Hearts at Crossroads

The gallery was a work of art. Chandeliers hung from the shiny above, their glassy personas reflections of the colorful artworks that punctuated their surroundings. Golden jar-like flowerpots sat at impactful positions along the red-carpeted entrance, beautiful branches cascading from their sculptured openings. The atmosphere was clogged with opulence. Glassy high-heels clinked the marble floors, chattering in jolly manner along with their wearers. Emma wiped off the persistent sweat beads that stubbornly hung on her brow. Stressed wisps of her red hair hung in scattered groups all over her forehead. She felt a slight migraine nibble away at her sanity. It was 3:05pm, 45 minutes since she arrived at the gala. The gallery was packed to its fullest: Patrons in double breasted suits trudged from display to display, the air around them serfs to their magnanimous identities. Not one soul had paid her art any attention. In her head, she knelt before fate in plea, begging for her efforts to be honored. Her eyes darted from corner to corner, scanning the bustling audience for a glint of interest. Composure almost in flight, she put her unruly strands in check and whipped out the widest smile she could afford, clutching her clipbook to her chest. She did not acknowledge the presence of the cultured gentleman at the mouth of her display at first, because she didn’t even see him. Then the overwhelming fragrance about his aura captured her nostrils and then her eyes. His tailored suit exuded the charm his graceful pace did not express, and there was almost nothing imperfect about his looks. Tall and squarely jawed, with broad shoulders that spoke confidence and masculinity, the relative seriousness that enveloped his face did not hide his attractiveness in any way. He paused in front of Emma’s display, his eyes drawn to one of her paintings, seemingly interested in the peculiarity of the piece. Subtly embarrassed by her awe of the stranger, Emma gathered her wits and approached him in a mix of eagerness and hesitation. “Hi, I’m Emma Carter”, she said nervously. “I see you’re interested in that piece. It’s one of my favorites.” The gentleman lifted his gaze from the piece, ever so calmly, as if he’d known Emma was there the whole time. “I can see why”, he said, flashing a casual smile. “It’s quite striking. You have a unique way of capturing emotion.” “Thank you”, she said, blushing slightly. “I’ve been working on my technique for years. It’s not easy to break through in this city.” “I can imagine”, he said, his eyes drifting dreamily back to the painting, genuine intrigue in his eyes. “It’s New York. It’s never easy even after breaking through.” A brief silence ensued, while the man stared at Emma’s paintings one after the other and Emma stood beside him, weighing suggestions of what her next words would be. She shifted her balance from one heel to another, unsure of what to say. “I did that one exactly one year ago today. It took 48 hours to finish.”, Emma said breaking the silence. It’s just the liberty statue riding a scooter” “Oh, really”, the gentleman responded, squinting at the painting, his hands in his pockets. He turned to Emma as if in sudden realization and then curtly chuckled. “I should say I see something else in it, Miss Carter, but you’re the artist” “Oh, there are a whole lot of other things to see, sir”, Emma replied smiling. “It’s an abstract. It’s yours to define”. “Abstract art can be so open to interpretation,” the gentleman said, his voice carrying a note of genuine admiration. “I adore the ambiguity. It’s the power behind your piece.” “Emma’s eyes lit up at his understanding. “That’s exactly what I aim for. Sometimes, I just wish for my art to do more of speaking than just showing. New Yorkers hear more than they see.” “Well,” the man said, turning his gaze to face Emma, “There are a few of us who do both.” Emma smiled and nodded numbly, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her clipboard. “I’m Julian by the way”, he said suddenly, stretching out his hand. “Julian Blackwood.” “It’s great to meet you, Mr. Black— “, Emma started, wincing a bit as the wholeness of his great hand engulfed hers. “No, please. Just Julian.”, Julian said, politely cutting her off. “I find myself very interested in your work and your story. There’s a certain resilience portrayed in your paintings.” Emma’s shoulders relaxed a little, relieved to have someone pick the message behind the rugged canvas strokes of her art. “It’s really about me. I’ve been working at an art supply store to make ends meet, but it’s been hard to get my foot in the door. I keep hoping one of these opportunities would be the breakthrough I need.” Julian’s gaze was steady and empathetic. He didn’t say a word, but Emma could perceive she had his every attention. “It’s the thought that counts I guess”, Emma continued, “The thought of creating something meaningful keeps me going” Julian studied her for a moment, his expression contemplative. “I admire that resilience. The thought counts, yes. But it’s getting up to face challenges again and again that makes the difference.” Julian walked towards Emma’s painting, briefly running his finger across the roughened swirl of yellow, orange and green. “I’ve had my fair share of facing challenges”, he said, placing a hand on the knot of his polka-dotted tie. Running a business has its own set of difficulties.” Emma tilted her head slightly, curious. “What’s the hardest part for you?” Julian’s smile faded slightly as he considered her question. “Sometimes it feels like the more you achieve, the more you have to prove yourself.” “With the constant pressure to stay on top,” he continued, “to keep innovating and meeting expectations, it’s easy to lose sight of why you started in the first place.” He turned away for a moment, his eyes a dreamy vortex. He looked back at her paintings, then back at her with a new sense of appreciation. “You know, it’s rare to meet someone who reminds me of the initial vision and passion that drove me to start my business. Your dedication is refreshing.” Emma felt a flutter of warmth at his words, a rare spark of hope amidst the anxiety of the evening. “Well,” she said, blushing deeply. “I guess it’s not just the statue of liberty riding a scooter after all” Julian chuckled softly at Emma’s response, leaning into another painting. He looked up at her, his gaze warm and sincere, his eyes, a deep, blue ocean of thought and dreams. “Your art speaks to me, Emma,” he said slipping his hands to his jacket and fiddling with a button. “How about we discuss a potential collaboration? I think you have something special.” Chills played their way into the sides of Emma’s neck, a feeling she experienced whenever feelings of excitement and nervousness overwhelmed her. Her mind sang doubts to her and her head reprimanded them. It was a dream come true! How could she say No? Again, she hardly knew Julian. Where did he work? What business was he into? While Emma battled with herself, stuttering before a very patient and composed Julian, whose gaze had not for a second shifted from her, she spotted from the corner of her eye a new arrival at her exhibition. A slender woman with a piercing gaze and a deliberate air suddenly waltzed before Julian, almost knocking over a painting with her swishing hair and huge handbag.