Imperfect Ch. 03

The thing that I had nearly forgotten was that what I told my mother on the phone was only half a lie. I really did have a meeting with a guy from a gallery, just not that day, but the next- Saturday. Lucky for me it wasn't until two, so even though I has slept till noon, I had (barely) enough time to pull my hung over, sex rumpled self together and get my ass to my appointment on time, and (hopefully) looking at least semi-professional.

The man's name was Guy, and he was about 65, with short silvery gray hair. He was very handsome and sophisticated, but unfortunately for me, I could tell within moments that he was gay. Maybe at a later date, I could introduce him to Glen, if he wasn't already involved with someone else.

Anyway, if Guy noticed anything was off, it didn't show. He seemed impressed by me and my work. He wanted to put three of my paintings up in an exhibit called "Flights of Fantasy" which was going to be showing for about three weeks, depending on the reception. He wasn't going to buy them, but if they sold, we would share the profit 30% for him, 70% for me. He didn't really expect them to sell, because type of showing usually generated more lookers than buyers, but the exposure would be good for me.

He told me to price them however I wanted, so I put $100 on them each, thinking that was pretty high. Just in case, I took photo's of them and put them in my portfolio with the label, "Old Town Gallery. Exhibit: Flights of Fantasy. Price $100 each." and the date. Weather they sold or not, my portfolio was important both to document my progress, and to show other galleries or clients what I could do and had done.

Guy liked most of my fantasy work, so he left it to me to choose the three to include. I selected a willowy dryad emerging from a tree in a forest near a small lake, another with a colorful confetti burst of butterflies mixed in with pixies, so that you don't notice the pixies right away, but when you do you sorta stop and go, "Oh!" And the third one was a painting I had done using Zoë as my model some time before. The fairy stood with her back to the viewer. She had heavy almost velvety wings spread wide open while her legs where crossed at the ankle. She was levitating just a few inches from the top of an end table, and her face was turned so that you could see a full view of her beauty. Her expression was quite cheeky- cute and impertinent. It was one of my favorites, but I wanted to show it off. After looking over it for a good long while, I crossed off what I had written on the price card and wrote "Not for Sale."

The first night of the exhibit opening, the local paper showed my "Not for Sale" on the front of their Arts section. I bought at least five copies, clipped one out for myself and another to mail to mom. Then I clipped the rest and put them in a folder so I could toss out the rest of the paper. I called Zoë to tell her the good news, but she wasn't home.

The second night, my dryad picture sold. I was amazed. Somebody somewhere had a "Nicole London" hanging up in there home! I felt like I officially had made it.

A couple of days later my mother called again. She had gotten the pictures.

"Congratulations," she said in a gracious manner before launching into what this would all mean for my personal life.

"So what's the guy from the gallery like?"

"He's gay mom."

"Oh," she was disappointed I could tell.

"Well, what about the guy who bought your painting?"

"I don't know anything about him, if it even is a him. They don't tell you these things."

"They don't!" she was shocked. "You mean somebody had your painting and you don't even know who?"

"It's not my painting anymore, mom. It belongs to whoever bought it."

"Hmff!" was all she said. "Maybe you'll meet someone at the gallery?" she asked hopefully.

"Maybe, mom."

"Just don't-"

"Give away the milk for free. I know mom."

"My daughter, a famous painter! You'll have no trouble finding a man now!"

I didn't know where to start with this one. "I don't- I mean, I'm not famous mom. It's just one painting."

"And two more up in a gallery for hundreds of people to look at. Oh your sure to find the man of your dreams. He'll take one look at your talent and he'll have to have you."

"It's a painting, mom, not a personal ad."

"Well, all the same. Congratulations honey , I'm so proud of you!"

And then she was gone. Funny how when I want to get off the line, she just keeps going and going but when she's done- she's just gone. I was left feeling like the only reason she was proud was because- in her mind at least- I was one step closer to the alter- and giving her those grandchildren she so was dreaming about spoiling. Oh well, at least she called. It gave me a chance to think about what a failure I was as a daughter, even while my career seemed to be taking off.

Just as I was about to let myself wallow in self pity, the phone rang. It was Glen.

"I saw the papers. It's just FAB-ulous. Do I get an autograph?"

I chuckled. "Sure Glen, whatever makes you happy."

"Darlin' what makes me happy, you can't give!"

"Well, maybe I can. Would you like to go with me to check out the exhibit. I haven't been there yet, and I don't want to go alone."

"I thought you'd never ask!"

It took Glen about twice as long to get ready as it took me, so after I changed into the most elegant thing I owned and painted my fingernails and let them dry I called him back. No answer, I guessed that he must be on his way.

"You look WON-derful!" he exclaimed when I opened the door. "Va-va-va-Voom!"

"Thanks Glen," I said, kissing his cheek. "You look wonderful too." He wore a salmon colored dress shirt with no tie under a navy jacket with matching pants. His leather belt was coordinated with his top quality Italian shoes, shined up just for the occasion. He also wore an expensive watch. Glen was a man who paid attention to the details.

