“The Opening” (The Final Story)

I stopped wearing makeup because I no longer had anyone to impress, at least not with my looks.

I never felt the need to wear it in the studio with Edgar. Whenever we were working, we were concentrating on crafting the best shots possible and concerned with our beautiful models, not with ourselves.

But on the day of the opening, I put on makeup. I wanted to look my best because I was proud of Edgar and proud of the show.

We had spent weeks preparing for the opening at Lantern Gallery in Chelsea, on the far West Side. Lantern would be showing a retrospective of Edgar’s food photography from the past five years, mostly stuff he had done in his spare time. The “hobby” work was easier to sell because it was more unique and inspired.

I had been staying late nights to help matte and frame the photos, cleaning the glass and making sure that all the frames were dusted and pristine. Edgar would leave me alone at night, instead of helping me, but I was okay with that. He was so stressed by the whole endeavor, and I enjoyed the time alone.

I would go home with Windex stains on my t-shirts and an unbearable desire to take my own pictures. The more time I spent looking at photos I admired, the more I just wanted to go out into the world and create my own work. After work, I would stay up even later once I got home and do what I could with the poor light in my bedroom.

Putting on makeup, now that I thought of it, would probably be a useful tool to cover the dark circles under my eyes and give depth to my tired-looking skin.

When I arrived at the gallery at 5 PM to prepare for the opening, I saw that the gallery staff had carefully hung all the photos that I had been preparing for the past few weeks. They chose to arrange the photos chronologically, with the earliest nearest the entrance and the latest on the opposite wall.

I walked around the brightly-lit, spare space to make sure that no one put their fingerprints on the glass which was so clear I swear you couldn’t tell it was glass unless light was shining on it. I was inspecting a picture of a burrito truck when Edgar came up behind me and made me jump.

“Doesn’t that make you hungry?” Asked Edgar. “Burrito truck, Chinatown, 2008.”

“Yeah, I actually spent a lot of time trying to figure out where this was,” I said. “But I stopped trying to guess because it doesn’t really matter. It exists in the frame.”

“You get it,” said Edgar, smiling. “By the way, you look so pretty today, Veda. Are you wearing makeup? What’s different about you?”

Usually, I felt uncomfortable when people, especially men, complimented my looks. Sure, I liked flattery as much as the next person, but I liked it even more when I was trying to look pretty. I equated trying to look pretty with creating a work of art.

I think I’m pretty, and I understand why people compliment me. But I don’t occupy the world with the dominating thought that I am a pretty girl. I think of myself as creative first, pretty later.

Hearing Edgar, who was always either criticizing or complimenting me on my ability to be his assistant, tell me I was pretty was odd.

“Just makeup,” I said. “I wanted to look nice for your opening, which is perfect, by the way.”

I had been working with these photographs for weeks, but now I could acknowledge that they were truly beautiful and worthy of being purchased by people who could afford them.

My favorite photo in this exhibit was one of a poached egg on a pink plate with a flowery oilcloth table covering beneath it. The egg had a sexy quality, even though it was just an egg. It had a sheen that was both natural and out of this world. The colors really popped.

“Have you seen the catalog?” Asked Edgar. “They really did a great job preparing the show.”

I was kind of hurt that he hadn’t immediately thanked me for all my work, but I was a paid assistant. Why should he thank me?

He handed me the catalog, and I tried not to look wounded as I stared at the titles of the photographs. After looking through the gallery’s price list – $4,500 for an 8×10″ photograph – I found myself jealous.

I had never worked with Edgar on a gallery show before so I didn’t realize how much he charged. I knew what he made on commission for publications and private contracts, but I couldn’t believe someone would pay that much for a photograph.

I wondered about the people who might buy his work – how did Edgar feel about separating the collection? In an ideal world, I would want my art to stay together as a collection.

You know how they try to adopt puppies with their siblings? So that the puppies have familial ties? That’s kind of how I feel about my pictures.

“So when the customers start to arrive, the gallery staff is going to take care of most of it, but I don’t want them to see me until later, if at all. I want to watch them from security camera feed in the back office,” said Edgar.

“I would like you to be as much me as you possibly can. Out of everyone attending tonight, you probably understand me the best.”

