4. Sloane
Chapter four
Sloane
Art has always been the thing I was sure about. Ever since I picked up a paintbrush and told myself that this was what I was meant to do with my life, everything else seemed mute or pointless. Admittedly, I wasn’t always good at art, but I guess it is a subjective medium. I just knew how it made me feel when I’d paint; it felt freeing and inspiring. Every emotion I had could be felt through my canvas, which I wanted to bring to my art so others could experience that same feeling when they looked at it.
My debut collection took place in a popular art gallery in New York City. Anyone who is anyone in the art community was there. Collectors, other artists, and journalists scattered throughout the event, looking to scout fresh faces in the scene. My exhibition was unique yet conventional, and for my debut, that’s what I was hoping for. Truthfully, as an artist, I never considered grandeur my reason for people to view my pieces. I wanted people to see simplicity but still be in awe of it. There is beauty in the little things, and that’s what I wanted to showcase in my debut exhibition.
And people loved it.
All my pieces were sold, and the following day, I did a feature with a major lifestyle magazine and received a call from an agent, Lori, to set up a meeting for potential representation. Everything fell into place after that night, and just like that, I felt like all the hard work, the disagreements with my parents about letting me attend art school, and the sleepless nights spent working on art pieces finally became worth it. It felt like I was riding on a high that no drug could recreate.
But that was six months ago. And that high I was riding on became sobering, especially when Lori told me I needed something fresh and new. A departure from my previous collection.
I never believed in following trends when it came to my art. Every artist follows the style they’ve coined for themselves, and true fans will flock to it. That has always been my belief, anyway. But now, with the mounting pressure of appeasing my newfound fans and Lori, I know that one of those two parties would be displeased. Do I go with what I’m being asked, or stay true to my authenticity?
As I sit in front of my canvas, I start to wonder if it’s too late. Is it too late to walk away from this success? I created it and am still buzzing. Magazines are already hyping up my new exhibition that isn’t even set to open until the end of the year. And to make matters worse, I have nothing to show for it.
What is my story? But more importantly, what am I willing to share?
My art is only part of the problem I’m facing. Running into Cade this morning wasn’t ideal after our encounter last night. I mean, what even was that? What was he thinking? What was I thinking? Hooking up with my brother’s best friend in a dingy bathroom? That’s not me! That wasn’t even me in college, so why would I do that at almost thirty?
It feels like a blur. And even talking about it with Cade didn’t make things any easier.
I sigh, rolling my neck around, feeling tension leave my sore muscles. My canvas sits before me, still as blank and white as ever. I take in the textures of the matted material as if inspiration will magically come from within the creases. It doesn’t.
Cade wants to forget it ever happened; at least, that’s what he told me. Whether I believe him or not is to be determined. The question is, do I? Am I able to forget what happened? I’m not sure it’s that easy, especially with the wedding and how often I’ll see my brother these next few weeks.
See, by association, Mike and Cade will always be linked in my mind. If I see Mike, I’ll immediately think of Cade, and vice versa. There is no Mike without Cade. They’ve been inseparable ever since I was little, and that’s what makes this whole thing between Cade and me complicated. It isn’t that I think of Cade as some type of brother figure, because for as long as I’ve been able to remember, I’ve liked him—I mean, like, liked him. I thought it was normal for girls to have crushes on their brother’s best friends because television always made me think so. The thing is, my brother’s best friend is as old as my brother—a whole ten years older. My younger self must be screaming at me excitedly at this new revelation between Cade and me: a dream come true.
But as Cade said, it can’t happen again.
And it won’t.
I stand up and stretch, realizing that sitting in front of my canvas won’t magically put paint on it, and close up all the paint I sprawled out on the table beside me. If the inspiration isn’t sparking, you can’t force it. It’s like lighting a fire despite having wet wood—you won’t get a flame. I cleaned up, stored the paint, and decided to leave the house again. Perhaps another walk around my hometown will spark something.
I get dressed and walk downstairs. Just as I’m about to walk out the front door, my mother stops me. “Sloane, is that you?”
I roll my eyes, still facing the door. I’m the youngest of three, and neither of my siblings lives in this house, either. But I’m the only one who doesn’t live in Rose Valley.
“Yes, Mom,” I reply politely as I hear her approaching footsteps. I turn around and face her as she walks in with an air of perfection, something she’s always been very good at creating. Her blond hair bounces and glows under the fluorescent backlight from the kitchen.
