Chapter Six
Max, Now
My mentor, Eleanor, picks up her wine, swirling the sample in front of her nose. After a sip, she nods to the server. “That’s good.”
I took workshops with Eleanor when she was a visiting scholar at my university.
She works at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, one of the most esteemed museums in the US, and we’re having lunch at a high-end restaurant downtown.
I’ve had countless business meetings in establishments like this, although this spot has an especially stuffy vibe to it.
The whole place looks like a brightly lit, neutral-toned French chateau, complete with luxurious velvet curtains and a sparkling chandelier.
Basically, the opposite of grabbing beer last week at Sal’s with Daisy.
“I knew you were from the US,” Eleanor says, “but SoCal?”
“Born and raised. My parents wanted more space and less of the LA crazy influence on their kids.”
“Good for them. Los Angeles is a lot, and I love this city as much as I hate it. Plus, Harlow’s adorable, really quaint.”
“My friend owns a hotel out there,” I say with a glint of pride. “The Mirage.”
“I think I know that one. My wife and I don’t get out there as often as we’d like, but when we do, even for the weekend, we release this breath we didn’t know we were holding. And there’s quite a burgeoning art scene.”
I purse my lips, unsure I heard her correctly.
“I’m serious,” she says, lifting her glass for a sip.
“Who’s it burgeoning for? People who want to drop acid and paint sunsets for souvenir shops?”
“The town’s a hot spot for creatives now. There’s been a lot of fresh blood moving there in the past five years. Harlow’s officially on the map.”
“Are we…” I scratch the back of my neck. “Are we talking about the same Harlow?”
“Don’t be so skeptical. I actually have a friend out there who wants to start an art school for teens. She’s looking for instructors if you’re interested.”
“I never pictured myself teaching.”
“It would just be the summer semester. You might end up loving it.”
“Maybe.” I give a noncommittal shrug.
“I’ve also heard rumblings of a position that you’d be perfect for.”
“At LACMA?” I freeze, holding a chunk of bread halfway to my mouth. Anything that well-known opens up infinite opportunities.
“Tate,” Eleanor says.
“Tate Modern?”
She nods, and the disaster with my last job becomes a pinpoint on the horizon behind me.
“Don’t get too excited yet, and this”—she points back and forth between us—“stays here. They won’t hire until October, maybe November, and I have no clue what the salary will be. But an old colleague who works there explained it as a new initiative curating traveling exhibits.”
After a few weeks of endless awful things, this news fills me with hope.
“It would be advisable to, you know…” She bobs her head left and right. “Get something else on the resume.”
“And you think that should be teaching?”
“The pay’s abysmal. It’s practically volunteer work. I’m happy to write you a glowing recommendation for Tate, and they’ll like your real-world experience, but having Impressions as your last workplace might spook them regardless. But a teaching position? That’ll look good.”
“How long does the contract last?”
“My friend said she desperately needs someone for the summer classes, which gives you some breathing room. Job openings in your line of work don’t come around every day.”
I sink into the chair in defeat. “That’s a long time for me to sleep on a leaking air mattress in my parents’ home gym.”
I’m already a disappointment for going into art, and being back only proves their point.
But if I go elsewhere and stay with friends, I won’t have a firm end date, and my savings won’t last forever.
No hiring manager in their right mind would want me, not with Impressions as the most recent thing on my resume.
This teaching position is the only lead I have.
“I’ll give you her contact info,” Eleanor says, smearing a glob of thick cultured butter on a roll. “She’ll love you.”
“Thanks.” I offer Eleanor as much of a smile as I can muster.
“Many talented artists teach,” she says. “I teach.”
“Teaching doesn’t bother me. It’s just not what I envisioned for my life.”
“The air mattress or the job situation?”
“Both.”
“Well, what did you picture?”
“What I was doing.”
After graduation, I lucked out snagging a position at Impressions—the sort of place that called itself an art-up.
They brought innovative exhibits to unexpected places.
While we originally intended to do small-scale projects throughout Western Europe and the United Kingdom, we went worldwide as an almost overnight success.
