“My art holds something called a dark truth.”
“Care to explain?” I asked.
“It just takes a more realistic perspective. Uptown is full of beauty in a way that is materialistic, but deep beneath, there’s a seedy underbelly that no one enjoys talking about. They want to appear fine on the outside, but beneath is a boiling truth desperate to get out.”
“You want your art to pull their own personal truths from them,” I said.
“Exactly. Plus, I had a gallery in a different part of town when I first landed here. It fell through because the location was horrendous. Uptown gives me much more exposure, especially with the online presence I’m garnering.”
“Online presence?” I asked.
“Yes, I sell some of my artwork online. I also dabble in graphic design. It really is a wonderful marketplace. Are you online?”
“Can’t say that I am,” I said.
“Oh, well. It’s a wonderful frontier. You should really think about it. I could help you set yourself up nicely.”
“Should I choose to go that route, I’ll keep you in mind,” I said.
“It’s hard to get a good buzz without a decent physical location. I have to say, I’m a bit envious.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Because you’re in a terrible location, but everyone talks about you.”
“They do?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. It’s why I had to come down here and see it for myself. Your success is quite the envy of the San Diego art community.”
His eyes were dancing around my gallery, almost as if he was trying to find my recipe for success. His physical presence had been comforting, like an old friend that had just waltzed back into town. His voice was a bit mesmerizing. He could’ve read the ingredients off the back of an oatmeal raisin cookie, and I probably would’ve wanted to eat it. But there was something in his eyes I couldn’t place.
Something that was genuinely curious as to why I was doing better than he was.
“Do you have any pictures of your artwork I could see?” I asked.
The smile that beamed across his face pulled one across mine.
“But of course,” he said.
He pulled out his phone, and I scrolled through the endless array of art pieces. Paintings of women gazing out windows and men sitting alone at tables. Portraits of people with sadness in their eyes, even while their bodies were adorned with beautiful fabrics and jewels. There was something heart-wrenching about his pieces. There was something about them that seemed so familiar, that called to me in a way art hadn’t in a very long time.
I came across a picture of a young boy walking down a dirt road, a wagon with only three wheels being pulled behind him. I felt tears rise to my eyes and watched one drip down onto his phone, and that’s when I felt his hand curl around mine.
“It’s an honor to be able to pull that type of emotion from you,” he said as he took his phone back.
“Why don’t you sell a couple of your paintings here?” I asked.
“Come again?”
“Yeah. I could display them here and sell them for a small commission.”
“How much?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Ten dollars off every painting,” I said.
“For these pictures and the size they are, that’s less than seven percent.”
“They would only be hanging, and it’d be good advertising for you. You could leave some cards behind or something so people could go find some more of your paintings where you are.”