Chapter 1 Selling Out
Makia looked at herself in the mirror. She looked respectable…too respectable. The black baby-doll dress her roommate lent her looked cute. And the hot-pink stiletto pumps Agatha had thrust into her hands to go with it before dashing out looked pretty awesome, actually. Except. Except, when you’re at an art event, aren’t you supposed to be able to move without wiping out?
She held a hand out and turned to one side slowly, trying not to fall. I mean, I could pretend I’m one of those “living art pieces” art events do, but if I collapse on the floor in a heap, I think it would hinder my art sales….she thought, as she considered her profile, and wobbled a little.
Fuck it. Makia let herself fall back to sit on her bed and grappled with the accursed, sexy, wonderful, terrible shoes. Off they go. I’ll get Ags to take a picture of me in them later to post online instead. She padded in her bare feet to her side of the closet. She had two pairs of her own shoes to choose from; sneakers and combat boots.
She glanced at the other side of the closet—Agatha owned maybe 40 pairs, which lay in a multifarious heap of footwear on the floor under her clothing rack. Pretty much all of them had high heels. Yeah…nope. I came over here to escape all that. Makia considered her own shoes again and grabbed the Doc Martens.
She shut the closet door. It swung open again. Makia craned her head around to no one. Why does it always do that? She and Agatha had noticed a lot of odd things in their old, run down apartment since moving there. The rent was cheap, but rumor had it that this was because more than one tenant had committed suicide in the building.
Makia joked that the old tenants probably killed themselves because the hot water would always cut out just when they needed to rinse their hair, which was one of the many “perks” the place. It all made Agatha nervous, though; she was afraid of ghosts. Makia suggested they name the ghost, which made Agatha warm to the idea of having an invisible roommate. They hadn’t decided if it should be a boy or a girl, so their imaginary friend was dubbed Ellie or Elliott, depending on their mood. Makia shook her finger at the closed closet door. “Quit it, Elliott. No funny business tonight.”
Back at the mirror, she struggled to come to terms with the inevitable disappointment that awaited her there. She sighed. Makia considered herself to be the most nondescript human she ever met. A short, black dress and bulky, military boots couldn’t help that. She ran her fingers through her hair. It was black, too, as if she were the subject of a monochromatic portrait. She scowled at her innocent pixie cut and butt-white complexion. She might look trendy to some, but for an artist, this was the most obvious fashion choice. Passé, even.
Makia flopped on the bed again, face in palms, and groaned, “I knew I should’ve dyed my hair teal!” In art school, the only thing that was considered original about her was her name: Makia Praxis. And she didn’t even make that up. Her art was good, but it was…What did her teacher call it? Pedestrian.
I should be looking forward to a solo show opening. But…
She remembered the Gallery Director’s comment when he decided to give her a trial exhibition before officially representing her work long term. “We’ll try it. It’s skilled work, yet, so…commonplace.” He had smiled at her then, as if that weren’t just about the worst thing you could say to an artist. “But a good landscape piece can appeal to the masses, so I think we should give it a go.” He typed on his laptop while he talked. “After all, people don’t like what they don’t understand. That’s why so many geniuses don’t sell in their lifetime. Sometimes simple is better.” He smiled, as if this were a comfort.
It was universally acknowledged that Makia’s paintings were very well executed, but boring. She could paint the heck out of a mountain range, a forest or a lake, but her work seemed like something out of another time. It wasn’t contemporary or modern in any way imaginative. In art school, this was death. But Makia couldn’t help it; she couldn’t paint a figure worth a damn, and she just didn’t have it in her to hang an actual doughnut from a fishing hook and call it art, like one of her classmates had done.
She remembered coming home distraught after her painting was upstaged by the “found art” doughnut piece in a class critique. Agatha gave her the only compliment she heard that day: “Your paintings are amazing! They’re so precise, it’s like the scenery is an entire world you can get lost in.” Ags always knew what to say to cheer her on.
Makia sat up, hands on bare knees and trudged, somehow elegantly, to the living room to fetch her coat. She found it under her cat on The Comfy Chair. (There was only one.) She lifted the plump feline up and kissed his nose before setting him on the floor. Then she set to work brushing the abundance of gray cat hair off of her motorcycle jacket. A student loan bill fell out of the pocket. It was overdue again. Great. Like I needed to be reminded of yet another way I’ve failed at life. She grabbed it off the floor away from the tubby cat, who stared at her expectantly. “No, Pooka, you aren’t coming with me. And your hair isn’t either…not if I can help it.” She looked up at the clock. Time to go.
One more awful look in the mirror to check for any rogue Pooka fur and she was off to the most wonderful, miserable night of her life.
*
A short walk and a bus ride later, Makia stood outside Gallery Apraxia. She could see the paintings through the windows. Easy to see when no one is there, she thought. But it was early yet. Hopefully, she’ll get a crowd soon. Or ever. Makia hovered in the portico outside of the coffee shop across the street as she tried to muster the courage to walk into an empty room filled with her paintings and wait, hoping for someone to come in.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
A bell rang as the coffee shop door opened behind her. Makia stepped to the side, not turning around, and was surprised to hear an old woman addressing her, “Are you coming in or not, Dearie?” She swiveled to face the woman, a waitress in a retro-looking pink uniform. Or maybe it’s not retro for her—she could have bought it 50 years ago herself, Makia thought. She was glad she could just wear black when she waitressed at the cafe to make ends meet.
She glanced briefly at the empty, over-lit gallery across the street and made up her mind. “Yeh, ok, thanks. I’ll come in for just a minute.” Makia followed the matronly waitress inside and slid into a booth to hide out of sight.