“I’m sure all curators feel this way sometimes,” I say, “but I really wanted to change the world with art. Give people experiences they wouldn’t forget. I felt like we were doing that.”
“You can’t tell me that a pop-up museum dedicated to mushrooms was anything other than an Instagram trap.”
“The Fungus Among Us was a hit.”
That was my most recent pop-up and my least favorite by far.
Since Impressions grew over the years, my latest work involved a constant battle with event coordinators, marketing specialists, and content writers.
The team had become more concerned with engaging influencers and posting clever hashtags than producing something meaningful beyond viral images.
People loved it, but they wouldn’t remember it.
“Okay, I didn’t exactly reach the pinnacle of my career there,” I admit, staring at my utensils. “Not yet. If I’d had more time, I could have done it.”
“Done what?”
“Created something that lasts. A legacy.”
“I love the ambition, but legacies can easily come from something negative, too. I am sorry about that, by the way. What assholes.” She shakes her head in disgust. “And now you and all the other employees there have to deal with the damage from their decisions.”
“I’m avoiding the headlines, but…” My jaw clenches. “Last I read, some people think I must have known.”
“Did you?”
“No, fuck, absolutely not.”
I should have, though, and plenty of investigative journalists out there have claimed the same.
That’s why I asked Daisy not to look anything up, because I didn’t know what she’d find.
What began with environmental concerns over Impressions’s massive set designs being quietly dumped into landfills, quickly escalated into sexual harassment claims against the CEO, who I worked closely with as the curator.
If I wanted a legacy, I got one.
“Not many people in the art world missed that headline,” Eleanor says. “I can reason with Tate, but the teaching thing could be the perfect CV palate cleanser.”
I rest my elbows on the table, my forehead in my palms. The server arrives with our food: elegant nests of pasta and a dazzlingly fresh caprese salad. Everything looks delicious, but I’ve got no appetite.
“Who knows?” Eleanor ferries some vibrant tomatoes and mozzarella to her plate.
“Next month, some museum will have protesters gluing themselves to a Monet for world peace, and this will be old news. You’re getting unfairly dragged, but people will eventually come around.
You should consider doing something of your own, too. ”
“Like a self-imposed project?” Sparks of creativity are already crackling inside me at the suggestion.
“Mhmm. You can’t go wrong with the teaching gig—it’s respectable. But a little extra initiative can’t hurt. If it doesn’t go anywhere, you’ll still have the teaching job on your resume. But if it’s a success, you’d no doubt shed the shadow of Impressions and stand on your own.”
That makes my ears perk up. If I’m serious about Tate, I need to do everything I can to become a top candidate—not just teaching, but also something of my own.
If I want to create something extraordinary, though, I’ll need a small team.
After what happened at my last job, I’m pretty sure I will only ever go into business with someone I already know and trust, which makes things tricky.
Not to mention the budget—although I’ve curated shows of all sizes around the world, the financial side has always eluded me.
Other than selecting and working with artists, I’m inexperienced in managing a project on my own.
I chew the inside of my lip, considering the possibilities, the responsibilities, and the nonzero chance of fucking things up further.
“Don’t look so worried,” Eleanor says, resting a hand on my shoulder and plucking me out of my spiraling thoughts. “People have emerged from worse situations than this. And when people want to figure out their shit, they often go somewhere remote. Somewhere…desert-y.”
Rubbing my temples, I wish with all my might she were wrong.
“I’m just saying,” she says, raising her hands in a defensive gesture. “Whether you drop acid or not, that’s up to you. But there are worse places to land.”
My little sister, Ava, walks with me down a concrete hall glowing with fluorescent lights. Save for Sal, she’s the only person who seems happy I’m back.
And maybe Daisy, although the verdict’s still out.
When I open the sliding door to the storage unit, I immediately wish I hadn’t gone full teenager mode and angrily promised my parents I’d clean this whole thing out tonight.
“How’s this even gonna fit in the car?” she asks.
“We can do more than one trip.” My reassurance is as much for me as for her. With the number of boxes and the amount of furniture in here, we’ll be making trips all night.