That Thing Between Eli and Gwen(10)

“This is a bad idea,” she whispered beside me.

“Our first guest is currently the youngest neurosurgeon at New York Presbyterian Hospital. He graduated from our very own New York University before rising to the top of his class at Yale Medical. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Dr. Eli Davenport.”

The left side of the room cheered for me, rising to their feet.

“Good luck,” I said to her before walking onstage. Waving to the audience, I shook Director Mills's hand once more before taking the first seat.

“Our second guest is also a graduate of New York University. It was at our very own art gala that she debuted her first major work, Screaming in the City. Since then, her art and photography have graced almost every corner of the world. Time Magazine called her the Anselm Kiefer of this generation. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Ms. Guinevere Poe.”

I had thought the applause given to me was shocking, but all the art students went completely wild. Stomping their feet and clapping their hands, they cheered as if she had ended world hunger or cured cancer.

She came out, the biggest grin on her face as she waved back with both hands. She even gave a bow.

I rolled my eyes.

“Good luck,” she mocked when, finally finished praising herself, she sat in her chair.

I wanted to wipe that look off of her face.

“Thank you for being here,” the director said to us as we were handed microphones.

“No problem,” she replied gleefully.

“I wouldn't say ‘no’ problem. I could be saving someone’s life right now, but—”

A bunch of ohs and laughter came from my section.

She glared at me, nodding her head as if agreeing to something.

Let the games begin.





Guinevere


That’s how he wants to play? I had just made a pact not to allow him to drag me down to his level, and there I was getting into the ring with this…this thing…again. I had lived in the city for years, and never had New York felt as small as it had in the last few weeks. I just couldn’t get away from him.

“Shall we get started?” the director asked us.

We both nodded, turning to the students.

“Now, please remember to keep all questions respectful. We will go back and forth, starting from the quote, professionals.”

That got a few soft boos from what I guessed would be called the “creatives.”

A female student, her hair pulled into a tight ponytail, dressed in black slacks and a button-down blouse, stood. “My question is for Dr. Davenport.” Her gaze focused on him. “Do you not believe that, due to media, this generation is especially deluded about the life of the artist?”

There were a few groans and mutters at her question, but they all waited for him to speak. I watched him relax in his chair as a small grin crept onto his lips.

“Of course,” he said.

I was tempted to close my ears to the round of trash he would most likely spit out next.

“I mean, is it really possible for every last one of you in this room to become the next Anselm Kiefer or Lady Gaga? No. The thing about any type of art is: it’s not in your control. No matter what, your livelihood depends on whether or not you are, one: noticed, and two: popular. I’m sure there are many artists just as good as Ms. Poe, if not better, but none of them were noticed. Unlike in the professional world, where if you are the best in your field, you will get the recognition you deserve.”

How that bullshit answer got any applause worried me for the future of our country. “Am I allowed to respond to this?” I asked the director into the mic.

“Please.”

I sighed, rolling up my sleeves. “I told myself I would try to hold back, because often when I lay down the truth, people get hurt.” I grinned at the laughter filling the room.

“Anytime, Ms. Poe,” he said from beside me, taking a drink of his water.

“Well, Dr. Davenport, your statement highlights the fundamental difference between us. You look for recognition in your work. And don’t get me wrong, I’m sure you love what you do, but I’m also sure you don’t go into work every day hoping to save as many lives as possible. It’s about making a name for yourself. For people like me, I couldn’t give a damn if someone knows my accomplishments. My art isn’t for anyone but myself. When I paint, or take a photo, I’m expressing the innermost parts of myself. That is all the satisfaction I need. It may seem scary for all you people who need a path to walk, and the ten steps of becoming whatever, but for us, we artists make our own path, and set our own goals and limits. We are living a technicolor life, my friend.”

“Boom!” someone yelled from my side of the hall, and I winked in that direction.