Dearest Cultured Readers,
Last week I went along to the annual Sydney Contemporary art fair with some colleagues from the regional gallery I work for. It was great to reconnect with gallerists, old colleagues and friends who I don’t see often enough now that I live outside of Sydney. The art was amazing and really gave me so much motivation and inspiration for my own craft. Being at the fair gave me some good insight into writing a scene for Chiaroscuro down the track - which has been in the works for some time now. And not that you asked, but here are a few snaps of some fun times my colleagues and I had at the fair. I’ll admit that I tried my hardest to see every booth, but ultimately missed the works on paper and one section of the booths. I was also lost in the moment for a while and forgot to take a heap of photos, which must mean that I was transfixed by the art! Wunderbar!
For those of you who are subscribed to Chiaroscuro, this instalment - chapter 7 - sees Emery grappling with a potential offer of gallery representation. Yes, it’s what she’s been
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Thanks again for tuning in. I’ll be back next week with the newsletter.
Joey xx
Chapter 7
Emery stood on the footpath staring into Street and Co gallery. Her reflection ghosted back at her through the vast glass windows, just visible amid the converted warehouse’s interior. The exposed brick walls were lined with canvases of pastoral landscapes, and the wooden floors were polished to a gleaming finish. The lights were low, carefully angled to highlight the texture of each brushstroke and the nuances in the hues of colour on each canvas.
Emery adjusted the strap of her black silk slip dress, feeling the fabric cling to her skin. Normally, a dress like this was her armour—elegant, and understated, but with just enough edge to make her feel confident and sexy. Tonight, however, it felt like a costume, a façade that she barely recognised.
She couldn’t stand out here all night. No, she had to muster that courage that brought her here in the first place. She needed to know if there was something between her and Quentin – or if it was just another silly crush. She was prone to them. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, she’d since learnt. Her poor mother appeared to share the same fate, trusting and falling for men she shouldn’t have.
Quentin had texted her earlier in the week, asking her to join him at the exhibition opening. Normally, she would have agreed without a second thought. But after what had sparked between them at the Waldorf Prize opening, she wasn’t so sure. She was certain she could put it behind her—a crush, nothing more.
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