Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
Juniper
I’m wearing my best jeans and a blue sweater I got on sale last winter but haven’t worn.
The sleeves are a little long, and suddenly I’m wondering whether I should have worn a dress or something.
Grace Astor sounds like the name of a princess.
She’ll definitely be wearing a dress. I don’t want her to think I’m being disrespectful.
I’ve agreed to meet Grace down here at the candy store.
Fisher’s bringing her. She wanted to come to the studio.
When I explained that most of my finished work has been bought by the Colorado Club, she said she wants me to give her a tour so I can walk her through the pieces up there.
Apparently, Fisher’s squared that with the manager at the Club.
The door to my studio creaks, and I spin around to see a blonde woman in jeans and a white shirt enter. She’s wearing an ear-to-ear smile. Fisher follows her in, and we exchange a smile.
“Hi,” I say, stepping forward and offering her my hand. “My name’s Juniper French.” I glance at Fisher, and he smiles encouragingly.
“Grace Astor. How do you do?” She glances around the old candy store. “What a great idea to set up a studio in a store that’s closed.”
“I’ll have to move out if Mrs. Peters ever rents it. But it works.”
“I see that. The light is perfect here.”
“The skylights make a real difference.”
“It’s really good to meet you,” Grace says. “I’m thrilled that I’m going to get to see more of your work. If I’m not mistaken, the lodge I’m staying in has a piece of yours in the dining room.”
“Maybe,” I say. “I’m not sure where Rosalind decided to put them all.”
“They bought a lot, right?” Grace asks.
I nod. “Yeah. Byron’s a friend and—”
“But Byron didn’t decide to buy them,” Fisher interrupts. “His designer did.”
“They work perfectly in the space from an aesthetic perspective. Though they’re not just decorative. You have a very painterly style. But you didn’t go to art school, did you?”
I shake my head. “No. No art school.”
“But you got accepted at art school,” Fisher interrupts, like he’s my full-time PR person.
“I had personal things that kept me from accepting,” I explain.
Grace nods and steps toward the work I have set up on the easel.
“I’ve just finished this piece.”
“I love the way you use the light. Who would you say influences your work? I see lots of Turner. Or am I imagining that?”
My body flushes cold and then hot. I feel like I’m under the spotlight.
No one’s ever seen the Turner influence in my work apart from my old art teacher, who was obsessed with the British romantic painter from the end of the eighteenth century.
“He’s my favorite painter,” I confess. “I’ve always wanted to see something of his, like for real, but you know… ”
“Bizarrely, you know that Indianapolis is the best place to go to see Turner’s work in the US?” Grace asks.
I nod. “At the Museum of Art, or the Yale Center for British Art in Connecticut.” I switch my weight from foot to foot.
“I actually got the book from the Yale Center for Christmas when I was in my early twenties. It has a lot of the paintings in there. I have a couple of other books too…” I take a breath.
“But seeing it? I’d just love to see the texture.
That’s something that’s important to me in my work.
The texture, and I’m experimenting on ways of using multimedia to build on that textural feel.
I don’t want to stray too far into that, but I like the way some fabrics look when I incorporate them into a piece. ”
“Do you have anything you can show me?” Grace asks.
I hesitate. I don’t show many people my unfinished work. Of course, Riley sees all my stuff. My mom has lost interest in my painting. And my friends have their own lives. No one comes into this studio apart from me and Riley.
“Okay,” I say. “I have a few pieces that the Club didn’t want because they were too dark.
Then I did a few portraits but abandoned them.
I’m not good at people. And I have a couple of pieces I’m working on, but they’re not finished.
” Fisher’s voice is in my head, telling me I’m great, but all I can see is some girl who didn’t go to art school, who paints around her job and life as a mother.
I’m not an artist. Not really. “Oh, and I have a few pieces at home hanging up, but I didn’t think to bring them. ”
“I’m excited to see everything.” Grace is warm and encouraging and not what I expected. I thought she’d be far snootier.
I take another breath, feeling a little more relaxed. Grace seems to like the work, and the fact that she sees the Turner influence is… well, I’m so incredibly flattered.
