Choose Your Own Adventure 2: A Snobby Artist in a Castle

So, here is my second installation of my "Choose Your Own Adventure" series! I liked how I started it but not how I ended it. I was supposed to write about a snobby artist in a castle dealing wtih judging a talent show, and I only had 5 days to write it, so I think the end is kinda sloppy. Here it is:

My name is Iris Kelly, and my parents believed ever since I was a little girl that I was a genius. They immediately started dreaming dreams of what I would become: the first woman to live on Mars. The doctor who cured cancer. The economist who erased our nation’s debt. The President of the United States. They were all noble careers. But I would have none of it.

Unlike my parents who THOUGHT I was brilliant, I KNEW I was brilliant, and brilliance wasn’t for practical people who fought the world’s problems. Brilliance was for the creative people who dared to believe in a world where no problems existed at all. So rather than going to Yale for Law School, I ended up in a loft in New York City with 4 other artists trying to make ends meet. I was the only smart one.

While my roommates were waiting tables and brewing lattes by day, saving pennies so they could fight their way into local galleries by night, I took on a much different approach. I flipped the formula upside down so to speak. While they were leaving for their morning shifts at Starbucks, I was taking advantage of an empty loft and sunlight perfect for creating commissioned portraits for everyone from wannabe actors looking for something creative for their portfolios to Upper East side wives who were pretending to have status that matched their husbands’ Wall Street salaries.

It was one of those Upper East Side wives who changed my life.

Ingrid Kaufman was the 45 year old wife of a stockbroker who in her own words, “Had money to burn but no care for spending it on a fireplace to burn it in.” Her words struck me as a little odd. If you were really interested in burning money, would you need a fireplace to burn it in? A match could do the job just fine. Far from living and dressing to the nines, Ingrid met me at a coffee shop in search of something special for herself. She had a way of not making eye contact, not in a rude way, but in a “you’re not good enough for me to look at you” kind of way. Her air did not match her attire. She wore a simple black and white striped shirt and blue jeans with a pair of black flats. (I later found out that the ballet flats cost more than my monthly rent – and remember, I lived in the city!) She ordered a black coffee and drank it so quickly I was worried about her burning her tongue. After the pleasantries of introductions, we experienced a very uncomfortable moment of silence. She would take a gulp of her coffee and then stare over my shoulder as if I weren’t there. I would take a sip of my latte and nervously look around as if we were waiting for a third member of our party. I had nearly reached the bottom of my mug when I couldn’t take it anymore.

“So, Ms. Kaufman, your message mentioned you were looking for a portrait. Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”

“Something to hang in my boudoir, something I can enjoy when no one else is around.”

She was still looking over my shoulder, as if she weren’t talking to me but to some Leonardo da Vinci who happened to be standing a little bit over to my right. I have to say that Ingrid was something of a Mona Lisa herself. Beautiful, simple, eyes that should have been looking at you but weren’t.

“Is that all?”

“You say you’re an artist?”

I raised my chin and nodded my head She was intimidating, but I didn’t want her to know that.

“That’s all you need then. Make me some art.”

She tossed a check onto the table. $5000 to Iris Kelly.

“A down payment. Make it good.”

With that, she picked up her bag and walked out the door. I did what any logical person would do. I walked to my bank and deposited the check. It cleared with no problem, and I spent the next 36 hours wracking my brain for ideas of what an artist would create for a woman like Ingrid Kaufman.

Something she could hang in her boudoir. Something she could enjoy when no one else was around. She’s the wife of a stockbroker with money to burn. She’s simple, but rich. She new that I specialized in portraits, so wouldn’t she expect a portrait? I didn’t have a good photo to go on, but the profile of her face was etched into my mind. Usually I would have enjoyed the freedom of a piece like this, but the $5000 in my bank account and the last words she said to me “make it good” were beginning to eat at my conscience.

I got up, went to the kitchen and opened the freezer. I snagged a pint of ice cream that wasn’t mine. I opened it and dipped a spoon into the creamy concoction of chocolate, marshmallows and nuts. I paused for a moment with the spoon in front of my mouth and then put it into my mouth. I ate another bite. And another. And another. As I tossed the empty container into the trash can, I had no regrets. No one was watching. I enjoyed it. I was finally ready to work.

