Page 117 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me
“What style are you decorating in?” I asked as we moved on.
“Industrial chic mixed with vintage luxe. A lot of rich leather, plush upholstery, jewel-toned velvet. We want to stay true to the artsy, creative vibe of the neighborhood with a nod to rock and roll. Like a home away from home but infinitely cooler.”
“That speaks to my vintage-loving, artsy heart,” I said. “I can already picture it.”
“You’ll have to come to our grand opening. Consider this a formal invitation.”
I laughed. “Okay. I’ll be there.” I followed him through another doorway and across a hallway.
“This is going to be the Club Lounge. Vinyls playing on a turntable, plush sofas, a bar…” He gestured to a large brick wall. “And that is where your piece is going.”
I stared at the wall, intimidated by the sheer size of it. It was both terrifying and exciting that my work would be on display in a hotel that would probably be frequented by creatives, rock stars, and celebrities, thanks to Jack’s connections.
I clasped my hands tightly and held them against my chest, trying but failing to find my zen. “Okay, now I’m officially nervous.”
He waved his hand, dismissing my fears. “Don’t be. When Greer showed me your portfolio, I was already sold. But I was even more impressed when I saw your work the other night.” He flashed me a grin. “You, Cleo Babington, are the darling of the art world. What could possibly go wrong?”
I laughed nervously. “Don’t say that. You’ll jinx me. And I’m hardly the darling of the art world.” Although Ihadgotten quite a bit of press. Whether it was deserved or not was another story.
Once again, I was left questioning whether my notoriety and “rapid rise to fame” was about who I knew or about my art.
I wasstilla dead rock star’s daughter.Stilla rock star’s estranged wife.
And one British art critic had dug even deeper and claimed that he could see Nigel Babington’s influence in my work. I’d barely known my grandfather, so he hadn’t influenced my work in the slightest.
Fuck the patriarchy. It followed me everywhere. Would I ever be judged solely on my own merits? The Magic 8 Ball told me,No.
“Can I ask you something?” I said when Jack and I took off our hard hats and stepped outside.
“If you’re asking me on a date, the answer is yes. Absolutely fucking yes.”
I laughed. “Wow, you’re easy.”
“Easy?” he scoffed. “I’ve waited two years to go on a date with you.”
I highly doubted that Jack Wells had been sitting around waiting for me. He was the kind of guy who always had a gorgeous model on his arm.
“So what did you want to ask me?”
“Oh right.” I cleared my throat and tried to find the right words. I was no Basquiat and yet Greer had negotiated a six-figure deal for one piece of art. I’d sold my work before but had never commandedthatmuch. It seemed insane that anyone would pay a hundred grand for my work.
But money was a delicate issue, something I rarely, if ever, discussed, so it would be in my best interest to be subtle about it.
“Why are you paying so much money for a piece from an emerging artist?” I blurted. So much for choosing my words carefully.
He tipped his chin down and looked over the rim of his aviators. “Do you think I’m getting ripped off?”
I shook my head then nodded. “No. I mean…I don’t know.”
Jack gave me an amused smile. “Sending mixed signals, Babs. What are you trying to say?”
I exhaled loudly and cut to the chase. “Are you paying for my name or my art?”
Jack cocked his head and stroked his jaw. “Will it offend your delicate sensibilities if I said both? You can’t separate thetwo any more than I can pretend that doors didn’t open to me because of who my father is and who has been granted access to my socialite mother’s circle.
“Love it or loathe it, that’s how I got my foot in the door. Through my family’s connections. That’s why my business ventures garner the buzz that they do. And the same applies to you. You’re a New York artist with rock and roll roots who lives a Bohemian lifestyle out of choice not necessity. You personify the entire vision for this hotel.But…” He held up his finger. “If your art was shit…if it wasn’t as provocative or daring or original as it is, I would have passed. Does that answer your question?”
I guess that was as good of an answer as any. Even though I didn’t love it, at least it was honest. You could change your name and live your life out of the spotlight all you wanted, but it still wouldn’t change people’s fascination with celebrity culture. And it wouldn’t change who you were or where you came from.
