The boxy warehouse sits snugly against the far lip of downtown, beyond the shiny buildings that rise and dominate the skyline. Pickup trucks and bicycles clog the wide gravel lot. A hand-painted sign by the double front doors lists artists’ studios and three galleries. I look at the ad in the Tucson Weekly one more time.
Linus went with me to buy the portfolio, a large, handsome envelope of leather. I used the last of my Ellis money. Linus whistled as I brought out the bills, but I didn’t tell her where the money came from.
I didn’t tell Riley I was coming here, either. Seeing him happy about that girl at the open mic, the way he talked about her on our walk home and how beautiful her voice was, and thinking of the way I never went to Ariel’s class because I didn’t want to spend any time away from him, made something wake up inside me, a spiteful, angry thing.
Watching that girl, her confidence. I wanted that. I wanted that.
I take a deep breath and enter the building.
The hallway’s dusty and cluttered. Some studio doors are open. In one, a small man is swiping yellowy paint repeatedly up and down a blank white canvas. His room is a mess of paint cans, rolled canvases, jars of murky liquid, books. A woman in the room next to his is bent over a tall table, her face pressed close to the paper she’s drawing on. Tendrils from spider plants dangle from the tops of her bookshelves. Salsa music drifts from a speaker at her feet. Other doors are closed; behind them I hear loud thumps, whirs, grinding noises. The air smells mechanical, plastery, and oily all at once.
The gallery at the end of the hall is sprawling and empty, my boots echoing against the shiny wood floor. There are no windows; the walls are bright white and bare. A boy, not much older than me, sits at a long table against one wall. When I walk closer, the table is actually an old door nailed to some two-by-fours. He’s typing away at a keyboard. He’s dressed like Beaver Cleaver from that old show. “Yes?” he says plainly. Not annoyed, but slightly dismissive.
He glances at my portfolio. “You have work to submit for consideration?”
“Yes.”
“Uh-uh. We can’t do hard. We wanted digital. You know, like images over email or on a website? Do you have anyone to take photographs for you or can you do it and scan them and send them?” He begins typing again but keeps his face on mine while his fingers dance.
I shake my head. “No, I just kind of thought—”
“No, sorry. You’ve got to follow the submission instructions.” He turns back to the monitor.
I turn to go, disappointed, thinking I’ll walk my bicycle back to my room instead of riding. It was hard to ride and hold the portfolio at the same time. My hand got sweaty, holding the portfolio against my bobbing thigh.
“Hey-oh, what do we have here?”
Ariel’s friend, the painter, is clutching a sheaf of papers and a gym bag, out of breath. Tony Padilla from the art show.
“I know you. Ariel pointed you out to me at my show. The girl dressed like a farmer. Did you like it?” He smiles expectantly. “My work?”
I swallow, considering. Wisps of dark hair curl from inside his nostrils. “Not really.”
He laughs, putting down his papers and bag. “You didn’t like it. That’s good! We don’t always like what we see, do we? We should always say so. Give me a look, yes? I see you’re old-school. I miss the days of toting a portfolio around.” He slides it from my grasp.
He spreads the portfolio out, kneeling to look at it. Today, he’s not dressed in an elegant suit. He’s wearing khaki shorts and Birkenstocks with socks and a sweat-stained T-shirt with a rabbit on it. His hair is no longer in a ponytail; it sprays across his shoulders like a black fan streamed with slivers of white.
“You submitting for the show?”
“I was, but that guy…”
“That’s my intern, Aaron. This is my little gallery. I’d like some new work by younger artists this time around. They tend to be interesting in different ways, you know?” He examines a portrait of Manny. “You have model permissions?”
“What?”
“Release forms. If people are posing for you, they need to sign releases agreeing to have their image shown in public. Aaron, print out some sample release forms. Do you have your résumé?”
I shake my head and he laughs. “I haven’t had you in a class, have I? There’s a great deal of proficiency here, and something odd, too. But I like them.” He peers closer to the drawings, lifting his glasses away from his face. “You’re in. Leave them here. I’ve got hours of videos and films and an installation of a childhood bedroom. And a nudist. But not one drawing. Not one painting. You kids today. If you can’t watch it, walk through it, or sit on it, you don’t want to make it.”
He zips the portfolio gently and hands it off to Aaron, who shoots me a quizzical look as he passes me the release forms. “Antonio Padilla. Tony.”
“Charlie.” His hand in mine is smooth and hairless, with fine, tapered nails and a single silver bracelet that knocks against his wristbone.
“Your people are…interesting.” Tony Padilla gazes at me curiously.
“They live in my building.”
He says, “Is that so,” holding his chin in one hand. “Bring one of my cards, too, Aaron?”
Tony sighs. “Well. We have a lot of work ahead of us, putting this show together. One thing I always tell my students, and it always surprises them, God knows why, is that an artist’s life is all about work. No one is going to do it for you. It doesn’t just appear on the page or on a gallery wall. It takes patience, it takes frustration.” He looks at the blank walls.
He laughs a little. “It takes spackling, nails, projectors, lights, bullshit, and long days. I expect everyone in the show to pitch in. I hope you’re not afraid of hard work, Charlie.”
I can feel how big the grin on my face is. It practically busts my cheeks wide open. I haul mop water and bus tubs all night and clean up piss and shit in restrooms and now I’m going to have my work on walls, for people to see. Me.
“Nope,” I tell him. “I’m not afraid of work at all.”
