Two weeks later, I thought my life had turned around. A SoHo gallery accepted two of my paintings for a group show. The owner, Fairuza Hanadi, picked a subdued still life of faded flowers on a burnt umber background. The other was one of my “R-rated” works—one based on a Manet painting, Olympia. The original has a nude woman, boldly staring at the viewer from her bed. In mine, a man in a suit has pulled back the covers from a young male nude and watches him sleep. I titled it A More Modern Olympia.
The day of the opening, I bounced off the walls. Paintings of the dimensions mine were often sold in Fairuza’s gallery for more than ten thousand dollars. Half of me kissed my student loans goodbye, while the other half feared a grand snubbing from Art in America.
Twenty minutes after the door
