Homesick (Lesbian)

CHAPTER 3: Isolation Part 1

I spent the next two days making the piece that would get me a solo exhibition with Caroline Rosen. I barely left the apartment and the only people I talked to were my mother and Scott. Sometimes I still catch myself getting nervous, thinking that when my phone vibrates, it'll be... you know? I hope you know. I hope that doesn't make me stupid or pathetic or... anything. And if it does, don't tell me.

Scott had been a great friend. It took time for this to happen. If it would've been for me, I would've never talked to him as long as I'm alive. I can be resentful and it's not something I'm proud of but it's a tool I use to remind myself not to allow certain people to hurt me again.

But he was there for her. He did his best and supported her and made things just a little, just a bit better. And back then, she was the only thing that mattered, so if you did anything to make her happy, I owed you. 

By Saturday morning, I got a call from this woman named Elisa, Caroline's assistant. She told me she'd be there to pick me up in less than an hour and I should be ready to leave immediately as there was no time to lose. I rushed to wrap the piece up, take a quick shower, and wait for Elisa to call me again saying she'd arrived. It took her forty minutes to call back, which meant I was running a bit late.

I picked up my keys, forgot my phone, forgot to turn off my bathroom light, forgot to eat breakfast, and just went running to the elevator. Elisa seemed very annoyed at me being late two minutes. Oh, sorry, no I wasn't. She was early twenty! How's that my fault?

I sat in complete silence in the back of the car staring at the window.

I was nervous. Very nervous. Do you know the feeling? That kind of thought in the back of your mind. When you're so close to achieving something big, there's this tiny voice inside your mind that kinda hopes you fail. Because sometimes failing is easy, isn't it? You came, you tried and it didn't happen. Now you can go home. There was something warm about just going back. They don't call it the comfort zone for no reason.

But then again, I don't have a home. My home was a person, not a place.

Also, those feelings never last. It's so easy to walk away from something but in the end, you do hate yourself for not being strong enough to move forward with it. I had to move forward with this. We arrived a few minutes later, the gallery wasn't that far away from my apartment and for all its flaws, gridlock seemed tolerable.

It was a large place with all the front walls being windows. I remembered I wondered how you could possibly protect something having half the protection being glass, but what do I know. 

As soon as we walked in, I felt I didn't belong there. Like I was way out of my depth. The walls were painted white. I know that's done for two reasons. Reason number one, white, gray, and black make things look elegant. It's color theory, it's the way our brains process the colors we perceive, and whether we notice it or not, we assign meaning to colors. Reason number two; it creates contrast making the paintings pop.

And the paintings. Where to get started? I didn't know who's paintings they belonged to, I don't think I ever found out, but holy crap they made me feel inadequate. I think Ellen once told me it's an artist thing. Always thinking that other people's work is better than yours but, in the end, you need to learn to root for yourself. That's one of the few good pieces of advice she ever gave me.

Wait. Hold on. No, no, no. Back up. At that point, I wouldn't meet Ellen for another week or two, so let's not talk about it just yet. There are still a lot of things I need to process when it comes to her.

The place was spacious, with high ceilings, and everyone inside was impeccably well dressed. It smelled... sophisticated. I don't know what that means but what I'm saying is that if sophisticated was a smell, that was it.