Makia was good. Or so she thought. She only had one cup of coffee, and resolutely did not peek over the booth seat behind her to look at the gallery. She had resigned herself to striding into the gallery to greet no one, or perhaps the one or two art students who might come to drink free wine and eat everything on the cheese plate without even looking at the art, but criticizing it nonetheless, because, hey: art students.
The waitress sailed by with a carafe of coffee and held it poised over Makia’s empty cup. “Another cuppa joe?”
“No, thanks, I’ve got to go,” Makia said, wishing she hadn’t.
As she handed Makia the check, the old woman looked out the window. “Well, now. They look right busy for once,” she nodded to the gallery. “You goin’ there, hun?” She nodded her head in the direction of Makia’s motorcycle jacket, as if that made it a certainty.
Makia swung around and peeked over the back of the booth like a 3-year-old. It was busy. “Oh. Yes…yes, I am!” She slapped a 10 on the top of the check on the counter and ran out. “Keep the change!”
*
The gallery was full. Amazingly, oddly full. Especially since Makia hadn’t actually invited anyone, really. But it looks like Agatha did; she was in a corner laughing with a gaggle of marketing majors. They looked like they were mostly seniors in their last year—like Ags herself—Makia guessed.
The room was filled with strangers. It looked like the gallery was as good at promoting events as they promised. Makia resisted the urge to run and hide in the bathroom. She really didn’t know how to deal with all of them.
The Gallery Director stepped in front of her, wine in hand and spread his arms out to her as if they could hug at a distance. “There you are! Why didn’t you tell me?” He put on a fake pout. “I mean, I’m thrilled, but I could have promoted this even better if I knew!”
“Knew what, Mr. Pomposo?” Makia looked around, as if she would find the answer in the crowd.
“Oh, Rex, please. Call me Rex.” He put his plastic wine cup down on the nearby desk, apparently to free up his hands, because he placed them on each of her shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “The ghost figures in the paintings, of course! They are such a big hit!”
He looked around and whispered, “I can’t believe I didn’t notice them in your portfolio! We didn’t see them until we were lighting the show, then—pow!” He raised his hands in the air like his mind was literally blown, and grinned. “Good thing, too. I just had time to get a press release out and send an eblast to draw people in! Whatever made you think of it?”
Makia strained to see her paintings through the crowd. She hadn’t added any figures to her work. But it seemed like a bad idea to point that out just yet…“Um, I don’t know. Artistic inspiration, I guess?” She rubbed her neck and blushed a little.
He frowned. “Well, I think we can come up with something better then that to say—but, no matter—“ The smile returned. “Did you see how many red dots there are out there? We might sell everything by the end of the night!”
Makia gulped. “Really? Tha-that’s amazing.” She felt an odd combination of exultant joy and dread. Were the paintings on the wall all hers? Did the gallery make a mistake? She had to see what Rex was talking about. “Wow—that’s a lot to take in. Let me take a look…”
Rex thrust a cup of red wine into her hand. “Here, take this. And don’t talk to anyone until you have a good story about your inspiration for the paintings.” He winked. “Drink up. Believe me, it helps.”
Makia wandered through the crowd and up to one of the paintings on the wall closest to her. It was her painting all right. The painting looked like a normal landscape. What is all the fuss? What the hell is he talking about? I didn’t paint any figures in this series!
As she stared at the large painting of a field near a copse of trees, she overheard a couple discussing the piece. A woman with large rings and a trendy jacket pulled a tall man almost on top of Makia in her excitement. “Honey, I have to show you this one! It’s just so haunting.” She tugged at his sleeve like a child. “And beautiful! I think I can almost hear it calling out my name…”
The man stared at the painting with weighty unenthusiasm. “Ok. It’s a lot though.” He took a sip of white wine from a small, plastic cup. “Also, I think my cousin could paint that.”
The woman slapped his arm. “What? Are you crazy? She’s only six! Be quiet, if she’s here, the artist might hear you.” Then she leaned on his shoulder and pointed. “Honey, please. Just look at it more closely. The girl is right there.” She pointed to the right side of the painting. “If you don’t see it, move a little. It’s like a trick of the light.”
The man swayed obediently and squinted. “Oh. Yeah. I do see it now.” He shrugged. “But look, babe.” He pointed to the title card next to the painting. Under the painting’s name and price there was a red dot. “Someone’s beat you to it. It’s sold.” He ate one of the crackers he apparently snagged from the cheese plate.
Makia ignored them to inspect the painting more closely. She leaned closer to look at the righthand side of the composition. She shifted side to side with her wine in hand, feeling like an idiot. Then she saw it peeking out between the trees; there was a figure.
She jumped back a little. What the—I didn’t paint that! How did that get there? Makia glared around the room, as if the culprit might be hiding in the crowd. She stepped close again.
The figure of a ghostly looking girl stood with one hand on a tree trunk. Her face was haunted, and beautiful, like the ache of unattainable love. She was transparent and was only visible when the light hit the varnish just right.
Makia stepped back again and looked around the room. It was getting late; the crowd was thinning a little now and she could see the paintings more easily from a distance. And red dots. Lots of them, just like Rex said. Suddenly she felt like a fraud. All these people liked these paintings for the part that wasn’t hers…But if she told anyone, for sure she’d either lose everything or be labeled as crazy. But it’s ok for artists to be crazy, right?
She shook her head. No, it wasn’t right to take credit for someone else’s artwork. But whose was it? And why? She had to know. But then again, the paintings were hers too. And she needed the cash.
Rex half-danced up to her, took away her wine, and traded it for a glass of champagne. “We have sold all but two of your paintings tonight!” He clinked her glass with his. “I’ve got a contract in the back with your name on it. I hope you’re ready to paint up a storm. We’re going to need some more like these. And fast.”
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