Page 36 of Bullied by the Boss
“I only arrived three days ago, but it’s been an amazing experience already. I’m a bit surprised by the people, the architecture…honestly, I’m a bit surprised by just about everything so far.”
Max had offered a gentle, knowing laugh while guiding me to sit at the room’s small table and placing a mug filled with surprisingly good, rich black coffee in front of me. “It’s an unusual and rather magical place. I spent many years in my youth traveling the world, but when I arrived here, some part of my heart knew almost instantly that I was meant to stay.”
Something deep in my chest had tightened at her words. What would it feel like to belong somewhere, to have a home that just…fits? I’d felt like I’d belonged with Jordyn when I was younger, but in all of my years of travel, no location has ever felt quite right. No other person has either. I found myself thankful she didn’t wait for a response before continuing.
“I fancied myself a great artist in those days, and while I still paint, of course, my real passion is supporting other artists. I was twenty-nine when I met my previous business partner, Gary. He had a small gallery at the time, and he approached me about showing some of my work. We became close friends quite quickly, and I began helping him search for other artists. Three years later, I took over that side of his business, and we were happy and successful for nearly twenty years. Several years ago, he got married, and they decided to spend some time traveling before they got too old.”
Her musical laugh had filled the space with warmth as she toyed with the ends of her long white hair. “Time sneaks up fast, and while there are days that I miss his physical presence here in the space, he’s happy, and I love that for him. His departure allowed me the opportunity to offer Emily a partial ownership share. Emily’s work had already been on display for nearly ten years, and her pieces were consistently some of the most popular among both new and established patrons. They still are.”
“Max, stop.” Emily’s embarrassed half laugh, half snort cut in. “He doesn’t need to hear you brag like we’re at your kid’s dance recital or something.”
Max waved Emily’s objections off with a light flick of her hand. “Nonsense, of course he does.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at their lovingly antagonistic dynamic. Max was clearly both a friend and a mentor of sorts, and the vibe she projected gave me the impression that was likely the way most artists who display their work at Emerald City Arts must feel about her.
“Actually…” I had cut them both off with a smile. “Even though I could do my job without it, I’d love to hear about your work and Max’s work…all of the work, really. My life has been rather colorless and dull over the past few years, and I’m hoping that being here will change that.”
Max had nearly preened over the fact it seemed I’d taken her side when I continued. “I spent a good amount of time here on Saturday. Which paintings are yours, Emily?”
“The landscapes in the main entry room,” she offered with an almost self-conscious smile.
Her paintings had been among my favorites during my Saturday explorations. Highly detailed works in soft greens and yellows and pinks that stand in sharp juxtaposition to her edgy appearance. Most of them gentle expressionist landscapes that had made me feel as though I’d been looking through a window into a French countryside garden or a secluded, moss-covered Irish farm cottage.
“I remember them. Your work is astonishing. I don’t know a whole lot about art, I’m afraid, other than what it makes me feel when I look at it, and yours are somehow like traveling and coming home at the same time. They’re like windows into places where time and worry don’t exist.”
Max reached across the table to pat my hand softly. “You know more about art than you think you do if you understand the emotions of the works. That’s really all that matters with art.”
I’d had to fight the urge to turn my hand over and squeeze her thin fingers with mine when the tightness in my chest returned. Something about this place, aboutthese people, scratched at emotions I hadn’t let myself experience in a long time.
I’d sipped my coffee slowly as they continued to tell me about their art and their business. Max and Emily had taken advantage of the shift in ownership to refresh the gallery’s image and expand in interesting new directions. Where the gallery had previously focused on paintings and sculpture, they’d begun contracting with artists who work with other mediums, bringing in metal and glass and wood. Their ventures had been wildly successful, and it had only been four years before they’d expanded to the point it was difficult for them to handle everything on their own, and three years ago, they’d brought Troy in as their third partner. A tall, lanky goth fellow in his late twenties who’d apparently managed several successful but edgier galleries in his short career but who’d never felt like he’d found the right one to put down roots until he’d found Emerald City Arts. He barely spoke during our meeting, and when he did, he rarely strung more than three words together at a time. He was quiet and introspective and spent most of his time following our conversation while he sketched and took notes on a small artist’s pad. The meeting lasted several hours, during which, there were no awkward pauses or moments of confusion. When I’d once again left the cool, peaceful gallery and stepped out into the loud, sunlit street, I’d found myself encouraged and excited for the first time in a very long time.
