English woman in her mid thirties that had a knack for taking struggling artists under her wing and making them into big named stars. She found one of my paintings in the trash behind the art supplies store I worked at. She picked it out from the middle of yesterday's lunch and the remnants of today's tacos. To say I was shocked when she came storming through the doors and demanded to know where "this stroke of genius" came from would be the understatement of the century. I stuttered out something unintelligent that she dismissed with the flick of her hair.
"Never mind then. I can tell that this must belong to you. It's clearly a self-portrait of sorts. You brilliantly captured the expression of self-loathing and dissatisfaction that is currently etched across your brow." Guess I should work on that.
"Uh…thanks?" was my well-educated response. She sauntered over to the shelf that I was currently stocking with bulky frames and looked me straight in the eye.
"You have got the talent of the masters, darling, and I would be honored to lift you out of your current obscurity. Alright, then?" From then on, Gianna was my manager of sorts, selling my pieces to any buyer she could find, making me a small fortune. I then took that small fortune and I put it all into opening my own gallery, my lifelong dream. Gianna helped me advertise the opening and handled the business side of the venture while I spent every moment I wasn't painting or working at the store in my little gallery, planning its theme and its design. I had decided to stick with my specialty of portraits and go with the gallery name Expressions seeing as my paintings were all about expressing the unexpressed. Deep, I know. Today was the grand opening of the gallery and Gianna was running around like a chicken with its head cut off, classily of course. She was currently at the gallery overseeing the set up of the easels and the hanging of the paintings. Which is apparently why she was calling.
"Hello darling. I was just hoping you were going to get that pretty bum out of bed and down to the gallery. We're in a bit of a spot with some of the exact location of the paintings and it would really help if the ARTIST where here telling us what exactly she wanted." She sounded like she was about to have a panic attack.
"Gianna, breathe. I am getting dressed as we speak and heading down there in 5. I'll see you soon."
"You better not show up here in those blasted jeans and ratty t-shirt, love. I just might have to, as you say, flip a shit." I laughed and hung up the phone. I love that woman. Much to her dismay, I changed into a pair of jeans and my favorite t-shirt that Edward had given to me for my 16th birthday. It was a plain baby blue background with the simplest pictures of a group of nuns in the middle. Underneath were the words "All the single ladies." When I opened it, I cracked up. It was a long standing joke between Edward and me that we were both going to end up going into the church, me as a nun and him as a monk because of our perpetually single states. Of course, if it were up to me, we would be together but that's just because I have been secretly in love with him since our sophomore year. He however harbors nothing but platonic feelings for me. He's never actually said anything, but I kind of just assumed because he hasn't made a move on me in 12 years.
After getting dressed, brushing my teeth, throwing my hair into a messy bun on the top of my head, I grabbed my keys and rushed out the door and into my old truck, sending up silent prayers that my truck would work today. God was listening today because on the 5th try, it turned on. I sped out of my neighborhood and made it to my gallery in record time. I pulled into the back alley and walked into the open back door. The gallery itself was very open and airy. I painted the walls taupe that seemed to make the natural colors in the paintings pop. I sectioned off the gallery based on the subjects so there were sections for men, women, children, couples, families, and friends. Each section had a different quote painted underneath the section title that provided some background for why those things are important. For example, under the Women section is the quote "One is not born a woman, one becomes one." Painting women is my favorite because they are often the hardest to capture their true expressions. My second favorite is families because I love capturing the relationship and feelings between them. Under the title for families, I put the quote "Families are like fudge, mostly sweet with a few nuts." Edward said that one is his favorite. He also liked the one under the couples section which says, "Couples who love each other tell each other a thousand things without saying a word," commenting that it was very appropriate for an art gallery full of expressions.
As I was directing the handyman and fixing all my paintings so they would hang just right, I looked around my gallery and was overcome with the sudden emotion of it all. This little hole in the wall was my dream and it was coming together so quickly. I was terrified that it was going to fail, that I was going to fail. Gianna came over to where I was standing, staring blankly at a painting of two children at the park playing on the swing set. She set her hand on my shoulder and grasped my chin with her hand, turning me to look at her.
