She laughs. “Cole Blackwell is very generous.”
“Cole . . . what?” I say, trying to tear my eyes away from combing over every inch of this perfect space. The art I could make in here . . . I’m itching to get started.
“Mr. Blackwell owns this building. It was his idea to discount the junior studios. He may not have the most cuddly persona, but he supports his fellow artists.”
“Right, amazing,” I say, only partly following this. “Honestly, he could ask for my firstborn child and I’d gladly hand it over. This place is just . . . perfection.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Sonia says, passing me her clipboard. “All I need is a signature. We can start with a six-month lease.”
“Any deposit?” I ask, thinking that will be the killing blow.
“No,” she shakes her head. “Just bring me a check at the end of the month.”
“Cash okay?”
“As long as it’s not all ones and fives,” she says.
“I see I’m not the only waitress you know.”
“It’s almost a prerequisite in this industry,” Sonia replies, adding kindly, “I was a waitress, too, once upon a time.”
“Thank you,” I tell her again. “Really, I just can’t thank you enough.”
“Will you need moving services?” she says. “From your old studio?”
I do need that. Badly.
“How much is it?” I ask nervously.
“Complimentary,” she replies.
“Don’t pinch me, I don’t want to wake up.”
“Speak with Janice at the front desk on your way out and she’ll schedule you,” Sonia smiles.
She leaves me alone to soak in the warm sun, the scent of the clean wooden cabinets, the endless open space that I could run up and down like a bowling alley.
I’ve never been one to believe that when a bad thing happens, a good thing follows.
But maybe this one time . . . it might be true.
By Wednesday, all my supplies have been cleaned out of Joanna’s studio, transported with the greatest care to the new studio on Clay Street.
My roommates are so jealous that they can hardly stand it, except for Peter, who says, “That’s great Mara,” bringing us up to a grand total of fifteen words of conversation.
“Cole Blackwell owns the place?” Erin moans. “You’ll probably see him all the time.”
“You wanna fuck him, too?” Heinrich teases her. “Trying to get a Monopoly on slutty artists?”
“He’s a complete dick,” Joanna says. “Not friendly at all.”
“Gorgeous, though,” Frank adds.
“Oh, wow,” I laugh. “That’s really something coming from you, Frank. You’re picky as hell.”
“Not that picky,” Joanna says. “He used to date Heinrich, after all.”
“Get fucked,” Heinrich scowls.
I’m floating on cloud nine all through my work shifts, dying to get over to the studio so I can work on my collage. I stay late every night, working longer hours than I ever have in my life. I finish the piece and jump right into a new composition, even more layered and detailed. I’m experimenting with different materials—not just acrylic, but lacquer and corrective fluid and sharpie and spray paint.
The studios are separate and soundproof, and no one seems to mind when I play my music loud. The nighttime streets seem distant, glittering like a jeweled cloth laid out below me.
For the first time in a long time I feel hopeful, and maybe even happy.
This feeling intensifies tenfold when Sonia taps on my door on Friday afternoon, informing me that I’ve been shortlisted for a grant from the SF Artists Guild.
“Are you serious?” I squeak.
“The panel would like to come see your work on Monday. If they like what they see . . . they’re awarding two thousand dollars to each recipient, and showcasing one piece at New Voices next month.”
I feel like I’m about to pass out.
“What do they want to see?” I ask eagerly. “I just finished a collage. And I started this new piece, but I haven’t done much yet . . .”
“Just show them whatever you’ve got,” Sonia says. “It doesn’t need to be complete.”
Elation and sickening terror surge through me. I want this so fucking bad. The money would be great, but a spot in New Voices is even better. It’s by invite only, and all the biggest brokers will be there. Getting a piece in the show could really boost me up the ladder.