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CHAPTERONE
NELL
“And this swirlof pink here, I assume it represents the nipple?”
I tried to keep my face as impassive as possible, not allowing myself to crack even a fraction of a smile as I looked at the older woman with coiffed white hair dressed in vintage Chanel standing before me.
The moment she’d walked in, I had her pegged for one that would over-sexualize every single painting in the gallery.
And it felt good to be proven right.
“Only the artist would be able to answer that,” I answered, cocking my head to one side as if considering it. “But I can see what you’re getting at. The darkening into a deeper hue is certainly…”
“Reminiscent of the areola, yes.” She nodded, and it took everything in me not to burst into a fit of giggles. “I’ll take it.”
“Excellent.” I grinned at her. “If you follow me to the front, I can start the process for the paperwork and the delivery.”
The older woman nodded and stayed close on my heels as we walked through the space. Our footsteps echoed off the polished, hardwood floors.
I knew that Hugo, the owner of the gallery, would be pleased that I managed to sell this particular piece. It had been hanging on our walls for a few months now, and typically this artist was highly sought after.
I helped the woman complete the forms for the Owner's Certificate and to have the painting delivered before she said her goodbyes and left.
Once the gallery was empty, I heaved a sigh of relief and kicked off the sky-high heels I’d crammed my feet into that morning, stepping into a pair of comfy, cushy slides.
I hurried across the room, locking the door so no one could wander in from the street beyond, and drew the shutters.
This was my favorite time of night, when everyone left, and I had the studio in the back all to myself.
It was one of the reasons why I loved this job so much. The pay wasn’t terrible, and I made a decent amount off of commissions.
But living somewhere like New York City wasn’t exactly cheap. I’m sure that by now, helping Hugo diligently for the past five years curate this gallery and turn it into what it was, I could have found a higher-paying job working at a different shop.
But, as a ‘thank you,' Hugo let me use the studio in the back whenever I wanted, and he never once charged me for supplies.
I also got to participate in the art classes he hosted twice a week at no cost.
I got access to world-class paints, brushes, canvases, and any art supplies I would like absolutely free, as well as one of the most sought-after teachers in the outer boroughs.
And I wouldn’t pass that up for the world.
I walked over to the back wall, picking my favorite apron from one of the hooks before striding over to the easel that held my current, unfinished canvas.
I think of the old lady that just left and laugh. She would have loved it.
It was a self-portrait. A rendition of a picture I had taken of myself nude, standing in front of the bathroom mirror with my hand above my head, my strawberry blonde hair spilling around my shoulders in soft waves.
I’d taken some liberties with it.
Changed the colors to give it an almost surrealist feel.
And I was so damn proud of it.
Hugo had told me that it was the most challenging thing in the world to paint yourself because we have never actually seen what we look like.
“Nell,” he always said. “What you see in the mirror is not what people see when they look at you. And somehow, you have to figure out a way to take your gaze and turn it inward. Be both within and without.”
And as I stared at the painting in front of me, eyes roving over the mishmash of colors as they followed the contours of my body, I couldn’t help but think...maybe he was right.