“Well, obviously I look very different. No one is going to want to listen to a 24-year-old female photographer’s assistant,” I said, then immediately regretted how little credit I ever gave myself.

At 7 PM, guests began to arrive to the party. Edgar fled to the back office, as he promised, and I was left with the two gallery employees and the owner, Sharon, who was busy handing out catalogs and greeting the guests. The two employees were holding trays with champagne and fancy snacks.

I pretended to greet people but tried to defer to the gallery employees, who were used to doing that sort of thing. I was nervous that Edgar was watching me via the security camera, and I felt so self-conscious so I at least tried to approach people and seem friendly.

I helped pass out champagne flutes and mini quiches whenever I saw an opportunity to grab an extra tray.

But of course I started getting the wrong kind of attention because I no longer looked like Edgar’s assistant. I looked like some pretty, outgoing girl who attends art openings because they are trendy and chic, a great opportunity to meet artists.

While I was standing by the door, sort of greeting people and sort of not, a skinny man wearing skinnier jeans asked me if he could get me one of the free drinks. He would buy me one if they were selling them, he said. But they weren’t.

I didn’t want to hate men. I really didn’t. But the older I got, the more each one I met was a mash-up of bad traits from all the men that I had met before. And they pretty much begged for me to hate them.

You, I wanted to say, every time I try to pull myself out of this hatred and resentment, men like you do something to push me back into it.

I was in a hole of hatred, and I was constantly trying to climb out. When my hands reach the edge and I was about to pull myself up and out, men like you stepped on my fingers. And everything would become dark again.

I wished the light in the room wasn’t so bright because I was feeling really down and probably had that kind of look on my face that showed I was on the verge of tears.

I really was tired from preparing for this show, and I really didn’t have the patience to put up with these people. I got the feeling that none of them actually cared about the photos or about Edgar – they were just here to impress each other and to be seen and possibly add to their art collections, if someone told them it would be cool to do so.

Edgar deserved better than that, and where were his actual friends? Did he have any? I didn’t actually know.

Finally, Edgar decided to emerge, and a few of the guests recognized him immediately, rushing to him with praise.

He walked to the front of the gallery and took a champagne glass from one of the employees.

“Everyone, thank you for coming,” he said. “I have an announcement to make.”

I could tell he must have been drinking in the back too. He was not completely sober.

“The photographs in this gallery tonight are the result of five years of hard work and a great love for food, as you can see,” said Edgar, patting his slightly rotund belly. “I am so happy to see all of you here and feel so blessed that people support my passion and encourage my talent. I couldn’t have done it without Sharon, who owns this gallery, and my assistant, Veda, who has been doing way more than her share of work these past few weeks to ensure that the opening would run smoothly.”

He made an elaborate hand gesture toward me and then bowed.

I smiled but could feel my face become hot. The guy who offered to get me a drink looked at me and seemed to regret even giving me the time of day. Was it because I was the assistant?

“So please, if you have any questions about the work, feel free to ask either myself or Veda. I know many people are usually interested in the stories behind the photos, and I’m usually happy to share them, if it enhances your experience.”

“Thank you, Edgar,” said Sharon. “We feel so privileged to be able to showcase your work. And do let us know if you have any questions about purchases or are interested in buying something tonight.”

“Oh, and in case you get bored with my work, I have a surprise,” said Edgar. “See that open door in the back? We have a special surprise collection for sale tonight. It’s a limited edition by a photographer who I both admire and respect.”

Sharon seemed confused. I had no idea what he was talking about – he hadn’t told me about any new photographers. I was definitely intrigued because I was always interested in seeing the latest work.

When Edgar finished talking, and the crowd started to chatter again, I slipped to the back of the gallery and peered my head into the office. Edgar had set up a felt divider and mounted a group of photographs there.

I recognized these. They were mine.

Before Edgar would hire me, he gave me one of his cameras and asked me to walk around the city and take photos of things that interested me so I did. He wanted me to prove myself to him. And I had completely forgotten about that project. He had developed the images himself and had inspected them on his own time, apparently.

“How much for that one?” Asked a voice behind me.

Before I could turn around to see who might be interested in purchasing my photo, I had to remind myself: hope they don’t ask for the story, and be grateful when they don’t.

(Photo by Idle Type)