"When I saw your first painting, that self-portrait, I knew there was something to you. When I saw the rest of your paintings, especially that one of the mother and her newborn baby, I knew you were a gift. I haven't ever felt as confident in any of my artists as I feel with you. You're a good girl, you know. And a good artist. You're going to make it big, love. I just know it." She patted my reddened cheek and stalked off the find the rest of the table settings. Because it was the grand opening, I had contact flyers on tables around the gallery. The tables also held refreshments like assorted nuts and chocolates. At the back of the gallery was a table that had lemonade and coffee set up for any one to take. I wanted people to feel comfortable here, relaxed and at ease. Rosalie says that this place is like a mix between a boho coffee shop and a high-end museum. I guess that sums it up pretty nicely. Speaking of Rosalie, as I glanced at my watch, I realized she should be showing up at any minute. She was bringing my parents with her and there was only about half an hour before the press arrived and the gallery officially opened. I was sweating bullets and ready to enter into full panic mode when Rose swept through the door. She pulled me into a fierce hug and held on tight. I may or may not have leaked a few tears. Maybe. Probably not, though. She pulled back and glanced around the gallery.
"This place looks amazing, sis. You really pulled it off. I knew you would. The setup of the paintings is a stroke of genius."
"Thanks," I mumbled as I turned red at her compliment. I turned to the table at my right and fanned out the flyers. Rose saw what I was doing and went around to the other tables doing the same. After everything seemed to be in order, I stood by the entrance with Rose on one side and Gianna on the other and waited for the people to arrive. As if someone had flipped a switch right at 6, people started pouring in as soon as I had opened the doors. I stood back a little overwhelmed at the amount of people entering into my small gallery, but I smiled and greeted everyone politely. When a journalist arrived with a cameraman in tow, I started to freak a little, realizing that they were going to want pictures of me in my gallery. Ever since the modeling agency when Rose and I were 8, I had avoided pictures like the plague while Rosalie basked in them. I guess you could say I was a little traumatized and therefore never posed for pictures. Unless Rosalie pulled me into the frame or my dad was behind the camera, I was never photographed, which was how I liked it. I left that to Rose. However, this was my day and it was my gallery which meant they had to be pictures of me.
I was standing with an older couple who were questioning me on a painting of a couple around their age when Gianna came over and introduced me to the journalist, Paige Lewis and her cameraman, Tom. I excused myself politely from the couple and turned my attention to Paige and the interview that she seemed to be conducting on the spot. She asked about me, about my paintings, my art background, my inspirations, and finally my family. When she got to my family, she started to question me about Rosalie. I wasn't exactly expecting this, even though I should have, considering the fact that Rosalie was a renowned mechanic that worked on celebrity cars, invented a new type of fuel-efficient engine in college, and had several features in Car and Driver. She was every journalists dream story, all-American girl genius turned model, turned inventor, turned celebrity mechanic. I answered her questions as politely as I could, but tried to steer her attention back to the gallery. Unfortunately, at that moment, Rosalie came sauntering over to where I stood and introduced herself to the journalist. From there on, the interview was all about Rose. Truthfully, I should have known better. Rose LOVED to be interviewed. It was a chance to talk all about herself, one of her favorite topics. Usually she was understanding of my need to sometimes have the attention on me, but for some reason lately, she had been almost purposely overshadowing me. I didn't like it, but I didn't say anything because I didn't want to start an argument. I excused myself from the interview and was able to duck out without Paige Lewis even noticing. Rose glanced at me briefly with a guilty look on her face, but immediately turned her attention back to the interview. "So, how did it feel to be the only female picked out of a pool of applicants for this prestigi…"
The rest of the night passed in a similar manner. I tried to talk with as many people as I could, I answered their questions, I steered the journalists over to Rosalie after I had enough of them craning their necks to try to catch a glimpse of her, and I drank an insane amount of coffee. After the last person had left the gallery, long after my parents and sister went home, Gianna and I were the last ones at the gallery.
"You did good, dear. I'm so bloody proud of you. I'll come by tomorrow afternoon, yes?" I nodded my assent and smiled at her.
"Thanks for everything, Gi. I don't know how to ever repay you."
"Just keep giving me a quarter of the profits," she said with a wink. "Cheers, love."
After she had left, I stood in the middle of my gallery and looked around, going over the night. It was definitely a success and I had already sold a fair amount of paintings, but why was I feeling like such a failure? My self-portrait, the self-loathing one, flashed across my mind as I realized I just needed to go home and paint. The one thing I knew I could do.