I bring out two canvases I’m still working on and pull off the sheets from the ones that weren’t sold to the Club but remain propped up against the cupboards and walls of the store.
“These are pieces of linen.” I indicate to one of the pieces I’m working on at the moment.
There’s a section at the bottom of the canvas that’s raised and lumpy.
“I didn’t want it to overwhelm the work, but I wanted a more textural feel.
Using the linen is a symbol of how the human race can harness nature and make it stronger.
How we can work in harmony with the landscape around us. I’ve also used some of the…”
I pause, I’m not quite sure how Grace will take my confession, but she might as well know all of it, now that she’s here.
“I used some of the earth from the mountain. I dried it out and mixed it with my paint. I tried to match the color of the earth at first, and then I moved up and mixed in some green and blues, but still tried to make them earthy. I don’t know if that makes sense?
Anyway, I was trying to take the physical parts of nature and make them part of the work.
That’s what gives the painting texture. I wanted to capture nature physically as well as pictorially. You know?”
Grace nods as she examines the work. “I love this direction you’re going in, Juniper. You’re a very talented painter.”
“It’s a hobby, really,” I say, not quite knowing how to take her praise.
“Do you have ambitions to make it your career?” she asks, straightening and looking at me.
“I certainly did, when I was younger. I wanted to be an artist. I was obsessed with Turner and Rothko and Valasquez, like my friends were obsessed with Rihanna or Justin Timberlake.”
“You are an artist, Juniper.”
The tips of my ears burn hot. I’m not an artist. “I’m a teaching assistant. I just paint in my spare time.”
“You’re an artist, Juniper,” she repeats. It doesn’t get any easier to hear. “But you had personal things going on, which meant you didn’t go to art school and you had to get a job to pay the bills.”
“Yes,” I say.
She nods, like she understands completely.
She works her way around the store, looking at my work like she’s taking in every last detail. She asks me questions and I tell her anything. She’s the first person I’ve talked about my work with for a long time who seems to really… feel it.
Eventually she turns to me, her demeanor shifting a little.
“I’d really like to work with you if it’s something you think you’d like to do.
We can potentially get you a show at one of my galleries.
You’d need to create some more pieces before we can do that.
And before that, we’d need to start talking about you. I presume you don’t have an agent?”
I shake my head. “I just paint for fun.”
“I can introduce you to people. You need to find the right person. Do you have plans to come to New York?” she asks. “Meeting some important collectors would be a good first step. Before a show.”
“I can’t go to New York. I have a kid in school and a job. I can’t just up and leave.”
Grace smiles. “I understand. The art world is demanding, like any career, but you have real talent. Think about it. If nothing else, you should get an agent who can help you expand your reach a little, now your pieces are on display at the Colorado Club. They can help you get commissions. Help you network with other gallery owners.”
My head starts to spin and my mouth goes dry. Everything she’s saying is so different to how my life is now. And I like my life how it is now. I’m not sure I’m capable of talking to gallery owners and important collectors. I’d feel like a fraud. I never even made it to art school.
“It’s a lot to think about,” I say.
“It is. But it’s exciting. You just need to keep creating. That’s the most important bit.”
“Well, that’s the bit I can do,” I say. In between work, being a mother to an eight-year-old, making sure the house is kept clean and we’ve got healthy food on the table every night.
My plate is full without bringing agents and galleries and everything else that having a second job entails.
A second job in a world I know nothing about.
“So we’ll talk again. Soon. I’m here for a couple of days.
I’m seeing some of the members of the Club.
If you want to meet again, I’m happy to get together.
I know you have family responsibilities, so I don’t want to add more to your plate.
I’d love to hear from you when you’ve had a chance to think about things.
You’re talented. And I’d like to work with you, but you have to want this, Juniper.
I don’t want to force you into anything. ”
I gave up on my dreams of being a painter a long time ago. Maybe Grace’s right, maybe I still am a painter. But to paint as a career? Those dreams died when Riley came into my life. And now I’m not sure I have room for those same abandoned dreams anymore, now that I’m a mother.