“Ciao Gabriella,” I called, as I squeezed past the stack of blank canvasses blocking the doorway to the small office at the back of the gallery. Hearing my voice, Gabriella squealed, practically vaulting over a small pile of boxes and pulling me into a tight hug.
“I’ve been trying to call you all morning! Oh, Bella. I’m so glad you’re here! You’ll never guess what!” It was impossible to miss the excitement buzzing from her small frame, but I couldn’t resist teasing her.
“Erm… you’ve just found out that I’ve been awarded the Future Generation Art Prize and we’re splitting the winnings sixty/forty?” She pulled back and slapped my arm.
“When that happens… and I mean when — the split will be fifty/fifty! Where would you be without me, cara? Hmm?”
“Languishing away down in my parent’s freezing cantina, and working minimum wage to save up for new brushes?”
“Certo!” She said with a mock glare.
“So, what’s this big news then? Did we actually manage to make it into the black this month?” She rolled her eyes and grabbed my hands.
“You have a new commission!” In the beginning, work had been pretty sporadic at best, but these days I got commissions fairly regularly, so that couldn’t be the ‘big news.’ Gabriella only left me hanging for a moment though, before excitement finally got the better of her. “…for forty-six canvases!!!” She finished with a little hop, laughing as my mouth dropped open in amazement.
Had that really been only six weeks ago? I’d been so thrilled. It was the largest commission I’d ever had. It even included an all-expenses paid trip for my family and me to visit Sydney for an entire month. Australia; it was the other side of the world and we’d never even been outside of Italy before. My nine-year-old son, Giacomo, hadn’t stopped talking about it, barely taking a breath until we were high in the sky on a Qantas jet winging our way to Sydney. He and my husband, Arturo, had spent countless hours poring through travel sites, making a list of all the places they planned to visit. It was a career maker; an open door to future commissions from other hotel chains. I’d felt like I’d finally made it; certainly, a far cry from how I felt today.
Standing in reception, my heart in the pit of my stomach, I waited for the hotel chain’s owner to finish yet another overseas business call. The bulging portfolio clutched in my numb fingers, contained my last chance at securing the job. Forty-nine sketches in total. This included a couple of backups as a safety net, just in case any of the first forty-six fell flat. As Greta Thompson’s muffled voice drifted to my ears from behind the thick, opaque glass, I felt anything but reassured. The devastation which followed our last meeting ran on a sickening loop through my mind…
“Oh no, this won’t do at all.” Greta frowned down at the freshly sketched images scattered across the large conference table. Tutting, she shook her head.
“What don’t you like about them? Maybe once I add a little colour and…” She waved her hand at the pile with an overly dramatic flourish cutting me off mid-thought.
“Everything, darling… Just everything!” Taking hold of my arm, she pulled me closer. Forcing myself to focus past the terrible well of despair bubbling up inside, I scrutinised my work again, desperately trying to find whatever flaw it was that she found so offensive. I just couldn’t see it. I’d thought the botanical gardens, harbour and opera house would be the perfect subjects for the series. Each one was uniquely
‘Sydney,’ and the only guidance I’d been given was to ‘capture the essence of Sydney.’
“Could you maybe try to be more specific? If I had a clearer idea of exactly what you’re looking for then perhaps…”
“Something unique darling! Something that only you could have painted. I want to see your heart and soul laid out on that canvas… not just another ‘hotel room’ painting.” The last she’d actually put in air-quotes as if she wasn’t sure the words themselves would hammer the point home hard enough.
“I see…” I didn’t, though. I’d spent hours finding just the right locations for those sketches. It hadn’t been easy either. It was my first time in Sydney, and I’d never been very good at following street-maps. Plus, although my grasp of the English language was better than most of the people I knew back home, it was proving no match at all to the thick Australian dialect and strange slang which most of the city’s residents seemed to favour. Asking for directions had been like sitting an exam in a subject I’d never studied. Hearing her describe my work as ‘just another hotel room painting’ was crushing. It gave me a whole bevy of doubts which I really couldn’t afford to have. Not if I wanted any chance of taking home the promised paycheque.
