Chiaroscuro Chapter 1 Part 1 (free)
Chapter 1 has arrived: Welcome to your weekly instalments of Chiaroscuro.
Dearest Cultured Reader,
I am so glad you’ve joined me for a fictional foray into the Sydney art scene. I was inspired to write this story after spending sixteen years working in the arts. While working for commercial galleries, auction houses and then institutions, I have worked with and met many colourful figures in the arts who have helped inspire the characters and the vein of this story. In my experience, there is nowhere like the Sydney art scene. It is a small and very competitive industry where money, talent and passion collide, and sexism and ego are the currency. What really interests me, however, is the power dynamics that are at the heart of the industry.
A new instalment of the story will hit your inboxes every week. This will be half a chapter each week. There is so much content around, I believe weekly instalments will keep all of you, my dear readers, invested. Buckle up because it’s going to be a wild ride!
I hope you will enjoy Emery’s story and I look forward to being on this journey with you.
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Chapter 1
Emery Steele patted down her pale pink chiffon dress with one hand and clasped her warm glass of champagne in the other. She stared up at her gestural diptych adorning the regulation white cube walls of the Sydney Art School graduation show. She’d spent far too long already analysing the placement of her brushstrokes. It was too late to change the composition of her work; the paint was dry. To the untrained eye, her thick and expressionistic brushstrokes could be mistaken for mere abstraction. She had spent the last four years of her Fine Arts degree painting through what had happened to her. If anyone asked her about the inspiration for her paintings, she hoped her pre-scripted words would fall out of her mouth like poetry: Abstraction. Nature. The female form. The words hovered, and she hoped they’d be enough to keep the truth at bay. Her stomach churned at the thought of a highly trained curator seeing through the layers of pink paint at what she could see.
Emery had already lapped the concrete floors a few times, trying to absorb the works of her cohort. But she’d been told by her professor, Dr O’Brien to stand near her paintings, in the instance a curator or art dealer showed interest. Being discovered at a graduation show was rare but wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities. Jonathan Teale had been scouted five years ago, and he was now showing his work in London and New York. It’s all about timing, Dr O’Brien’s voice echoed through her mind.
People were beginning to fill the room, she turned her head, hoping to see a familiar face, but with her dad working late and Quentin, her closest friend promising to arrive after work, she wasn’t sure she’d have anyone to share this moment with. She took a deep breath in, and her mother’s ashen face flashed through her mind. I did it, Mum. She felt the tears well and pushed them back. Now wasn’t the time for reminiscing.
‘Emery!’ A honeyed voice beckoned, and she turned on her heel to see her friend, Quentin moving at pace towards her. His hair was slicked back, reflecting the bright lights that jutted out from the ceiling like mini bursts of sunlight. Dressed in head-to-toe regulation gallery blacks, he smirked as he approached her.
‘You’ve matched your dress to your paintings. Genius.’ He squinted at her and swiftly moved his glass towards her for a clink before turning back towards her vast paintings. ‘Em, you make vagina’s look so beautiful. I forgot how large they were. They’re so…. engrossing.’
‘Stop it, Quin,’ she pulled at his shirt, ‘don’t say that.’ She glared at him, hooping the message would sink in. Now was not the time to reflect on what had happened to her.
He turned towards her and pulled her in for a hug. ‘You know this business is all about authenticity. You’re a flower waiting to bloom, Em. But if you’re not ready, you’re not ready,’ Quentin said, raising his hands in the air in a mocking gesture, pulling away from their embrace.
Emery could feel her stomach tighten. She knew Quentin was right. He’d been working for one of the best commercial galleries in the city for the last year. His insights into the industry were invaluable.
‘Let’s just wait and see what happens. I doubt I’ll get any interest.’ Her skin buzzed with an electricity – she knew if her work wasn’t noticed tonight, then it might never be. Although she doubted her talent, she knew that nothing else made her feel alive like painting did.
‘Sally Rumney’s over there,’ Quentin pointed to a short blonde woman dressed in a black and red patterned dress. ‘Did you hear she forgot to take her meds and went bananas on her artists? Fired them all and told them she was closing the gallery, only to ring them all a few days later trying to get them back. Total nightmare dealer to work with. Don’t go near her.’ Quentin rolled his eyes and took a gulp of his champagne.