I’ve spent the past three and a half weeks going through the gallery’s records, and while I’ve primarily worked from my apartment and the gallery’s office, I’ve also spent a good amount of time camped out on the coffee shop’s blue velvet sofa. I’m thankful no one seems to mind that I’m taking up their real estate while purchasing nothing more than a continuous stream of espressos and lemon poppy seed muffins. The ambience of the coffee shop is comforting, with the warm sunlight streaming in through the large front windows and the quiet background drone of voices and clinking mugs. It’s easier to stave off the sense of loneliness that always lingers along the edges of my soul when I can slip into my head and work with others around me, even if the sense of connection that background strangers offer is just an illusion. It’s the way I’ve spent most of my life, I suppose - close enough to others to listen and watch them go about their lives, but far enough removed that I don’t interact with them in any meaningful way.
I find myself drawn to this place with its mismatched furniture and diverse group of employees and patrons. It feels safe and familiar, and it’s come to offer me a bit of peace within the bustle of the city. If I find my attention drawn away from my work and toward the blue-haired stranger from time to time when he picks up his coffee and visits with Gabriel, well, I’m quite surethat has nothing at all to do with my desire to work from the café instead of in the office.
While everything is relatively in order with the gallery’s bookkeeping, the fact that the place has been in business for thirty-two years and has both lost and gained ownership partners means that I’ve had to work through a few abnormalities. I’ve also been doing more research about art galleries and artists’ studios than I ever thought I’d need to. In my head, they have always been very similar things, but they’re not. That’s one of the things I love about my job. I get to learn new things every day.
When I met with Max, Emily, and Troy last week to let them know I hadn’t found any glaring issues with their finances and that, based on my research, their plan to acquire local studios to guarantee artists have a safe and stable place to create while ensuring the gallery always has new and up and coming art to display seems reasonable, they were ecstatic. Now I’ve moved on to the more time-consuming part of my job - completing an analysis of the studios’ finances, tracking down information about loans and grants as well as the costs of doing business for each studio, and putting together a solid business plan.
Over the last three days, their joyful enthusiasm has been relentless as they’ve pulled me away from receipts and charts and spreadsheets and thrown me headfirst into their world. They arranged tours of the four local studios and art spaces they want to acquire andhave already dragged me through three of them, teaching me as much as possible about each art form along the way. While I’ve loved learning about the artistic processes, my professional focus has been on the costs and risks involved with each type of workshop. The painting studio is simple as there aren’t many costs involved other than material supplies and rent. The metal workshop and the ceramic studio are more complex with the need for welding equipment, kiln upkeep, insurance, and safety training. The glass hot shop I’m standing in front of while sipping my long black is both the most intriguing to me and likely the most complex due to safety concerns as well as the specialized equipment and training each artist requires. Even beginners can’t do all that much damage with mud and pottery wheels, and more tenured artists can easily guide them as they learn the basics of glaze safety and kiln operation. The learning curve for working with molten lava attached to a long metal straw, however, seems much steeper. There is no room for error from an owner’s standpoint.
I’ve been in Seattle for just over a month now, and there has been a bit of rain here and there, but even though the temperatures have been slowly sliding down into the seventies through the start of August, it’s still been primarily sunny and brilliant. This morning is no exception, and I’m thoroughly enjoying the cool brick against my back and the salty mist that seems to perpetually hang in the air this close to the sea as I sip my bitter brew and wait for Emily to join me.
I’ve checked my watch three times by the time she rounds the corner. She’s speedwalking in my direction, but her gaze is locked on her phone as she types rapidly, and she nearly bumps into me before she finally looks up. Granted, I’ve only known her a few weeks, but she’s always been the epitome of put together, and I’ve gotten the feeling that’s intentional. This morning, she looks beyond flustered.
“Hey. You okay?” I ask, a bit of concern making its way into my voice.
“Fuck. Yes. No. Sorry. I woke up late, spilled coffee on myself, and had to change into the extra shirt I always keep at the gallery. I should start keeping two because I’ve met me, and I know that I’m going to spill on myself. I do it constantly. Anyway, all of two minutes ago, the school texted, and apparently, my kid is throwing up all over other kids, and I need to go get him.”
I’m not sure how to react without insensitively laughing at the word vomit that comes out of this person who has always seemed so cool and calm and collected.
“It’s no problem at all. We can do this another day. You could have just called to let me know.”
“No. I know, but I was literally a block away when I got the text, so I’m going to see who’s here and ask if I can bum a ride back to my car.” The hot shop is a little over ten blocks from the gallery, so it definitely makesmore sense to get a ride if she can rather than running back across town.
“Sorry. I’d offer to drive you, but I walked too.”
“No worries. I’m sure someone will be able to take me. Come on.” She slips her hand to my bicep and steers me toward the heavy metal door on the side of the warehouse. “Maybe someone else can show you how this place operates so you don’t have to reschedule.”