“Where are you off to?” she asks, and I suck in my bottom lip. It isn’t as if I’m sneaking out, let alone should have to answer my mother at my age, but this question makes me feel small. Like I’m a kid again.
“Just a walk,” I answer. “I’m struggling to find inspiration for my next set of pieces, so...”
One of the things I’ve always stood up for was my art against my parents, so much so that I don’t typically talk to them about my shortcomings, either. Mike is a police officer with the Rose Valley Police Department, Mia is a fourth-grade school teacher who recently won Teacher of the Year, and I’m the struggling artist. Okay, I’m not struggling anymore, but I’m the one who risks eating ramen noodles every night just to sell a piece of art.
My parents never believed in taking risks like that. They are more practical, and if they had it their way, I’d have ended up doing something mundane in Rose Valley.
My mom hums, and I brace myself for the lecture.
“The Rose Valley Festival is this afternoon,” she says. “I hear there is a local art enthusiasts club.”
I looked at her with a mix of confusion and shock. Did she just encourage me to seek out some of the local art scene? Are they artists? She said “enthusiasts,” so maybe they’re just art fans? And since when did we get an art scene in this town? Rose Valley isn’t exactly the first place one would think up-and-coming artists hailed from, but I guess a lot changes when you’ve been away as long as I have.
“Oh… sure. Thanks, Mom,” I say hesitantly as we stand awkwardly in the foyer. I haven’t spoken to my mom much since—well, since things happened five years ago. After all that, I channeled all my energy into my art and didn’t look back. It was easier that way, but it’s what allowed me to create my collection because without it, I’d probably be… I guess I don’t know where I’d be today. I think that’s why being unable to figure out my next pieces is so frustrating. My first piece meant more to me than anything else. Not just because it was my first big break, but because it saved me.
“Listen, Sloane, I know things have been—” my mom starts.
I hold my hand up, shaking my head. “I don’t really want to get into that.”
She stops and stares at me, sighing deeply.
“I’m here for Mia, that’s it. Please, let’s not rehash something that doesn’t need rehashing,” I continue.
She shakes her head again, slower and much sadder this time. “I worry about you, that’s all,” she says softly.
I look down and lick my lips, feeling the weight of her words press on my shoulders. “I know, but everything is fine, really,” I tell her, and everything is when it comes to that ; it’s just everything else that has been overtaking my mind. Either way, I don’t want her to worry. I know she cares. After all, I’m her youngest kid, and from what I’ve heard, that usually means something to parents.
I leave before it gets any more awkward. If I have to be stopped to talk about anything else, I may combust, but my mother has the right idea. Maybe going to the Rose Valley Festival will spark something in me that I can use for my next collection. I’m not sure what, per se, but I feel like I’ll know it when I see it.
The Rose Valley Annual Festival is the biggest annual event in our small town. It’s the place where the community gathers. It holds different activities and events. Some people even set up booths to showcase various businesses, though when I say our town is small, it is small . We all know Jennie’s Diner on Main makes the best cherry cobbler in upstate New York, and Garrison’s Auto Body shop will have your car repaired in at least a day and a half—two days if he decides to close shop because the “fish were biting.” The point is that the booths to showcase goods and attract business are unnecessary. Anyone who is anyone in this town has lived in it for generations and knows the businesses as if they are their own.
But I’ll never say no to a sample of Jennie’s famous cobbler.
The crowd around me is dense as I make my way through the festival, even by local standards. This time of year is usually when the crowds pick up for tourist season, but based on the deal Cade made with the marina, something tells me that tourism has taken a nosedive throughout the town, not just the marina.
Nothing has changed. Everyone’s banners are the same, with children itching to get to the bounce house. And, of course, who could forget the long line for the cobbler?
“Come check out the Art Teen Enthusiasts!”
I turn my head at the voice and spot a girl, probably no more than seventeen, attempting to pass out a flyer. As each person passes, she bounces on her toes awkwardly, like she wants to crawl back into her shell.
Seriously? No one is bothering to take the flyer from her out of politeness?
I guess this person consists of the “enthusiasts” that Mom mentioned.
I’m not mad that I was deceived into thinking this club would be a club for adults; I’m just disappointed. What is an almost thirty-year-old going to do with a school art club? I sigh, closing my eyes, annoyed with my mom for even thinking this was remotely the same thing, but I was always told not to judge a book by its cover.