‘So many rules in this industry,’ she exhaled deeply, ‘What would I do without you?’
‘Rupert, my maniac boss is around here somewhere, and I saw Cliff Hersain on my way in. Watch out for him. You know he likes his artists young….and female,’ he narrowed his eyes at her.
Emery could feel her face tighten. She’d heard stories about Cliff Hersain and Rupert Street. One of her tutors at art school had told the class that Rupert had tried to poach one of Cliff’s hot young female artists and the two had come to blows at the Waldorf Prize opening party last year. People were still talking about it. Being a successful artist was just as much about your look as it was about your talent. If her painting didn’t get her noticed, then maybe her legs would.
‘Oh no, here comes Rupert. Quick, hide me!’ Quentin pulled himself behind Emery, almost dragging her over.
‘What are you doing?’ You’re taller than me! He’ll see you,’ she said, stumbling on the concrete floor, thankful she was wearing sneakers and not heels.
Rupert Street was hard to miss. At over six feet tall and moving with a deliberate, slow gait, he exuded an imposing presence that commanded the attention of the room. People seemed to stop and stare as he sauntered past them. Wearing chinos, a white linen shirt and navy sports jacket, he looked every bit the Eastern Suburbs art dealer that he was.
‘Quentin, is this your talented friend you’ve been hiding from me?’ Rupert sidled up to Emery and she got a whiff of too much spiced aftershave.
‘Oh, Rupert – I didn’t see you there. How you going mate?’ Quentin moved to the other side of Emery, so the three of them stood staring up at her sheaths of pink paint.
‘Yes, fine, fine. You know. These things are not usually my scene, but I knew you were coming, and I thought I’d see what up-and-coming talent there was. If any. We could use another Teale to get the market moving again,’ he took a swig of his tumbler of water.
‘Mmmm,’ Quentin said, squeezing Emery’s hand. ‘Yes, Jonathan Teale is a hard act to follow. Everyone wants a piece of him. Lucky you represent the best artists in the biz, Rupert.’
‘Obviously.’ Rupert made a deep ‘muh,’ sound – an attempt at a laugh but he just came across as entitled. ‘Have you seen that oaf, Cliff around here? I’m not in the mood for his shit. Did I tell you that bastard tried to poach Natalie from me. What a buffoon.’
Natalie Wirth. Quentin had told Emery all about Natalie Wirth. The thin, beautiful and rich Natalie who’d recently started working for Rupert. Having only graduated last year from her Art History degree, Rupert and Natalie had met when her parents bought her a graduation present – a Jonathan Teale artwork from Street and Co. With no experience in the arts, she was now, a few months into her new role as Gallery Manager, a role that usually required years of experience. Her career seemed to be on the up – thanks to the support of Rupert. If Rupert could help Natalie succeed, then maybe Emery needed a Rupert to help her succeed in the arts too.
Emery looked either side of her and the three of them were stood still, staring at her wall of pink paintings. She nudged Quentin, hoping he’d get the hint and introduce her.
‘Sorry, how rude of me – Rupert, this is Emery Steele. Emery, Rupert Street.’
Emery turned towards Rupert, and he outstretched his long hand towards her. She took it, felt his cold, soft skin and moved it up and down with hers, trying her best to smile sweetly at him. Despite his towering height and bulky frame, Rupert moved with an unexpected grace, his eyes dashed down Emery’s dress to her legs and then back up to her face, planting themselves firmly on her paintings.
‘Why pink?’ He asked, keeping his eyes fastened on the works.
‘It’s my favourite colour,’ was all she could muster. She froze, realising how uneducated it would sound to an art dealer that she just happened to paint her favourite colour into an artwork. Successful art told a story. Pink as her favourite colour was not an interesting story.
‘I think what Emery means is that she is drawn to pink because it symbolises the feminine. Emery paints her personal experiences into her work. It’s an intuitive process. She throws music on, and dances to the rhythm. Action painting if you will.’
She exhaled the breath she’d been holding onto. Thank heavens for Quentin. She was a bumbling fool. No one would take her seriously if she couldn’t even talk about her own work.
Chapter 1 Part 2 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.