Once in the door, he took my hand and spun me. "Let me get a good look at you," he said, making me feel a little giggly and little girlish. My gown was a deep blue velvet spaghetti straps with a modest neckline but I more daring low draped back. On my feet I wore silver sling backs with a medium-high heal.

There's something about the attention of a gay man that's surprisingly reassuring. After all- he's not trying to get in your pants, so there's no ulterior motive- but he's still a man so his opinion means something different than if your girls tell you the same thing. I basked in his compliments for a moment. Who doesn't love to be told they are FAB-ou-lous?

I offered Glen a Pepsi, but he was eager to leave, "Besides, I'm bubbly enough inside right now, just looking at you!" he enthused. Did I mention exuberance? There's nothing like it when it comes along with a compliment.

We were taking Glen's car, so we went out to his black sedan and he courteously opened the door for me and even held my hand as I got in. I felt like Cinderella going to the ball.

It was about 7:30 when we got there, and it was just starting to get dusky outside. Inside, people milled around with plenty of room to navigate. It certainly wasn't a crowd, but it wasn't deserted either. As we entered, I saw the first collection, painted in flowing watercolors. There were about five pictures featuring garden fairies flitting around over various flowers and plants. They had a very soft and misty quality, similar to the Mona-Lisa.

Another grouping showed dragons in bold colors and scantily clad women in metal armor who were riding them, taming them or standing beside them. Another artist we passed featured ancient mythological motifs, mainly women in there everyday activities being approached by gods disguised as some animal or other. I noticed that the grouping was sub-titled "Rape and Ravishment" and seemed to have caused a small amount of buzz.

As we made our way through the gallery, I saw Guy walking toward us. He was dressed in black pants with a belt, a lime green t-shirt and a draped black sweater that looked like it must have come from a runway in Milan or Paris.

"Ah! Miss London!" he called out as he approached. Your work is an absolute smash!" He was bold an exuberant in his speech, but then he lowered about an octave to a more conspiratorial tone. "Who's your fiend?" With that he tipped his head toward Glen and lifted one eyebrow, a combination of question and interest on his face.

"Guy," I introduced him, "This is one of my dear friends, Glen. Glen this is Guy, he owns this gallery."

The two of them shook hands, and I noticed that Guy gave Glen's hand an extra little squeeze. "Won-derful to meet you," Glen told him airily. "Likewise." the gallery owner replied. For a few moments I felt invisible and then Guy turned to me. "I hope you are enjoying yourself. If there's AN-y thing you need, you just holler." Just then a well dressed man walked by with a tray of campaign and Glen took two and handed one to each of us. When the caterer departed he said, "Well, I must be off, but-" and then he looked at Glen with bedroom eyes, "I'll be seeing you around."

When he was out of earshot, I grabbed Glen around the arm and pulled him toward my exhibit. "Wow! He's got the hots for you, what do you think?"

"He's QUITE a number. But I'm not going to get my panties in a bunch just yet. He was just flirting. He's probably like that with all the boys."

"We'll see," I said hopefully, leading him around in search for my paintings. At last we reached the spot.

"Here it is," I announced. The tall rectangular dryad picture had a sign above it announcing "Sold" and I felt both pride and pang. I wouldn't be getting it back, it was going out into the world on it's own. I felt like a mother sending her son off to college, and I guess I realized how my own mother must have felt. No wonder she calls me all the time. There would be no phone calls for my painting however. After I left the gallery, I would probably never see it again.

"What's this?" Glen asked, breaking my reverie. "Getting sentimental already?"

"I think I'm experiencing separation anxiety."

"But don't you give your paintings away all the time?" he asked gently.

All the time? No not all the time. Sometimes. I can't afford to be giving paintings away left and right but I know what he meant. "Yes, but I always know where they are going to end up! That sounds silly, I know."

"No. It's not silly. But cheer up honey. You're a working artist. You're a success! You're fabulous!!!"

That made me laugh. "Thanks Glen. Let's go look at some of the rest of the exhibits." It's good to have a friend who can make you laugh when you come close to having an emotional breakdown in a public place.

We looked through the other displays. Many of them where quite impressive and humbling. I felt awed to be in the same group with artists like the one who's Ferry mural depicted fairies rowing what looked like human souls across a stream in various watercraft formed from flowers and leaves. The only hint that it wasn't a photograph was the nature of the subject.

Then there was the scandalous grouping of Flower Women who stood in a garden with flowers between their spread legs. The flowers were obviously a part of them, attached to their anatomy and planted into the ground. Was this meant as a statement that we are being held down by our anatomy? Or just an example of how nature repeats the same beautiful patterns throughout? The women were labeled by names such as Lilly, Rose, Violet, and Jonquille. It was beautiful with amazing effect, but slightly disquieting. Every exhibit or course must feature some erotic art, something controversial to get people talking, and of course to prompt at least one critic to claim that "all art is erotic." This was certainly all of the above. It was beautiful, shocking and provocative. Looking at it, I felt dwarfed, and completely untalented. My pictures were so provincial, so devoid of metaphor or hidden deeper meaning. What was I doing in this gallery among all of these great talents? I was a fraud.

