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Anything Goes
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Bi-Sexual Female / 30
An Artist Of Sorts I Make Art And I Produce Real Life For A Man
I was between my undergrad and my grad school, working for a respected artist in my town. She has a well known gallery, she is prolific, both a painter and sculpture. I got to know her through our social connections, we are both lesbians, but not lovers. My undergrad is in Art Appreciation, in grad school I wanted to study Fine Arts.
One evening a man walked in looking for something original for his wife. I told him everything in the gallery was original. He walked around, unimpressed, told me everything was tired. No life. He wanted something 'original' not the same. He asked if there was something in the back, let him decide.
I walked him back, he went through a large selection of paintings. Then he pulled one out. It had life, original, raw talent, cleaned up, framed right, he could hang that in his house. It was one of my paintings, unsigned. He asked me about it, I was nervous, why had I not signed it, was I ashamed. How much? I said 200.
He walked me back out, his hand holding me by the small of my neck, in the other my painting. He gave me the 200, told me not to undersell myself, and left.
Six weeks later, a week before I left for grad school, an invitation came to the gallery, first name only, hand written. A birthday celebration, his wife was turning forty. I was the guest of honor, unveiling my art. My friend and mentor told me to go, don't be shy. She would go with me, if that helped. It meant postponing my departure date.
The painting, cleaned of all dirt and dust, framed in gold, on an entrance wall framing the painting itself, with a small antique table with an orchid in a gold pot. I was stunned, my mentor whispered in my ear. People came over to meet me, his wife spun me around. Her g*ft, original, one of a kind.
He wanted me, a collectable, to put in a house he had built just for me. A large studio, three bedrooms, on his property on the edge of town. To be kept, to deliver life for him, to paint. I'm thirty now, I have two daughters, each an original. I can't leave, I mean I can, but I can't. My art life is real, he's my promoter, one and only one at a time, he selects which one. To homes, offices, private collections, staged, framed for private enjoyment.
But for him, I produce life, real, originals, one of a kind, his flesh and blood. Not for display, to love and to hold, to raise and to mother. Never to be sold.
One evening a man walked in looking for something original for his wife. I told him everything in the gallery was original. He walked around, unimpressed, told me everything was tired. No life. He wanted something 'original' not the same. He asked if there was something in the back, let him decide.
I walked him back, he went through a large selection of paintings. Then he pulled one out. It had life, original, raw talent, cleaned up, framed right, he could hang that in his house. It was one of my paintings, unsigned. He asked me about it, I was nervous, why had I not signed it, was I ashamed. How much? I said 200.
He walked me back out, his hand holding me by the small of my neck, in the other my painting. He gave me the 200, told me not to undersell myself, and left.
Six weeks later, a week before I left for grad school, an invitation came to the gallery, first name only, hand written. A birthday celebration, his wife was turning forty. I was the guest of honor, unveiling my art. My friend and mentor told me to go, don't be shy. She would go with me, if that helped. It meant postponing my departure date.
The painting, cleaned of all dirt and dust, framed in gold, on an entrance wall framing the painting itself, with a small antique table with an orchid in a gold pot. I was stunned, my mentor whispered in my ear. People came over to meet me, his wife spun me around. Her g*ft, original, one of a kind.
He wanted me, a collectable, to put in a house he had built just for me. A large studio, three bedrooms, on his property on the edge of town. To be kept, to deliver life for him, to paint. I'm thirty now, I have two daughters, each an original. I can't leave, I mean I can, but I can't. My art life is real, he's my promoter, one and only one at a time, he selects which one. To homes, offices, private collections, staged, framed for private enjoyment.
But for him, I produce life, real, originals, one of a kind, his flesh and blood. Not for display, to love and to hold, to raise and to mother. Never to be sold.