How would I face my family and friends back home, or explain to my son why the new bike he’d had his heart set on would have to wait for another year? We weren’t poor by any means. Arturo’s paycheques brought in enough each month to allow us to live comfortably; but with the break in my earnings as I focused on this single project, and the extra spending money which was allowing my family to see the sights and make the most of their time here, luxuries would be in short supply for a while.
“Okay… let me see what I can do.” Greta gave my shoulder a squeeze, which I could only assume was meant to be a gesture of encouragement, then swept from the room, calling her PA’s name at the top of her lungs. All I’d wanted to do at that moment was go back to my room and have a good, long cry. Crying wouldn’t help anything, though. So, shoving my bruised pride aside, I had headed back out into the city in search of my muse.
I was pulled from my dismal thoughts by the sound of the office door opening. I tried to achieve a convincingly confident expression, as Greta’s face poked around the doorframe. She was still on the phone.
“Gio, darling… give me just a sec, will you.” She covered the mouthpiece with a perfectly manicured hand. “Wonderful man… couldn’t manage his way out of a paper bag though,” she whispered conspiratorially. I didn’t quite know how to respond to that, but she didn’t give me chance to form a reply.
“Is that them?!” She held her hand out for the portfolio, which I was still clutching like a lifeline. I handed it over, but instead of looking inside, she just tucked it under her arm.
“I’m going to have to be unforgivably rude, my dear. I was expecting to be finished by now, but Gio really just can’t cope without me.” She shrugged with a dramatic roll of her eyes.
“I can come back later…?” I wasn’t sure I could handle the stress of waiting even longer for her final decision, but it was clear I had no choice.
“Could you? That would be perfect, darling… shall we say 8 pm in the foyer?” Before I had a chance to answer, she was gone again, the door clicking shut in her wake.
What on earth was I going to do for the next six hours? I’d made it as far as the lobby when Greta’s PA came chuffing to a stop at my side.
“Ms Thompson asked me to tell you to bring your husband and son with you to the meeting this evening.”
My heart sank further, now resting somewhere near the level of my shoes. I nodded, and the frazzled looking man scurried off again.
Six hours later, I was a bag of nerves. It didn’t matter how many times Arturo assured me that she’d love my work. Even the none-stop questions from Giacomo couldn’t lure me from my anxious cocoon of anticipatory misery.
“I’m so glad you could all make it!” Greta came sweeping into the room – a cyclone of energy and emotion.
“Ms Thompson, I hope…” She held up a hand.
“First, Follow me.”
I felt, rather than saw Arturo’s mouth drop open in shock. Greta didn’t see it though, as she had already marched from the room.
She finally came to a stop in front of a closed door, which still had ‘under construction’ signs clearly
displayed. Ignoring them, she ushered us into the dark space beyond. I was about to ask what was going on when she flipped the light switch. My eyes grew wide as saucers as I realised where I was standing.
“It’s… a gallery.” She laughed, clearly enjoying my surprise. Looking around I realised all of the pieces on display were the preliminary sketches I’d handed her earlier.
“It certainly is, and it’s all yours darling girl!”
“I… I don’t understand. I thought you wanted the paintings for the hotel?”
“Indeed, I do my dear, and the first sketches you gave me will more than suffice for that. This gallery is for the wonderful ones you handed me today, and any you paint in the future, of course. This past month has been about so much more than just a commission. It was an interview to see if you were the right person to receive our ‘New Talent’ grant — you sailed through with shining colours, my dear. Congratulations!” She put her arm around my shoulder and gave me a squeeze. My son and husband began to clap, beaming smiles on their faces.
“You both knew about this!” I accused with a mock glare.
“They were sworn to secrecy. Couldn’t have them spoiling my fun.” She winked at Giacomo, and he giggled.
“You are a very unique woman, Ms Thompson.”
“Noticed that did you?” She raised an unrepentant eyebrow, and we all dissolved into laughter.
If you enjoyed this and would like to see other examples of the author’s work, please visit her website: www.bernadetteflynnauthor.com. You can also listen to the audio recording of this piece via F&F’s YouTube channel at https://youtu.be/N5cPJyDCn5c