Dearest Cultured Reader,
I promised that Chapter 1 Part 1 would be available to all of my subscribers, and I followed through on my promise. I want everyone to read and experience Emery Steele’s story - as it’s a story so close to my heart, and I know is already resonating with so many of you, my readers. I will continue to reveal chapters to all of my readers, but my paying subscribers will get priority access. For those of you who aren’t paying subscribers, the paywall starts after the fifth paragraph in this instalment. If you want to keep reading and supporting my work, it’s only $5AUD per month or you can use the 7-day free trial pass. Just hit the Subscribe Now button below.
Once this story is complete and it takes shape as a manuscript, I hope it will find a home with a publisher and be able to reach many more readers. For those paying subscribers, I will eventually circle back and thank you all for what I hope will be a published book one day.
Some of you have been asking me about where the title of the story comes from. For those of you who aren't immersed in the art world nor studied art, I thought I should explain this choice of title. Chiaroscuro is an Italian term that was coined during the Renaissance to describe a technique of painting that creates drama and depth through strong contrasts of light and dark. Combining two Italian words - chiaro, "light" or "clear," and scuro, "dark" or "obscure," it is an artistic method using gradations of light and shadow to create convincing three-dimensional scenes where figures and objects appear as solid forms. Pioneered by artists Leonardo da Vinci and Caravaggio, it shaped Renaissance, and then Baroque art, and influenced modern visuals, from paintings to film noir.
I've chosen Chiaroscuro as the title of Emery's story to convey the light and dark at play in the art world.
Again - thank you all for being on this journey with Emery. I hope you enjoy the next instalment.
Joey x
Chapter 3
Emery sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the crumpled sheets that had been her refuge for the past week. The afternoon light filtered through the too-short curtains, casting harsh shadows across her small bedroom. A solitary fly hovered over the stacked bowls and plates that had piled up on her desk-cum-dumping ground. If she didn’t leave soon, she might just rot away in here with the peeling paint that crawled down the walls like spiders. She caught sight of vermillion in her periphery and held her hands up in the air. Paint stains smeared her fingers, the only tangible proof of her attempt to escape from the fragments of remembering that shattered through her glass-like mind.
It had been a week since that night. A week of waiting, hoping, and slowly unravelling. At first, she hoped Cliff might call her and beg to represent her. But as the days kept coming, she realised she’d have to make the call to Hersain Gallery. But she’d been putting it off. She wanted to forget what had happened. Leave enough distance between the flickers of skin that made her shudder each time a disjointed recollection blasted through her mind. But she had to act. It was time to call Hersain Gallery and get what was owed to her. It would be worth it. It had to be.
Her phone buzzed on the bedside table, its screen flashing with Quentin’s and her dad’s names—calls she had ignored, messages left unread. Her breath hitched as she stared at the device. She wasn’t ready to talk about what had happened. Or admit she’d done this to herself. Again. What a fool. She was a fool for trusting Cliff. For taking him at his word.
She collapsed backwards onto the bed, her bare shoulders mingling into the softness of her linen sheets, and she took in a deep breath. Then a hazy, image flapped through her mind like a flock of birds. An image she’d tried to push away. Her mind had a way of creating visuals like that. Her young mother: flowing brown tendrils of hair, laughing. Sidled up to Cliff, with his fat, red fingers clutching at her body as if he owned her. She shook her head. No. Cliff was wrong. There was no way they could have known each other. He was wrong. He had to be wrong. Then a what-if crept in. She could ask her dad about it – heck, he was the one who’d told her in the first place. But then again, he didn’t seem too thrilled when she mentioned Cliff’s name at the graduation show. No. She would pretend Cliff had said nothing. Pretend her father had not turned his nose up at the mention of the name Hersain. She would get on with it, like she’d always done. She had to forget about what Cliff had said about her mother or it would eat away at her.
She loathed herself for sleeping with Cliff Hersain. It had been a calculated move, a necessary sacrifice, she reminded herself. Yet again. She couldn’t let herself think otherwise. Representation by Hersain Gallery could change her life and her career. This was how the art world worked, wasn't it? Connections, favours, and sometimes, compromising one's principles for a chance to be seen. To be successful. Yes. She had done the right thing. She had to believe it.
The phone call she had been dreading was now inevitable. She picked up the device with trembling fingers, the cold metal feeling alien and heavy in her grasp. Her heart pounded, echoing like a war drum in her ears as she dialled the gallery’s number. The silence between the ringtones seemed to stretch infinitely, each pause amplifying her anxiety.
‘Good afternoon, Hersain Gallery,’ a crisp female voice answered.
She tried to lick the insides of her desert-like mouth, but it was dry.
‘Hi, this is Emery Steele calling. I spoke to Cliff Hersain about representation. He told me to call the gallery and set up a time to come by and discuss viewing my works,’ she said, her voice trembling slightly and her mouth, still bereft of moisture.
There was a pause, a brief rustle of papers down the phone, and then, ‘I'm sorry, but our current artist roster is at full capacity. We won't be scheduling any new appointments for the foreseeable future.’
Emery's stomach dropped. ‘Oh, I see.’ This couldn’t be it. She could feel her body tensing up, but she forced the next sentence out. ‘Is there any chance of availability at all?’ She could almost feel her heart beating out of her mouth as she spoke. ‘Cliff told me to –’
‘I'm afraid not,’ the woman interrupted her, ‘thank you for calling.’
