God, Astrid’s brunch.
She squeezed her eyes closed, breathed in through her nose nice and slow. For a second, she considered staying in bed and skipping out on the whole thing. Astrid was bad enough, but Isabel was sure to be there, and Delilah never knew how to act around her perfectly-put-together stepmother. It was like talking to a smooth marble statue—beautiful, cold, perpetually constipated expression locked into place. There was a time she remembered Isabel smiling, even laughing, looking at Delilah’s father like he not only hung the moon, but made it sparkle and shine just for her. Isabel had truly loved Andrew Green; Delilah knew that full well.
It was Delilah Green sans Andrew that the woman never understood, nor did Delilah understand Isabel. And Isabel always seemed more than fine with their mutual misunderstanding, which was what hurt more than anything.
Delilah pulled the covers over her head and opened up her email, hoping for something from the Fitz about a sale, or perhaps a response from one of the photography agents she’d contacted with her portfolio in the last few months.
Nothing.
She clicked on her sent mail tab, opening the latest email to an agent she wanted to represent her so badly, she’d give up sex for a decade. She read through her message again, feeling a bit calmer at her professionalism, her clear knowledge of the industry. Then she clicked on the included link to her online portfolio, scrolling through the images of her best work.
They were all black-and-white, all queer women or nonbinary people, all featuring wedding dresses or suits and water and some sort of chaos. Her favorite was of a Black woman and a white woman, both in tattered lace gowns, sticks and leaves tangled in their hair, holding hands and wading into Lake Champlain in the middle of a thunderstorm. Not the safest shoot she’d ever done, but goddamn, it had been worth it. The light was perfect, the rain droplets like silver bullets shining in the air, the desperation evident in the way she’d had the models—Eve and Michaela, two women she knew from waitressing at the River Café—cling to each other. The effect was lovely and terrifying all at once, trauma and hope. It was beautiful.
It was good.
And yet, her inbox continued to accumulate cobwebs.
She switched over to her Instagram account, where she tried posting a photo a day. Weird shit she snapped on the sidewalks. Unique shots she got at queer weddings. Anything that matched the brand she was trying to build for herself—queer, feminist, angry, and beautiful.
Niche.
Her stuff didn’t appear to work for most stick-up-their-ass NYC agents, but it sure worked for the Internet. She had close to two hundred thousand Instagram followers and couldn’t keep track of the comments anymore. Her queer stuff got the most attention, and lately people had been asking whether or not she sold her pieces in an Etsy shop. It was affirming, but the idea of running her own e-commerce business—shipping, taxes, invoices—it all made her head spin.
She pulled up one of the pictures in her photos app she’d taken at JFK yesterday, a tripod-selfie in Terminal Four in front of the word Queens printed on the wall in huge blue and black mod letters against the white background, her in all black and gazing off to the side with one booted foot on the wall and looking . . . well, really queer and angry.
And sort of beautiful, if she was being honest.
She worked on the photo in Lightroom for a few minutes, adjusting the contrast, the tone, then uploaded it with no caption because she never wrote a caption. She was just about to click her phone’s screen dark when a new email notification popped up. It wasn’t from an agent or anyone at the Fitz gallery, but the subject line grabbed her attention like a yank on her hair.
Possible showing at the Whitney
Delilah sat up straight, floral comforter sliding to her lap, her fingertips tingling as she stared at the impossible words. They were real, though, sent from an official Whitney email address no less. Her hand shook as she tapped on the message.
From: [email protected]
Dear Delilah,
Hello, my name is Alex Tokuda and I’m one of the curators at the Whitney in New York City. For the past several months, we’ve been preparing for our Queer Voices exhibition, due to launch on June 25, which will showcase queer photographers and their work from all over the country.
Delilah had, of course, heard of the Whitney’s Queer Voices exhibition. While New York City was home to over eight million people, queer photography was still a small world—niche to the true assholes—and the fact that the Whitney itself was creating an entire showcase centered on queer voices was . . . well, it was huge. Delilah would’ve given anything to be part of this show, but she couldn’t even submit work for consideration. The Whitney dealt with agents, seasoned gallery owners, famous photographers. They didn’t take emails from queer women in torn black jeans working weddings and serving up sparkling rosé at the River Café.