I peeled the plastic off of my new tubes of acrylic paint. I selected some colors and squeezed blobs of color onto a fresh palette. I dipped my painted into the rich, blended colors and paused for a moment in front of my canvas. I painted one stroke. And then another. And another.

Something to hang in her boudoir. Something she could enjoy when no one else was around. It’s what brought me to where I am today. Sitting in a castle in Paris, across from a 12-year old French art prodigy. Her name was Celie, and she was a tiny wisp of a girl. No one would ever believe she was twelve as her feet barely brushed the floor when she sat down. She looked as if her mother still picked out her clothing, and her hair was held back in a high ponytail with a pale blue ribbon tied around it. I had heard about her before, and she had been making waves in the European art circles with a few collections showing up in local galleries. But I still knew the truth: I was better. She barely reached my shoulder. She was my competition?

When I presented the final portrait to Ingrid, I had no idea that the boudoir she spoke of was for a room in this castle that had been passed down from generation to generation in her family. I had no idea that I would spend a chunk of the $5000 she had given me to travel across the Atlantic. But I was a single woman living in a crowed loft of angry roommates who really loved their ice cream. I had nothing to lose. So I booked a flight.

I confidently flew to Charles DaGaulle, believing that because of my painting prowess, I would be treated to a spa day at the famous and elite salons of Paris. As I ventured across the Atlantic seated snugly between two other coach passengers, I dreamed of macarons and lattes in a French patisserie. I envisioned a balcony at an exclusive loft overlooking the Champs Elysees. What I got instead was a dingy Air BnB with a lovely view of the brick wall of the building next door. It reminded me of New York City. I did, however, receive a letter from Ingrid beckoning me to a chateau just outside of the city limits, and I had a renewed hope that the true American girl in Paris story would soon begin. Little did I know that Paris would soon be a nightmare for this American girl.

Ingrid walked into the grand parlor where I was engaging in a silent tete a tete with Celie. She was still as striking as ever, and something about Paris made her appear to be even more intimidating than when we met at that café in New York City. She dressed simply in white pants and a white long sleeved t-shirt with a boatneck collar. She had tied a simple black scarf around her neck, and a big, black, leather, bag was slung over her shoulder. Her eyes were hidden with a pair of big, round sunglasses. The closer she got to us, the more I smelled the aroma of cash.

She sat down and set her bag on the table. She removed her sunglasses, folded her hands in front of her and looked at each of us, me to her right and Celie to her left. I quickly assumed that because she looked at me first, she favored me. She quickly disproved my assumption.

“Iris Kelly – I assume you’ve met Celie Kaufman.”

My entire body filled with alarm. My heartbeat quickened and I could feel my temperature rise as I came to the recognition of who this little wisp of a girl was.

“Celie is my daughter. She studies art at the Sorbonne.”

I was sweating.

“She is quite good. After hearing about your work in the City, I thought that perhaps you would be able to learn a few things from her. I had heard that you would be one of the up and coming artists in the Upper East Side.”

A man dressed all in black entered the room out of nowhere carrying a canvas – my painting.

Ingrid cocked her head to the side and scrutinized it, “You painted this…for me.”

I had. The strokes were familiar. The colors and patterns were mine.

Ingrid straightened her head and stretched her neck, “You did not paint this for me…You painted this for…yourself.”

I had no idea where this was going, but I knew I didn’t feel so comfortable anymore.

“I was a paying customer. And you did nothing for me. This piece of work. It was supposed to be mine. It was supposed to be for me. You took what was mine. You made it your own.”

She stood behind her daughter and tousled her ponytail. Celie barely moved.

“My greatest work of art. She is my own…and you, are just a selfish street artist with finger paints.”

Ingrid looked me in the eyes. Her face was fair, and eyes were brown. I realized it was the first time she had actually looked at me.

She hastily bade me farewell, wished me a good trip home, and fired me.

As I travelled back home without a job, without macarons, and without my pride, I realized that not even ice cream could smooth out this journey towards figuring out what actually was my own.