Every Way (Brush of Love 4)

“Interesting concept,” I said. “It also says your main degree is in music.”

“I’m a cellist,” she said.

“Why should I hire you as the manager-slash-assistant of my gallery?” I asked.

“Because sometimes places like this need the eye of someone who isn’t properly educated,” she said.

“Explain.”

“Art education isn’t always about the background information. Sometimes, art education is about teaching others how to express themselves through it.”

I tried not to jump for joy at her answer as I stood up from my stool.

“If you hire me, what I’d like to do is not simply educate, but immerse. I want to act as that tour guide. I want to figure out how the art on the wall affects people and then educate them by guiding them through those emotions. Our minds pick up on so much, and it disperses that information throughout our bodies at a dizzying pace. Sometimes, we pick up on things that make us sad before we can identify why we’re sad. The same goes for happiness. Or anxiousness. Or joy. Or depression. Take Picasso, for instance. Most people couldn’t even figure out what the hell it was he had painted, but it made them feel a certain way. Their minds picked up on cues from his paintings that pulled the exact emotion Picasso wanted from them even though they couldn’t even identify the basic subject.”

“You want to be that tour guide,” I said.

“Among other things, yes.”

“What else would you want to be?”

“A guiding hand for your classes. There have been rumors circulating that you would start some up, but they haven’t ever come to fruition. I’d like to help you start up those classes,” Kelly said.

“Some things have gotten in the way, yes,” I said.

“I’d like to be able to take on those classes for you. I’ve got three in mind that I think would go over really well in this community. One that reaches out into the disabled community, one that reaches out into the fine arts community who want to learn from you, and one that reaches out into the poorer communities who have been left behind in the wake of evolution.”

“Evolution?” I asked.

“It’s a better word than gentrification.”

“Say what you mean and mean what you say,” I said. “And I agree with you. That was my original target audience for my first art class.”

“I’d also like to find a way to get people through the doors on Saturday nights. You know, showcases or fun community activities. We could take up donations, and those donations could purchase people some tools for the art classes so those who can’t afford them can still come,” she said.

“You’ve really given this some thought,” I said.

“I really think what you’re doing here is phenomenal,” she said.

Kelly turned to me and looked me in the eyes. She had been late and very unapologetic about it, but she was sincere. The ideas she had for this place matched the ideas I had started out with, and some of the ideas even surpassed things I would’ve implemented myself. The way she wanted to educate people about art really brought it down to a level I was wanting to bring it to, making art accessible to the masses and showing them that it didn’t take a fancy degree to learn about, appreciate, and even do this idea of art.

“Would you like me to show you some of my favorite pieces?” I asked.

“I would love nothing more,” Kelly said.

I walked her around the gallery and asked her about how she felt on some of my paintings. Some of them pulled from her feelings of joy and elation while others made her anxious. She had a hard time standing in front of some of the paintings because of how tumultuous they were, and I was surprised at her ability to pick up on all of these things. We slowly walked around the room, and I conversed with her about the type of person I needed to hire, and she seemed on board with all the things I threw her way.

But then we stopped in front of John’s dual paintings.

“Wow,” Kelly said.

“Wow, indeed,” I said.

“It’s amazing how there can be so much color and still so much pain.”

I panned my gaze over to her, and I watched her eyes take in the artwork. I watched her entire body being pulled to the paintings as she studied them over and over. In an odd way, this thirty-one-year-old alternative woman fit into this place. She brought back a civility to it that had been stripped away when the likes of Ben had appeared at my door. She carried with her a light that I needed to shine in this place, a light that could coat the walls even with the darkness that loomed just outside of it.

“These are the dual paintings by that artist you showcased, isn’t it?” Kelly asked.