Blake
“Of course, ladies, I’d be happy to show you my private collection,” I say with a smile I’ve plastered on for the occasion.
“If it’s half as good as what’s hanging on these walls, you’ve got a buyer.” The brunette responds in what has to be the breathiest voice I’ve ever heard. I think she said her name is Monica.
Her friend, the redhead, hasn’t let go of my hand since I gave her my card when she walked through the gallery doors.
“Blake, what a sexy name.” Monica is practically purring as she looks me up and down. “It goes with the whole package.”
I’m feigning interest, because a sale, after all, is a sale. It’s clear these women don’t have a clue what it takes to be an artist. What do they think? I just throw paint on a canvas? Even Pollock had a plan.
I hate being here, up close and personal with prospective buyers. Apart from an opening night, I’m not one to hang around galleries. I’m getting restless and would rather be out on the street with the crowds.
My agent, Beth, brushes by and whispers in my ear, “Keep smiling.”
“I’m working on it,” I say through a clenched toothed grin.
But I’d rather be outside. The Fall air is crisp, the sky crystalline, and the streets full of people. It’s the one week every year when hundreds of New Yorkers go elbow-to-elbow with tourists as they tromp, wide-eyed, up and down the cobblestone streets of the West Village, in search of their next art acquisition.
“You’ve chosen one of my favorites,” I hear Beth say.
By the intonation of her voice, I know we’ve made a sale, and I turn and smile in earnest. After all, money is money.
I feel I deserve a reward, and decide on a triple espresso.
“I’m out for a coffee,” I call over to the Beth and her assistant. “Want anything?”
They both decline, so I’m free to take my time.
The cobblestone streets and old brick buildings take me back to when I walked this neighborhood, going door to door with my rolled-up canvases, trying to get any gallery owner to show some interest. In some ways, those were the best of times, when ideas flowed freely and I was more fun. Not now.
I shake off the melancholy.
Pulling up the collar of my blazer, I tuck my hands inside the front pocket of my jeans. There’s a slight breeze, but I can think of nothing better than sitting outdoors with my coffee, watching women go by. Maybe I’ll find my muse.
I grab a small table outside Maxwell’s Coffee Bar when the inside of my jacket begins to vibrate. A text.
“Damn.” I thought I could have a moment.
Looking at the screen, I see there are several messages and I begin thumbing through.
Hey baby so much fun in that elevator, wanna try my escalator.
“Nope,” I mutter under my breath and swipe left.
Blakey where have you been xxoo I’m hot and ready.
“Blakey has left the building,” I say and swipe left.
Now this is interesting. Somehow the woman who just bought my painting is inviting me to her place.
“Oh, hell no.” Hard swipe left.
What are you doing, Blake? In frustration, I put my phone away. This is my time. My coffee. The world is going to have to be put on hold. I’m recharging.
Two triple espressos later, I’m slightly wired and ready to walk off the caffeine. That’s when I see her.
“Damn.” This time I say it out loud. I know this because the woman with the two-year-old next to me gives me a raised eyebrow. She thinks I’m crass, or crazy. Either way, I don’t care.
The dark-haired woman with the blue eyes, alabaster skin, and sexiest pixie cut I’ve ever seen is getting away, and I need to find out who she is.
I throw ten dollars on the table.
“Excuse me, excuse me,” I say as I squeeze my way around the baby stroller and diaper bag. When I’m finally out on the street, my legs begin moving faster than they do when I’m on the treadmill at the gym. This woman has definitely caught my attention.
I come up short as I round the avenue, because she and a friend have stopped at a gallery window and they’re chatting. Now’s my chance.
“Interesting color palette,” I say as a conversation starter, but all I get are quizzical looks from both of them. “I mean, the choice isn’t what you’d expect. It’s a bit angry, don’t you think?”
Miss Pixie isn’t talking, it’s her friend who speaks up. “Yeah, there’s a definite disconnect in the color structure,” she says.
If I’m not mistaken, she’s batting her eyelashes at me. Could that be right? In my most nonchalant, non-committal tone I look at her and say, “You think?”
I don’t really care what she thinks, I just want to keep the conversation going in the hopes that ‘pixie dust girl’ will say something, and I can get her number. Instead, her friend whose- eyes are now busy taking a grand tour of my body keeps talking. But I -want her to shut up. I re-pose my question to pixie girl, “And what do you think?”
She looks at the painting, reflective as she purses her valentine-shaped, deep red, lips. Kissable lips.
“Hmmm…I’m not sure,” she says, “this one doesn’t speak to me at all.”
I’m instantly enamored. She’s right. This is a pile of shit masquerading as a painting. I look her in the eyes and try to engage her.
“I suppose art is personal,” I say.
She gives me that quizzical look again.
It’s clear I haven’t got her completely into my orbit, so I continue, “I mean, what we see, and what the artist intended for us to see, can be two different things.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Pixie says.
“For example, you,” I say smiling by best I-have-to-have-you smile. “You are someone who should be painted.”
She blushes, and then she steps back. It’s clear she’s offended, and that’s a first for me. I always have women eating out of my hand, and other parts too. This one's not buying it, and for the first time, I’m on 'virgin' territory.
When she turns to walk into the photo gallery next door, all I can do is follow.