“No doubt about that.” She turned to the last canvas. “Your eye is amazing, as is your skill. And I have been keeping track of you, Zoe. I know you’re one of the most sought-out freelancers in J Town.”
Was I the only one not aware of this? “Then what’s wrong with my collection?” I stalked over to the center canvas. I’d spent eighty-six hours on it. “The juxtaposition of the glass and steel on the edges of the boardwalk with the businessman crossing into both. It makes people think.”
“And it’s amazingly rendered. And on its own is a perfect image for a magazine article. Which is what it should be. You have a gift with the commercial, Zoe. I’m not denying it, but it’s missing the heart of you. This isn’t you. This is what you’re capable of, but it’s not what speaks for you.” Her gaze zeroed in on the microphone stand painting I hadn’t been able to pull down before her visit. “That. What is that?”
I wanted to cross the room and drag it down off the wall. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing?” She plucked the beach and cityscape down off the wall and exchanged it for the one of Ian’s first show. She didn’t even strain under the weight of it. The edges were still wet and stained Ginny’s palms, but she didn’t seem to notice. “This is where you need to be.”
I bowed my head. “It’s just a concert.”
“You know it’s more than that.” She crossed to me and tipped up my chin to meet her gaze. “Why the hell are you hiding this?”
I stared at her stubbornly. I didn’t want Ian wrapped around my work. He kept infiltrating it no matter how hard I tried to keep him separate.
“Until you stop being afraid of where your talent is drawing you, you’re never going to move forward.”
“This isn’t about me.”
“Isn’t it though?”
I fisted my hands at my sides and stepped back. “So, you’re turning down my collection?”
She shook her head with a sigh. “Stubborn. Good thing you’re talented, Zoe. But imagine what you’ll be like if you actually trust yourself?” She glanced down at her palms and walked around to the sink in my kitchenette to wash her hands. “Follow this line or you’re out. I don’t want to play hardball with you, but I have forty artists on the waiting list for a spot here. If you aren’t going to push yourself, I can’t help you.”
I dragged in a startled breath.
“I was approached by Ripper Records to work with one of their artists.”
“The same one you painted here?” She nodded to the microphone stand that had started all my obsessions with Ian and him onstage. “It has a different feel than your other paintings.”
I crossed my arms over my middle. Because it looked like my diary paintings. The ones I never shared. “It’s a study from a Polaroid.”
Ginny shook her head. “You kill me. Who the hell uses a Polaroid?”
I lifted my chin. “I do.”
“And it makes you special. You straddle the digital and analog with your style. Embrace it. I want more of this. I know you have more. I’d bet my Mustang you have more of it hidden along that tarped wall.”
My jaw ached from clenching my teeth.
“Four weeks, Zoe. Or you can start packing up.”
My eyes snapped to hers. “I have three months left.”
“At my discretion.”
Panic strangled me. “That’s not true,” I whispered.
She shrugged and dried her hands. “Read your contract.” Her face softened a little. “I don’t want to do this, but I know you’re more than what you’re offering up here.” With that, she quietly left.
I stalked over to the painting of Ian’s show. Part of me was tempted to drag it off the wall and toss it across the room, but Ginny was right. There was more love from me in that painting than anything I’d shown her.
I wilted to the floor, heedless of my dress, and sat cross-legged on my drop cloth in front of the eight-foot wooden structure I’d created. The texture bled through the black paint no matter how many coats I’d given it.
But it made it better.
It made the boot I’d added to the corner even more torn and battered to match the janky mic stand. “Fuck.”