THE KIND OF GIRL THEY DON’T PAINT
THE KIND OF GIRL THEY DON’T PAINT
ELONA
Istood before the grand double doors of the gallery, my heartbeat steady, though I felt a nervous flutter deep inside my chest. I smoothed the worn fabric of my coat, once a rich burgundy that had deepened to a muted wine with the passing years, and adjusted the strap of my leather portfolio before lowering it to my side.
Each step toward this place, this moment, was an act of courage which I had rehearsed in my mind countless times.
The district that the gallery was in was a place of wealth; of polished marble and gilded frames.
Elegant buildings with tall windows loomed over me, sunlight flashing off the glass and casting colorful reflections.
It was something that had always seemed to be just beyond my reach.
But it wasn’t just the art I craved; it was the validation.
It was the recognition, something that had always been unavailable to me, especially in a world that still saw me as “other.”
Through the gallery’s window, I could hear the muted sound of voices as their hands swept and circled before each painting, the faint clink of glasses, and catch the subtle click of polished shoes against cool, gleaming marble floors.
Art lovers, critics, and collectors mingled in the light, their eyes roaming from one expensive painting to the next.
But for me, it wasn’t the abstract pieces or the clean lines of modern art that called out to me; it was the charcoal drawings that I carried, my own small rebellion against the sterile perfection that filled these walls.
The women in my drawings, strong, raw, and defiant, embodied everything I had fought to hold on to in my life.
They were more than just images; they were stories, my stories.
The untold histories of women like me, women who had been erased, neglected, or forgotten by the world.
In each stroke of my charcoal, I had found a voice, a way to communicate the power and beauty of those who had survived against all odds.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed the doors open.
The warm air from the gallery kissed my skin as I stepped inside, and for a moment, I felt like a stranger, an intruder in a world that did not welcome me.
I scanned the space with careful eyes, noting the silent, lifeless art adorning the walls that pretended to offer something more than just an aesthetic.
My gaze swept through the crowd until it landed on the man I was looking for, Mr. Bennett, the gallery owner.
He stood near the center of the room, solidly built, his frame carrying an easy weight that made him feel rooted in place rather than simply occupying it.
His hair was perfectly arranged, every strand disciplined into submission, and his glasses sat low on his nose, while his eyes did most of the talking—cool and assessing.
They moved over the room until they found me, and something shifted.
The calculation softened just enough to pass for warmth, replaced by the polished courtesy of a man long accustomed to artists who never quite belonged in his world, yet kept trying to earn their place in it.
“Miss Elona,” he said, stepping forward. “Good to see you, come right in.”
I offered a tight-lipped smile. I could already feel the tension in my body; the small pulse of anxiety that had started the moment I stepped into this space. Every inch of this gallery reeked of privilege, of rarity, and of the silent judgments that waited to pounce.
“I’ve brought my work, Mr. Bennett,” I said, my voice steady despite the nerves that prickled my skin. “I’d like to show you some of my drawings that I think would be a good fit for your gallery.”
Mr. Bennett’s gaze dropped to the portfolio in my hands, but there was hesitation in his eyes and a slight shift in his posture, almost imperceptible, but enough for me to notice it.
He glanced over his shoulder at one of the attendants, a tall, thin woman in a sleek black dress, and then nodded toward a quiet corner.
“Of course. Let’s have a look at them in private, shall we?
” His voice remained smooth, yet there was an undercurrent to his words that made my stomach tighten.
I nodded, following him through the crowd while every glance from the art lovers felt like a challenge, a reminder that I was not meant to be here, not meant to be seen.
We arrived at a small, secluded corner of the gallery, where Mr. Bennett gestured toward a low table. “Please, have a seat,” he offered, his tone almost condescending. “Let’s take a look at your work.”
I carefully placed my portfolio on the table, my fingers trembling slightly as I began to unlatch it.
I had rehearsed this part, the introduction, the explanation of what each drawing meant to me, the personal stories behind each line, but now, as he loomed across from me, the words seemed to vanish.
Before I could open the portfolio, Mr. Bennett cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses, his posture defensive. His fingers folded together in a steeple and then he spoke in that soft, too-measured voice that always made my skin crawl.
“You know, Miss Elona,” he began, “we appreciate your interest in having your work featured in our gallery. However. . .” He let the word hang, the finality in it suffocating.
His gaze drifted toward the crowd, ensuring no one was listening.
“Your work is, I'm sure . . . very well done, of course,” he continued, “but—”
My fingers tightened around the edge of the portfolio, my pulse quickening. “But?” I prompted, my voice cool, though I could feel the rage beginning to bubble up in my chest. This was familiar. I knew exactly where this was going, the same words, the same thinly veiled dismissal.
He leaned back, shifting his gaze to my hands as if inspecting them for signs of weakness.
“Your style of work is . . . unique, certainly. But, Miss Elona, as we discussed before—” his eyes lowered once more, settling on my hands in a way that made me feel small “this is an exclusive space. A space for the finer artists, for those whose work appeals to a very specific clientele. Your. . . style of work is striking, but perhaps. . . it doesn’t quite fit the image we’re looking for. ”
I could feel it now, the familiar sting of rejection.
It was all too clear: My art, my voice, my identity didn’t fit into the carefully curated world of refined taste he championed.
He wasn’t looking at my work, at the raw, unapologetic power of the women I drew.
He was looking at me, at who I was and what I represented.
And I was, in his eyes, an outsider. My voice remained calm, though my chest tightened with frustration.
“What exactly do you mean by ‘doesn’t fit the image’?
I thought you wanted authentic, powerful art that challenges the viewer. That’s what I’ve brought for you.”
This time Mr. Bennett’s lips curved into a sly smile. “It’s not about authenticity, Miss Elona, it’s about refinement. The people who visit this gallery. . .” He paused, his voice dripping with condescension. “They expect something different. They expect something. . . more palatable.”
I could feel my jaw tightening, the words already forming on my tongue. “You don’t want to display my work because I’m Indian.” I said quietly but firmly, my voice cutting through the pretense.
Mr. Bennett faltered for a moment but quickly regained his composure. “I wouldn’t say that, Miss Elona. It’s just a matter of what fits with our gallery’s. . . vision—”
“Stop.” I stood up, unable to stay seated any longer.
My portfolio felt like stone in my hands, his rejection settling deep, but I kept my expression steady.
“I’m not here for your polite lies. I’ve seen your ‘refined’ art before.
It’s all the same: a white canvas, a clean line, something easy to digest. My women are not easy to digest, but they’re real, and you’re afraid of that.
” The room shrunk down to an airless box but I fought the suffocating feeling.
Mr. Bennett made a nervous, uncertain noise. “It’s not personal, Miss Elona. I’m merely trying to help you understand—”
“I understand perfectly.” My voice came out steady, even if everything inside me wasn’t. “I never needed your help.” I straightened my back, lifted my chin, and turned toward the door before he could say anything else. By the time I crossed the gallery, I was fighting back tears.
Outside, the cold hit hard, wind slicing across my face and sucking the air from my lungs.
I huddled deeper into my coat, dragged in a breath and trying to steady myself, but it only made the burn behind my eyes worse.
Mr. Bennett’s belittling words whispered of an age-old truth: In a world built on polished privilege, my people, the bright threads of my heritage, would always be deemed unworthy by men like him.