Chapter 23 Lucas Receives an Extremely Decent Proposal
Lucas Receives an Extremely Decent Proposal
Jean-Michel and I had met up for a business lunch at Harrods—butternut squash salad with Moroccan mint tea for me, and salmon fillet with white wine for him—before he whisked me away in a breathtaking black Porsche to The Gallery Obscura.
I was going to meet Ichika, the owner, who allegedly was interested in showcasing my work.
The same woman who launched my favorite photographer’s career. What the hell.
“All right.” Jean-Michel casually draped a large cream-colored coat over his shoulders, and the effect was so distinctly Parisian, I could practically smell the baguettes.
“I mustn’t forget Ichika’s gift.” He patted himself down before reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a tiny glass jar with a silk bow tied around it.
My jaw dropped. “Is that—”
Jean-Michel smiled. “Ah, you know it? I picked it up in Milan last week.”
“Oh my god, yes! My mom used to bring it back whenever she was there for fashion week.” My mouth watered at the memory of the most transcendent apricot jam on earth. “Sogno di Albicocca. They only make a few hundred jars a year, right?”
Jean-Michel nodded and slipped it back into his pocket. “There is nothing I love more than providing my friends with little treats.” He led me toward the elevator.
The gallery space was minimalistic and surreal.
The current exhibition was a series of black-and-white photographs of the same dilapidated one-eyed baby doll.
Which was surely “art” to someone; who was I to judge?
But I was pleased to see that Jean-Michel was as unimpressed as I was.
He leaned toward me as we walked through the gallery, whispering, “Très gauche,” and I fought the urge to giggle.
“Jean, mon ami! ?a fait trop longtemps!” A beautiful petite woman appeared holding a tablet and kissed the air near Jean-Michel’s cheeks. She was dressed head to toe in Yves Saint Laurent, and glanced at me over a pair of bedazzled, horn-rimmed glasses. “Et qui est ce beau jeune homme?”
“This is Lucas Barclay,” Jean-Michel said in English, placing a hand lightly on my shoulder, “from California.”
“Oh yes, Barclay.” Ichika’s very red lips stretched in a smile. “I know your mother, of course. We met at the Suchards’ Benefit last year. Marvelous woman.”
I shook her hand and tried not to feel like a precocious kid among adults. Ichika, like Jean-Michel, was definitely closer to my mother’s age than mine. “It’s an honor to meet you.”
Ichika tapped perfectly manicured nails against her tablet and gestured to a viewing bench. “Shall we discuss?”
Over lunch, Jean-Michel had informed me that he’d thoroughly prepped Ichika, sending her links to my work on Armand’s social media, as well as The End is Neigh website. Which was barely a portfolio—there was no way this woman would give me the time of day, much less an entire exhibition.
No sooner had we assembled on the bench—with Jean-Michel and Ichika on either side of me—when she jumped straight in.
“I’ve gone over your work,” she said, showing me my own photos on her tablet screen.
“You have an excellent eye and a strong command over light and framing. Your portfolio displays potential.”
My stomach flipped. “Potential?”
Ichika adjusted her glasses, exchanging a quick look with Jean-Michel before addressing me again.
“Your style is very . . . clean. You shoot beautiful things, beautiful people. There is skill in that, of course, but it’s far easier to capture something objectively lovely than to bring out the beauty in something dark, or ugly. ”
She tapped the screen until I was looking at the thumbnails of ten of my photos: Skyler with our horses, a couple of nature shots from back home in California, some of the recent ones I took for Armand—none showing his face, mostly the artist’s workspace—and some black-and-white photos I took of our touristing.
Jean-Michel brushed his finger to the photo that was an isolation shot of Armand’s ink-stained hands, the chaotic littering of pages in soft focus in the background. “I suggested including this one,” he explained. “Very vulnerable, very intimate. Not so sophomoric.”
Ichika agreed. “I’d be interested in showcasing these ten pieces in particular, but we’d ask that you submit another five to round out the collection. Something with gravitas—an exploration of grief, perhaps, or simply a darker grit to balance out your penchant for whimsy.”
Darker grit? What did they want, pictures of dead animals? An exploitative peek into homelessness? A spot of dirt on a recently cleaned floor? My thumb twitched at the phantom feel of my camera in my hands. The wall of creepy dolls mocked me from the periphery.
Don’t be ungrateful, Barclay. This is how you get what you want. You compromise. Jean-Michel’s bending over backward for you to pursue your silly little dream. Take the damn sad pictures.
I grinned sunnily. “Of course, I can definitely do that.”
“Then we’re in business.” She shook my hand with a firmness that reminded me of my mom, and Jean-Michel bumped my shoulder with his, smiling proudly. “I’ll draw up some paperwork. We’ll launch at the beginning of December, so I’ll need your submissions in by next week. Does that suit?”
A week to reassess and completely shift my photographic style. This was fine. “Sure. Thank you so much for the opportunity.”
Ichika inclined her head obligingly. “Do give my best to your mother, and I look forward to seeing your new pieces.”
With that, and with the signing of a contract, I would have my very first art exhibition at an esteemed gallery in London.
Ichika bid us good day, needing to return to do gallery-owner things, which was perfect timing, because I was probably (definitely) in shock. “What. The hell,” I breathed.
Jean-Michel chuckled. “I told you I could spot potential. And you have the talent, so it’s no wonder that Ichika would covet something that special.”
I ran both hands through my hair, wondering if I would hyperventilate. “Thank you for this. Really, I . . . I never thought anyone would care about my photos, and definitely not someone so influential and. Cool.”
“Think nothing of it,” Jean-Michel said flippantly. “As I said, I adore giving my friends little treats.” His face turned thoughtful. “I tried to give Armand the benefit of my connections here, once upon a time.”
I couldn’t help but snort. “I’m pretty sure he’d hate this place.”
“You’d be surprised.” Jean-Michel smiled. “Our boy was once quite the connoisseur. Armand is nothing if not dedicated to his art. He chose it over everything else.” He glanced down at me. “Did you know he studied at King’s College?”
I blinked, sure I’d misheard. “He did?”
“Oh yes.” Jean-Michel continued, “Never finished, of course.”
My stomach twisted, and my hands started to itch. He had more info about Armand’s past than I did. “You knew him back then?”
Jean-Michel’s eyes took on a sweet, misty look. “He left university to pursue his art. Quite noble, really. I remember when he was beginning to hone his style. There is not a derivative bone in that boy’s body.”
I tried to imagine Armand in college, young and brave enough to choose the path of a struggling artist over academia.
It couldn’t have been easy. “He must’ve benefited from having you as a mentor.
” My nerves were still frazzled, so I focused instead on the portrait in front of us. “This really is awful, isn’t it?”
“Obscenely so.” Jean-Michel sighed. “I may purchase the lot for the soul pleasure of burning it.”
I eased into a laugh, though my mind raced. What could I produce to make my art acceptable? Was I even qualified?
And what else hadn’t Armand told me?