"Hey!" Glen said, pushing me with his hip. "Your just as good as this Flower Woman is! And don't you be thinking any different." I smiled and we walked on as an argument began to break out about the merits (or lack there-of) of sexually shocking art.

"I don't want to see that," I heard one man comment as I departed. "And if I don't want to look at something, it ain't what I'd call art!"

"Ah, everybody's a critic," Glen said with a smile. I was glad to get away from there just in time to avoid the entire discussion. The last thing I needed was to get embroiled in some heated debate about what are was or what it wasn't. To me, art just is. I don't think it really needs to be defined. But it's a hard side to adequately defend on the spur of the moment. Most people don't quite understand what I'm talking about or they start saying stuff like, "Are you saying anything can be art?" and then they start listing weird out of the way things for me to pronounce as art or not. Like feces paintings or twisted mangled metal or a bare light bulb in an empty room or performance art. Hey, I don't get these things either. But just because I'm a painter, doesn't mean I was appointed the last word on what is or isn't really art. From my experience, most of us who actually create art are a lot less willing to define or limit art than those who don't. I really wonder about this sometimes. But it's best not to say things like this- they tend to alienate your audience.

Even though I'm hadn't been a commercial artist up till now, I still have a sense of concern for the audience. I think every artist secretly wants to be loved- for there work and for themselves. When someone doesn't like you, they tend to be harsher toward your work, and when someone doesn't like your work, it can feel like a personal rejection, even when it's not.

Amazingly, I also found some artists whose work was on display that I felt was inferior to mine. Not in a snobbish way, I don't think but in a sort of reassuring way. It feels ok to be in the middle area between the adequate and the awesome. I guess that's pretty much how I feel about myself as well. I'm not completely untalented, but I'm not the best. I'm not rich, but I'm not starving. I'm certainly not ugly, maybe even beautiful, but not perfectly so. I have faults and flaws and I do my best to hide them and to emphasize my strengths, but I know they're there. I know that my breasts look perky because of my under wire, not because they really defy gravity. I know that my belly looks best covered in a one piece than on display in a skimpy bikini. But I also know that with the right outfit, I can make it look like you'd want to see me in that skimpy bikini. I know that with just a touch of plastic surgery and some braces I could have perfectly straight teeth and a cute little nose, but I'm pretty much ok with being imperfect- most of the time. I know that I could die my hair blonde and my sex appeal would sky rocket. But I'm happy with my black tresses even though they could use a trim and even though it's not what the TV and magazines tell me is "in." I'm not perfect, but I'm good enough. And I'm thankful for what I've got.

My friends- they're flawed too. How can an imperfect person have perfect friends? They aren't the hippest, or the smartest or the richest people in the world either. But they are open minded, fun, generous and forgiving. Those are the things that really matter, in my book.

I had a chance to meet with some of the other artists while I was there, and that helped to ground me to. It always come as a slight shock to me (even though it shouldn't) that they are people too. Some are young, some are old, some are jerks and some are nice. Some are attractive and some are not. Artists are not all the beautiful people like they always seem to portray them in the media. They have about the same proportion as the rest of the population. For some reason it often comes as a shock to see the painter of really delicate lovely images and they turn out to be a bony, angled gnarled old man with a crooked nose and yellow teeth. But it happens- it happens a lot.

Kristin Slate, the painter who created Flower Women was a young college student with an neo-hippie activist sort of feeling about her. She was full of ideas about how the world should be, about patriarchy, about oppression, about women in all corners of the world sold into slavery or doomed to lives in corporate bondage. I found her fascinating. She had been involved with a lot of service work with various organizations and had lots of stories to share about the places she'd been and the changes she was trying to bring about. While I was engrossed in listening to her, Glen excused himself to go do a little bit of man-hunting. There's never a shortage of gay men at an art gallery, and I couldn't expect to keep him to myself the whole night.

Kristin knew a number of the other artists and introduced me to a few. Becket Winter had a beautiful pen and ink display with some very intricate drawings of lesser known mythologies. I was amazed at what he could do with the use of only black and white. "I do use colored inks as well, but the black and white always get the best response. Plus, in an exhibit like this, they really stand out. That's always a plus."

Massimo was a foreign sounding artist with no last name apparently necessary. But I got the feeling that his accent was fake, and Kristen agreed with me later that he was totally pretentious. His paintings used darker colors, thick outlining and obscure subjects. His style was somewhere between realistic and abstract and almost gave the impression of stained glass, if stained glass were completely opaque.

Cassidy Keen was the painter of some lovely watercolors in a series called Magick. They featured swirls and other patterns that were quite lovely to look at. Cassidy was a short heavyset woman with thinning gray hair. She wore a blue button up shirt un-tucked over a pair of jeans. She has a face that reminded me of Cinderella's fairy godmother in the Disney movie, and a sweet personality to match.

I was having a wonderful time meeting with some of the artists who were there that night. And Glen was apparently having a great time to. Occasionally he'd flit over to me with some little tid-bit of gossip or just his high hopes for the direction things were taking with Guy. It seemed they were really hitting it off.

By the time we left, Glen had Guy's phone number and I had made several valuable contacts. It had been a good day. Gen seemed to agree. We were both in high spirits as he drove me back home.