The problem with the storage room at the art museum was that Mr. Wallace was a hoarder and he didn’t even know it. He saved everything. Every piece of signage, every program, every single decoration from all his past exhibits and shows. The room was bursting at the seams. I’d worked at the museum for about a year (a job I’d applied for because of my love of art), and I’d never had to clean it. By the looks of it, none of the other employees had cleaned it either. Not that they would. As the newest employee, I did the grunt work around here. The docents conducted tours, Tina mainly did ticket sales, and Ralph, the security guard, never traded his badge for a mop. So the storage room was probably the result of years of neglect.
The second the museum closed for the day, I moved a box of papers out into the hall and started sorting through it.
I’d made three piles so far: one was “definitely throw away,” one was “maybe,” and the third was “keep.”
Mr. Wallace came by and saw me, and I wished he’d leave, because otherwise my “definitely throw away” pile was about to shrink.
“What’s this?” he asked. Mr. Wallace looked nothing like what I’d picture an art curator to look like. Not that it was something I’d pictured on a regular basis. But if I had, the curator in my mind had an eye for fashion and style. Mr. Wallace looked like a used-car salesman, with a cheap, slightly too-large suit and slicked-back gray hair. But he was nice and seemed to have an eye for art, if not the kind he wore on his body.
“Just piles,” I told him as he stood over me. “I’m organizing.”
“Why are there three?”
I picked up a few pieces of the “definitely” pile. “Look, these posters have dates on them. You won’t use a decoration for any event this year that has a date from five years ago, right? So this is in the ‘definitely get rid of’ pile. That one is the ‘maybe.’” I pointed to the middle stack. “And this is the ‘keep.’”
He toed the definitely pile. “I never planned on using this thing again, but I saved it so I could remember the idea. It was a good theme.”
I pulled out my phone. “Then we can take a picture of it and save it that way.” I snapped a picture. “You can have a file on your phone or computer of decoration ideas.”
He nodded. “That’s a good idea, Abby. I knew I kept you around for some reason.”
“Funny. You better watch it or I’m going to turn your name in to that hoarders show, then you’ll be in trouble.”
“You wouldn’t.”
I smiled and he left. It had just been Mr. Wallace, Ralph, Tina, and me on the clock tonight. Tina had taken off right when we closed, so I had the wide hallway all to myself.
Now that I’d basically been given permission to take pictures and throw away, my discard pile grew bigger by the second.
A text came in on my phone in between shots: Where are you?
It was Cooper. I told you. At the museum.
Still?!
Just getting started. Where are you?
Waiting for little sister outside of music lessons.
I actually know Amelia’s name. And fourteen isn’t so little anymore.
I know. Our girl is growing up. Have you asked him?
I’m going to in a little bit. If I clean some more, he’ll be happier.
You shouldn’t have to bribe someone to put your art in the show. Your art speaks for itself. It’s brilliant.
A bribe never hurt anyone.
Ask him!
Ask him. Ask him, I told myself as I transferred the discard pile into two big trash bags. As I took those trash bags out to the Dumpster in back. I was going to ask him. I stopped by my car on the way back inside and grabbed my large portfolio. It was mostly pictures of my work, because the canvases themselves were too big to lug around. But I did bring a few of the original smaller pieces. My grandpa’s favorite piece was the first, and looking at it made me happy.
Mr. Wallace was in his office writing something in a notebook. His office was almost as bad as the storage room—piles of papers on his desk, easels in need of repair leaned in a messy pile against one wall, a trash can overflowing in the corner. He looked up when I stopped in the doorway.
“You heading home?”
“I am, but first I wanted to ask you about the show at the end of July.”
His gaze went to the large folder I held.
“I brought some samples to show you.” I set my portfolio on his desk.
“Abby, there is limited space, and I have applications from all over.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a stack of papers, as if I wouldn’t believe him.
“I’d like to throw my hat in the ring too.”
“Eighteen is the age requirement.” He pointed at a random spot on one of the applications.
Now for my well-rehearsed speech. “Sir, I believe that art doesn’t have an age limit. Michelangelo sculpted Madonna of the Stairs at sixteen. Picasso was granted entrance into a prestigious art school at fourteen. At the age of fifteen Salvador Dalí had his first public art exhibit. I’m not saying I’m anywhere near as talented as they are, I’m merely pointing out that age shouldn’t be an indicator of ability.”
“You’ve been doing your homework, I see.”
I slid my portfolio closer to him. “I’m just asking for a chance.”
He sighed and reached for my portfolio. I sunk into the chair opposite him in relief. I’d accomplished the hard part. My art spoke for itself. He began slowly flipping through the folder. I’d blown up most of the pictures to at least ten by twenty. He studied each one closely. After what felt like forever, he closed the cover and looked up at me.
I gave him my winning smile.
“Abby, you will be perfect for the show when you meet the age requirement. Is that next summer?”
“Wait . . . what?”
“You’ll be the right age next summer.” He patted the closed folder. “Bring me some more samples then.”
The smile slid off my face. “Yes. But why? I’ve seen the art you’ve had in here for amateur exhibits. Mine is just as good. Are you really going to hold me back because I’m not eighteen yet?”
“It’s not just about your age.”
“Then what?”
“We have limited space and I need every sale I can get to keep this place going. This is my one and only fundraiser for the year. We’re a museum, not a gallery, so I don’t get to do this just anytime I feel like it.”
I moved to the edge of the hard chair. “But what if I sell a few of my allowed paintings? That would help you, right?”
He pushed my portfolio back toward me. “You won’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re not ready. Your paintings aren’t good enough yet.”
The air went out of my lungs so fast it felt like someone had punched me in the gut.
When I didn’t say anything, he went on. “I have every reason to believe that they will be. But you’re not quite there.”
“What do you mean? What are my paintings missing?”
He stared at my closed book. “Experience . . . heart.”
“Heart?”
“They’re technically good, but they look like you copied a picture. I want to feel something when I look at your paintings. They’re missing a layer, and that’s understandable. You’re young. You haven’t experienced enough in life to add that depth to a painting. But you will. You are exactly where you should be in your progression as an artist. Just keep moving forward. You’ll get there.”
I nodded numbly. After years of art teachers, my parents, my grandpa telling me I had talent far beyond my years, this was hard to hear. I stood and tucked the book under my arm.
“I’m sorry,” he said as I walked away.
I went through the back to avoid Ralph. I didn’t want him to ask me about the huge folder I held. I didn’t want to have to explain to him what I was doing with it.
The museum had a courtyard, and right now, outside, a recycling exhibit was on display. The artist had taken trash and turned it into art. I passed a tree made of shaped iron for branches and green tinted bottles for leaves, then I wound around two old bicycles that were fused together. They seemed to defy gravity by balancing on a single wheel. The last piece I flew by before reaching the side gate was the rusty hood of a Volkswagen Beetle. On the domed section was carved a lopsided heart. I slid to a halt.
These were all pieces in a traveling exhibit that we only had for two weeks. Next week we’d pack it up in wooden crates with shredded paper and ship it up the coast, to Pismo or Santa Cruz or some other artsy beach community like ours. I’d spent some time out here admiring the pieces. I loved art. All different kinds. But now, this rusty old hood with its uninspiring heart seemed ridiculous. Mr. Wallace considered this art, but not my paintings? Was this really that much better than what I had shown him? Maybe I had no idea what art was after all. And maybe I had nothing to offer anyone.