The woman must be mistaken. Did she know what she had sacrificed for this opportunity? She went to say something, anything, but only a puff of air made its way from her mouth and then the line went dead.
Emery stared at her phone in disbelief, a warm wave of heat crept up her neck and enveloped her face. What had she done all of this for if it led to nothing? She sank onto her bed, the weight of her stupid choices pressing down on her. Surely this wasn’t it. Surely there was another way.
That bastard. That rich, fat bastard. Who did he think he was anyway? Then again, maybe he forgot to mention her to his staff. Yes. There was an explanation. But she couldn’t just rock up to his gallery, could she? Ugh no. What if he sent her away and she just embarrassed herself further?
With a sigh, she opened the purple social media app on her phone. There were other galleries. She just had to make a list of them all. She’d approach them one by one. She had no other choice right now.
A post immediately caught her eye: Hersain Gallery Represents Dolly Waiver, Daughter of Harry Leonard. Emery's heart sank further. Dolly Waiver. Of course. Money and fame. The art world thrived on it. She knew she could never compete with that kind of influence. All her dreams of being represented by a prestigious gallery, of having her work seen and appreciated, were gone. Cliff Hersain was a liar. There was only one way out of this, and it involved paint.
Tucking her phone into the back pocket of her jeans, Emery made her way to the front door and descended the external stairs to her studio. She was lucky that the realtor had let her convert the garage into her studio. It was dark, but it was better than the alternative. She couldn’t afford to pay rent for a separate studio in the city. Not yet anyway.
She’d been in the studio apartment of the old Victorian terrace for three years now. At only three hundred dollars a week, it was cheap for Paddington. Thanks to her mother’s inheritance, she’d been able to afford it. But that money wouldn’t last forever, and she’d already spent more than she should have. Her plan to get gallery representation was fading faster than the afternoon sun. If she couldn’t gain representation in the next six months, she’d have to move back in with her dad and the mausoleum of her childhood home. She’d spent her life trying to get out of there. The last thing she wanted was to move back to the Shire with all of its ghosts.
She reached the dreary row of garages and unlocked the door of her studio space. The familiar scent of linseed oil and mildew enveloped her, offering fleeting refuge. She sidled up to a freshly primed canvas that was perched precariously on two dark blue milk crates.
She grabbed a brush and then went about pouring out charcoal paint from its plastic tub onto a piece of old mirror that had become her palette. One day she’d be able to afford the expensive paint. Oils perhaps. But for now, the cheap acrylic paint from the hardware store would have to do. Picking up a large chunk of the paint with the brush, she lunged at the expanse of white and stabbed at it, as if it were flesh. As if it were Cliff’s flabby stomach and the brush were a sharp, long knife reaching into his abdomen and up until it hit his heart. She re-dipped her brush, this time taking the rest of the black paint with her brush and throwing it at the canvas. She poured out more black paint and kept repeating the cycle of dipping her brush in and marking new parts of the canvas until there was no more white left. The entirety of the canvas was black. As if a starless night sky stared back at her.
With a high-pitched shriek, Emery hurled the brush across the room, splattering black paint against the wall. She sank to the floor, chest heaving, tears streaming down her face. She promised herself after what happened with Steven Roller that she’d never let this happen again. She tried to take a deep breath, but the smell of paint engulfed her. She needed air.
She stood up, wiping her tear-streaked face with the back of her hand. She had to keep going. She couldn’t give up, not now. Not ever. She had to believe in herself, in her art. This was her purpose in life, and nothing would stop her. Not even two stupid mistakes.
She forced herself back to the battered strokes of oil in front of her and approached the canvas again, this time with a sense of determination. She picked up a new, smaller brush, poured out vermillion, and began to add smaller, defiant strokes to the chaotic swirls and stabs of blacks. The blood red cut through the hollow darkness like a scream. She wouldn’t be silenced. Wouldn’t let herself be exploited. Ever again.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, jolting her from the midnight scream that adorned the wall of bricks in front of her. She pulled it out and saw a message from Quentin. She needed to start responding to the build-up of texts from him and her dad. If either of them made a surprise visit, they’d be horrified at the state of her apartment. She dropped the brush and wiped her hands on her pants. She’d come back to the blood and night.
Quentin:
‘Hey, where have you been all week? You never told me how the dinner with Cliff went. Are you okay? Let's grab a drink tonight and catch up. I’ve got some news.’
Maybe a drink was exactly what she needed. She had to confide in someone about what had happened with Cliff. After all, he’d certainly supported her through the whole Roller incident. Then his face appeared in her mind, and she shuddered. She’d completely forgotten how he’d helped her through the night with Cliff. She pushed it away. Quentin was her best friend. She couldn’t think of him in that way. Even if she might want to.
Emery:
‘I’ll meet you at the Oxford at 6 pm.’
She kept it short. Succinct. As not to draw attention to her weird fantasy of him..
She took one last look at her canvas, now a riot of black and red, and felt a surge of defiance. She would keep fighting, and keep creating, no matter what. She wouldn’t let two stupid mistakes define her.
Chapter 4 arrives next week.
© Joey Hespe, 2024.
*Disclaimer: The characters and events depicted in this story are fictional and do not intend to represent any single person or company.