I reluctantly step towards the girl as she holds out a flyer to another passing couple, who pay her no mind. “Join the—” she cuts herself off as I approach her.
“What you got there?” I ask.
She looks up at me hopefully, like I’m the first decent person she’s met all day. “Oh, we’re the Rose Valley High’s Art Teen… wait?” She stops mid-pitch, and her eyes widen in recognition like she’s just seen a celebrity or something.
“You’re Sloane Bennett!” she nearly squeals. She starts to jump excitedly as I look around awkwardly. Her reaction is beginning to attract some attention.
“Okay, okay,” I tell her, holding my hands out to calm her down.
She lets out a deep breath to compose herself. “I’m sorry, it’s just that you’re a big deal.” I sure don’t feel like it, but perhaps things are looking up. “Can you sign this?” she asks as she moves the pile of flyers out of the way to show one of my prints on a binder.
The sight of it takes me aback. It’s one of the prints that I sold, and I certainly didn’t produce merchandise from it. “Oh, wow… how did you get this?” I ask.
The girl looks down at it. “The internet.”
She shrugs as any teenager would, but something feels strange about someone selling my work, printed on merchandise. But no one seems to mind purchasing reprints of the Mona Lisa , The Scream , or even Warhol’s multi-coloration of Marilyn Monroe. It just makes me wonder that if DaVinci, Munch, or Warhol were still around, would they care?
“Who should I make it out to?” I ask, allowing my thoughts to drift away. I should be grateful to see my success resonate with someone so young, especially one who admires me enough to buy a binder that features my work.
“‘To Kelly, a girl with inspirations bigger than this small town, who will make it as an artist across the stratosphere,’” she says proudly as I look at her, perplexed. Are all art nerds in high school like this now? I bite my bottom lip and look down at the binder.
“How about I just write, “To Kelly, may all your dreams be as artistically profound as you,” I say as I write it down, not even giving her a second thought to come up with something remotely better.
Kelly squeals and nods. “Yes, good! Love that!”
I smile as I finish and hand it back to her. She smiles widely and then remembers what she was doing before she went starstruck. “Oh, anyway, I’m the president of our Art Teens Enthusiasts, where we talk about all things art as well as critique our own work so it helps us improve as artists.” She hands me a flyer. It’s messy, but the art has potential. It looks as if the designs were drawn digitally, which seems to be the way we’re heading in the art world.
I look up curiously. “You’re called ATE?” I ask.
Kelly frowns and looks at her feet. “Our sponsor wanted us to seem, in his words, “hip,” so once he considered “ATE,” he went with it,” she replies. “But yeah, we’re looking for donations for additional supplies so we can take them to the shelter to help any displaced kids have an outlet in their time of need.”
I nod, knowing there is no way I can pass up a cause like this. I clear my throat and scan the QR code on the flyer. I suddenly feel a presence behind me, though not a threatening one. I finish my donation, and then Kelly walks over to her table to produce a raffle ticket.
“This is weird, but the raffle ticket is for the original copy of Stop to Grin ,” she says, grinning as she hands me the ticket.
Okay, now things have gotten weirder. Stop to Grin was one of the first paintings I did. I was in high school, and I made it for the state art fair, where I got second. I left it here when my art teacher, Mr. Mathers, wanted to showcase it.
“Did Mr. Mathers retire or something, because I didn’t authorize it to be given away,” I say. I feel the same about the reprinting of my work, but I sold it, so that’s out of my hands.
“Oh my goodness!” Kelly exclaims. “I didn’t realize you didn’t know! You should sue.”
I inwardly roll my eyes at her lack of awareness as I hear a voice say, “You technically could, but…”
I turn around at the voice behind me immediately.
“…but think of the children.”
Cade’s smug grin meets my annoyed one, but as annoying as he is, he isn’t wrong. I will let it go because at least the art supplies will go to a charity.
I turn back to Kelly. “I hope you get more donations,” I reply as Cade plucks the flyer out of my hand and scans the code as well. After completing his own donation, Kelly rushes to retrieve his raffle.
“I hope I win a Sloane Bennett original,” he jokes. He smirks before leaning near me. “Want to walk with me?”
Do I? Yes. Should I? Probably not. Granted, we’d have to be really brave to hop into the nearest porta-potty, so I don’t think we’ll get a repeat of last time.
I look up at him and finally see in his eyes that I may finally get the answers I’ve been looking for.
Here’s hoping, anyway.