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I've never done this before (once tried to participate but had a conflict arise years ago), but I'd like to say I'm in. No flash! 
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May 11, 2018 14:54
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be good and try hard! 
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| # ¿ Apr 24, 2024 00:47 |
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Patronage 1221 words After the fourth sketch she threw in the garbage, the third notification chime on her phone, and the second negroni of the afternoon, Polly received a phone call from her mother, waking her to reality again. Polly nestled the speaker against her ear, intoning “uh huh” at appropriate moments in response to her mother’s concerns over the moon/tides (waxing/neap) and her father’s most recent long-haul journey (trailers to Toronto during an inauspicious week for a Gemini to travel). “It’s such a blessing to hear your voice again, Polyhymnia – last time I called, I couldn’t get through,” Polly’s mother said, chidingly. “What happened?” “Oh, I forgot to pay my phone bill,” she lied. Polly was at home lying to her parents. Didn’t her mother always encourage her creativity? “It’s fine now,” said Polly. “Mm,” said her mother. “Are you sure you’re okay? Did you really forget this time, or did you run out of money again?” “Mother, I’m fine. It’s fine now,” said Polly. “I actually have a show coming up.” “Okay! Okay. Just take your Echinacea, honey – it’s good for memory,” said her mother. *** There was no show, per se, but it was another creative exaggeration. Perhaps a “private buyer” would be a bit closer, but it was a difficult situation to define without using the word “patronage,” which felt too reductive. Polly preferred letting meaning be suffused with the complexity of metaphor: Vincent was the pylon upon which she was able to twist her work and craft bridges, defying gravity; the trellis against which her vines crept into an incomprehensible and elegant spiral; the de Medici to her Botticelli – though that was still patronage, there was a certain haute feeling about the names that made Polly feel elevated. It costs money to create. Polly met Vincent while working at an art supply store job that left her too drained to paint after work. After months of his regular visits to buy coffee-table books, they struck up an acquaintance. At first he bought a couple of her prints, then an original, and then when he asked why she had no more originals to sell – well, one thing led to another, and now she quit the retail job, and Vincent paid her 80% of her minimum-wage salary. She assured her friends it wasn’t a sugar thing, anyway. Nothing explicitly sexual involved, he just really, really liked and supported her art, you know? He had money, so he could afford this. He was a lawyer for a publishing house, so she put the pieces together herself (it was easy, she was practically an empath, if that was something that was real) and could tell that he just really liked being around art, so it was fine now, and she didn’t have to worry for once in her goddamned life because she had the validation in words and in currency and she didn’t need anything else from anyone – She unclenched her jaw and loosened her grip on her pencil. She had sketched out a Madonna grasping nettles until her hands bled like stigmata, lying in repose on a soiled bed of green dollars. (Polly wasn’t raised Christian, so she liked employing a scattershot approach to her use of religious iconography.) Finally, she reflected, a composition that isn’t absolute trash. Regardless of her self-loathing, she knew that at least one person would like it. She picked up her phone and took a picture. “hey,” she wrote to Vincent, attaching the image. “come over?” *** Vincent always wore his corporate uniform with a bit of affected flair: “fun” socks and “quirky” pocket squares against a rotating collection of identical black and navy suits. He looked so out of place in his pressed-and-ironed attire. Every time he leaned against Polly’s flat-pack furniture and peel-off wallpaper, he looked like someone transplanted a pristine clipped bonsai into a lysergic Dr. Seuss landscape, then painted a couple of the branches blue in a sorry attempt at fitting in. Polly handed him a glass of beer and her sketch, and tried to act nonchalant as she mixed herself another drink in silence. “It’s nice,” said Vincent, so abruptly that Polly almost knocked over her glass. “Yeah?” Polly composed herself and sat down next to Vincent. “Do you think it has potential?” Vincent pursed his lips and nodded. “Maybe,” he said. Polly felt a keen pain at his muted response, and hated herself for her neediness. “Uh huh,” she said. “It’s just not all the way there,” said Vincent. “The composition is fine, but the symbolism isn’t what I’d hoped.” “Uh huh,” said Polly. “I’ve just been looking for something, I guess, I mean–” Vincent sighed, and played with his beard as he lapsed into silence. The two of them didn’t look each other in the eye. Polly thought he looked disappointed. She felt disappointed in him for being disappointed in her. She brought him the best that she had, everything she wanted to communicate to the world, and all he could do was say that it was missing something? She took a drink. “Missing what?” Polly asked, her voice flat. Vincent raised his eyes to Polly’s, and froze like an animal. He finally spoke, halting: “Why… do you think I’m paying you?” Polly felt an icy sting of at her cheeks. Shame. They never spoke about their arrangement so bluntly. She drew herself up, pulling together all of her hauteur. “Because you like my art,” she said. “I do, but…” Vincent handed her the sketch. “But I thought it would be different.” “Be direct with me,” said Polly, seething. She stood up and exhaled sharply. “I’m being direct,” Vincent protested. “No!” said Polly. “It’s missing something, it’s different.” She repeated his words in a mocking tone. “It was fine before! You liked it before! You thought my work was worthwhile! What’s wrong with it now?” She gulped for air. “What do you want from me?” Polly’s voice began to choke, and she stopped. She would not cry and embarrass herself further. Vincent listened to her tirade from the couch. He didn’t seem hurt, but he still looked disappointed. “I thought it would be about me,” he finally said quietly. “I thought that was the deal. That I’d pay you, and I’d be- I could be your muse. I could be part of the art.” He crossed the room and picked up her previous painting. “Wasn’t this me?” He held the canvas beneath his chin and gestured to the central male figure, a man with a goat’s head carrying a cornucopia. It wasn’t. But Polly felt she couldn’t admit the truth now. What is he paying me for? For his ego. It’s patronage, Polly reasoned, so let’s patronize. “Yes,” she said. “That’s you.” Satisfied, he hung the painting on the wall. “It’s a good one,” he said, “And it’s still very you, but it’s me, too, you know?” He finally seemed at ease again. “All of what you said aside, I like that you can sort of incorporate other people’s energy in your work.” Polly nodded, and finished the rest of her drink in one gulp. “Uh huh,” she said. “That’s what I was going for,” she lied. Polly would have to make herself at home lying to Vincent, too. After all, doesn’t a patron always encourage an artist’s creativity?
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May 14, 2018 03:51
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Solitair posted:JUDGE CRITS: THE NEXT GENERATION (WEEK 301) Thank you for the crit! Now I know more about the skills I need to improve!
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May 15, 2018 22:12
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I'm in again this week. May I please have a flash prompt?
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May 23, 2018 23:17
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