Page 42 of In the Frame

“What do you want to know?” I counter. “Otherwise, the prompt is way too broad, and I can’t work under these conditions. Give me a thesis statement, at least. Something to work with.”

“Fair. Well, then, I would like to know why you’re not making your art if you’re an artist.” He gives me a very Florian expression. Something that etches into the core of me and I’m very much perceived. “You’re also a terrible bartender, or server, at the very least. I didn’t think bartenders provided table service.”

“Usually, they don’t.” Then I tighten my jaw as his words sink in, and I open my mouth in silent protest before speaking again. It’s like a lapful of icy cocktails has landed on me instead with his sharp question about my art-making prospects. “Jesus, you don’t mess around, do you?”

“It’s not…”

“…efficient? Yeah, I’ve heard that somewhere before. I guess… I guess, well, it’s down to money. And not having it. Making art is expensive.”

Florian peers at me in a way that makes me think he’s never wanted for anything in his life. “Please tell me more.”

I sigh, exasperated. I wave a hand and begin to spell things out for him. “You know… studio space, materials, all that. Expensive.” I shrug, uncomfortable. But then, there’s no shame in starting out either. Everyone begins somewhere. Even Florian. He wasn’t born investing. “I mean, I just finished uni. I didn’t want to go to my parents’ home after my degree, so I tried moving to London, which, surprisingly, is very, very expensive. And how I ended up at Ivan’s, because I know enough about bar work. Plus, it’s a good wage for bar work. And I’m hoping, if and when I can get my feet under me, I’ll be able to have some space and afford to work on my art. If I have the time off, that is. Maybe. Usually, you either have money or time—but not both.”

Florian frowns. He mulls over my response before speaking. “That doesn’t seem effective.”

I look at him over my wine, holding out my glass again. He pours. The alcohol’s loosening my tongue. “Broke people have to survive, Florian. It’s just that way. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t mean to be offensive.” Florian looks apologetic. “It’s just… that’s not a good way to make your way in art.”

I stare at him. The man’s clearly lost his mind. I’m hardly a CEO of some kind art empire. “And what do you suggest I do, then?”

“Make art? For starters.”

“Florian…” I want to explain this like I explain things to my little sisters when I’m home. Somehow, I’m out of words. “It’s impossible. I can’t.”

He arches the damned eyebrow. “You don’t know how? Or you won’t?”

I roll my eyes, wincing. “Obviously, I can make passable art—enough to get a degree in it, anyway.”

“And what exactly is your art?”

“I told you before—I’m a painter.”

“What kind of painter? And yes, you’ve explained you’re a fine-art painter, but not your subject.”

“Contemporary painting?” At his look, I sigh and continue. It’s hard to say how much he’ll understand, but I’ll try. “I like paintings with people in them. Figurative paintings. David Hockney is my hero, actually. I love his work. It’s stunning. His landscapes too.”

“And your work?” Florian asks pointedly. “I could read the Sotheby’s catalogue about David Hockney.”

“Yeah, well… I like painting everyday scenes with people in them. Modern life. Random things, like people paying for a train ticket, or alone in the city, or waiting for the bus. I think I want to do a series related to people in transit, actually. But—Florian, please hear me out. Oil paints are expensive. So are brushes and canvases. Oil paints need a well-ventilated space, which means I probably shouldn’t paint in my bedroom. Especially the bigger canvases I really want to do.”

“And you don’t have any oil paints, brushes, or canvases?”

I start to laugh, to the point where tears escape me. Because it’s a lot like talking to a brick wall, and he’s totally focused on me in a way that Florian’s trying hard to understand, but obviously doesn’t get it.

“Very limited supplies. Yes, I have a few brushes and some paint⁠—”

“Then paint.”

“See points A through… hell if I know. I’ve forgotten the alphabet.” Words elude me. I frown at him. His gaze is rapt, and I can tell he’s trying to problem-solve my painting situation. Except I’m the expert on my life and its realities, not him. “Shit. Florian. I think I’m drunk, actually.”

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, fine.” It’s a good moment for blurting things out because outlining exactly how broke I am does nothing for my art, my mood, or the current situation at the wedding. Obviously, a diversion is in order. But it’s true enough, that I’m drunk, between the various cocktails, toasts, and wine.

“Let’s go get some water,” Florian offers. “And I have one last question.”

“Oh?” I look tentatively at him.