Charles Vernaki was your Artist in Residence?" Vernaki is a legend in the field. His works have been installed and displayed across the world.
"He's decided to step down by the end of this spring," says Julia. "We're looking for new talent, somebody who can take our own Harrowgate line in a new direction. Based on your work at Iron and Roses, and what you've just sent me today, I believe there's an excellent chance the board would extend the invitation to you, if you're selected. Are you interested?"
"Interested in being the Harrowgate Artist in Residence?" I try to keep the incredulity and squeals out of my voice. "Yes! Oh my god, yes, absolutely."
"Wonderful." Julia sounds almost smug. "I hoped you would be interested. Very well. Please send over the rest of your pieces so we can judge them by the deadline. Well done, Kiera. Well done, indeed."
She hangs up, and I lower the phone. I feel like I'm having an out-of-body experience. The Harrowgate Charleston studio is famous. Old, prestigious, where some of the best international artists have come to work. To be offered the position of Artist in Residence is beyond anything I've ever dreamed.
I'd have complete artistic control. I'd be able to choose where in the world I want my art displayed - not just in Harrowgate galleries, but live installations. I could have my pieces displayed over the canals of Venice. Maybe inside the Tate Modern in London. I'd become an instant authority, backed by the prestige of the studio and Harrowgate's name. It's the chance of a lifetime.
My phone rings, and suddenly I go cold. On the screen is a name that five minutes ago would have brought me nothing but joy. Now it sends an earthquake of doubt and confusion through my soul.
Dean.
Chapter 13
I don't answer the phone. I feel like I've been punched in the gut followed by a hook to the jaw. My soul wants to split into two. I can feel the different pressures tugging on me like iron hooks sunk into my spirit. Dean and Drake. Harrowgate. Art versus love. I lift my hands to my temples and press tight. Why? Why does it have to be this way?
My phone rings again. Dean. I don't answer. Biting the corner of my lip, I move to one of the windows and stare down at the water. Rushing and cold. I almost want to dive into it and have it wash away all my concerns. Is there no winning in this world?
A wild idea strikes me. Would Dean and Drake be willing to move to Charleston? I laugh. Of course not. Their pack is here. Their territory. Their home. To ask them to transplant everything to South Carolina would be beyond madness. And worse: it would tell them that they still aren't the most important thing in my life.
Are they? I put the question to myself. What's most important, my artistic career, or my love for Dean and Drake?
I want to scream. Frustration rises up within me like wings flapping in my throat. I turn to regard Phoenix I. Just the sight of it gives me pleasure. An almost vicious satisfaction. Mine. My art. My creation. I didn't think of either of the werewolves while I was making my art. Does that mean I love my art more?
No. Because while Dean was licking my pussy and driving me wild, I didn't think about glass blowing, either.
I pace the studio. Can I turn down Harrowgate? Of course I can. But then word would surely get out, and people would assume I was problematic, or too arrogant, or simply not interested in that level of attention. Jumpstarting my career would be that much harder for having turned down the best position out there.
My mind is a whirlwind of conflicting desires. An urge to talk to my dad wells up, followed equally fast by a sense of negation: no, this one I have to figure out for myself. I'm no longer a little girl. I have to act like an adult, and take responsibility for my life.
Without thinking, I grab my car keys and head out to the parking lot, jump behind the wheel of my car, gun the engine, and reverse out of the parking lot and back up
"He's decided to step down by the end of this spring," says Julia. "We're looking for new talent, somebody who can take our own Harrowgate line in a new direction. Based on your work at Iron and Roses, and what you've just sent me today, I believe there's an excellent chance the board would extend the invitation to you, if you're selected. Are you interested?"
"Interested in being the Harrowgate Artist in Residence?" I try to keep the incredulity and squeals out of my voice. "Yes! Oh my god, yes, absolutely."
"Wonderful." Julia sounds almost smug. "I hoped you would be interested. Very well. Please send over the rest of your pieces so we can judge them by the deadline. Well done, Kiera. Well done, indeed."
She hangs up, and I lower the phone. I feel like I'm having an out-of-body experience. The Harrowgate Charleston studio is famous. Old, prestigious, where some of the best international artists have come to work. To be offered the position of Artist in Residence is beyond anything I've ever dreamed.
I'd have complete artistic control. I'd be able to choose where in the world I want my art displayed - not just in Harrowgate galleries, but live installations. I could have my pieces displayed over the canals of Venice. Maybe inside the Tate Modern in London. I'd become an instant authority, backed by the prestige of the studio and Harrowgate's name. It's the chance of a lifetime.
My phone rings, and suddenly I go cold. On the screen is a name that five minutes ago would have brought me nothing but joy. Now it sends an earthquake of doubt and confusion through my soul.
Dean.
Chapter 13
I don't answer the phone. I feel like I've been punched in the gut followed by a hook to the jaw. My soul wants to split into two. I can feel the different pressures tugging on me like iron hooks sunk into my spirit. Dean and Drake. Harrowgate. Art versus love. I lift my hands to my temples and press tight. Why? Why does it have to be this way?
My phone rings again. Dean. I don't answer. Biting the corner of my lip, I move to one of the windows and stare down at the water. Rushing and cold. I almost want to dive into it and have it wash away all my concerns. Is there no winning in this world?
A wild idea strikes me. Would Dean and Drake be willing to move to Charleston? I laugh. Of course not. Their pack is here. Their territory. Their home. To ask them to transplant everything to South Carolina would be beyond madness. And worse: it would tell them that they still aren't the most important thing in my life.
Are they? I put the question to myself. What's most important, my artistic career, or my love for Dean and Drake?
I want to scream. Frustration rises up within me like wings flapping in my throat. I turn to regard Phoenix I. Just the sight of it gives me pleasure. An almost vicious satisfaction. Mine. My art. My creation. I didn't think of either of the werewolves while I was making my art. Does that mean I love my art more?
No. Because while Dean was licking my pussy and driving me wild, I didn't think about glass blowing, either.
I pace the studio. Can I turn down Harrowgate? Of course I can. But then word would surely get out, and people would assume I was problematic, or too arrogant, or simply not interested in that level of attention. Jumpstarting my career would be that much harder for having turned down the best position out there.
My mind is a whirlwind of conflicting desires. An urge to talk to my dad wells up, followed equally fast by a sense of negation: no, this one I have to figure out for myself. I'm no longer a little girl. I have to act like an adult, and take responsibility for my life.
Without thinking, I grab my car keys and head out to the parking lot, jump behind the wheel of my car, gun the engine, and reverse out of the parking lot and back up
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