Thursday, February 24, 2011
Before going to work I stopped at the coffee shop, and Chris was there, sitting at a table sketching. I see him there several times a week, but I still get an adrenaline rush every time I do. He’s just so damn talented and cool.
I stood in line, my eyes drawn to Chris, watching him work. It’s a gift to see an artist involved in his craft. His head was down, his longish blond hair touching his collar, his expression one of deep concentration. I could have stared at him forever, watching the creative process, and didn’t even realize when I was next in line until Ava joked that she often got lost watching him herself. I imagine she does.
I left and I don’t think Chris even knew I was there. I was invisible. No, that’s not right. He has too much control to not have known when I walked in and when I left. He simply didn’t want to invite conversation or attention. I guess it’s about being in his creative zone, because when he comes into the gallery, he’s very friendly. But he’s hard to figure out, and I didn’t expect him to notice me. I never do. But . . . for some reason, today it bothered me.
Evening . . .
There were hardly any customers in the gallery, so I had to cold call and try to get people into the store. Mary was busy preparing for a private party being held at the gallery tomorrow night. She wasn’t happy that I didn’t want to help. I think she gets some sort of bonus for booking these events, and I think it motivates her more than the art. And it’s not that I don’t want to help. It’s simply not a smart use of my time. Booking a ten-thousand-dollar event that we net only five thousand on doesn’t equal selling one expensive piece of art. So today I was snubbed by a famous artist and Mary was irritated at me. And now I’m staring at the contract.
Somehow, I don’t think tonight is the night to call my would-be “Master” and tell him I can’t let him tie me up and have his wicked way with me, no matter how tempting that sounds at this moment. I’m not sure what that says about me—that I want to be tied up and at his mercy on a night I feel weak. Maybe it’s what he said. That I need a safe place where I can just let go. The problem is, the contract makes that incapable of truly happening.
And on that note, I’m going to end this day the only way I can. I’m going to eat an entire bag of potato chips to go with my box of cereal. I’ll regret both in the morning, but at least I’ll still be in control of me.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Lunchtime . . .
Mark called me into his office this morning, before I left for a private showing at Ricco’s gallery. I wasn’t sure what to expect. I always steel myself for the impact of being alone with him. He owns you when you walk into the room. He owns you when he walks into a room. And while I’m not immune to the impact he has on everyone around him, I’ve often been challenged by him, eager to prove I can hold my own. Today was odd for me, because I never had a chance to do that. But it really shouldn’t surprise me, I guess. I’m still rattled by the way he confronted me over Josh and Ricco.
He didn’t get up from his desk. He simply steepled his fingers together and ordered, “Shut the door.” I did as he said and he added, “I know you’re leaving for a meeting, so I’ll make this quick. You do know Ricco doesn’t allow private showings?”
“No. I didn’t know.”
“He doesn’t even allow us a full collection here.”
“Why?” I asked.
“He’s all about leverage. And to be clear, Ms. Mason, I will not allow him to use his art to manipulate you. We do not need his business—not with our Riptide connections. And you do not need his commissions. Not with the potential Riptide offers you.”
“But you said you don’t want to lose him as an artist.”
“I repeat, I will not allow him to manipulate you,” was his only explanation of the conflicting messages.