An Insignificant Choice

What could have been:

A stripper made more money than any gallery assistant job. Even working the afternoon shift at The Urban Garden, Evie made over a hundred grand. $35,000 tops for a gallery assistant, and let’s face it, there were no gallery assistant jobs to be had. Not in New York City. Not with every art school grad running to apply. Not with every previous grad staying put in their position, grads from the year before, and the year before that, and so on, and so on, and so on. A hundred grand a year paid for paints and canvasses, sketchbooks and pencils, food. A hundred grand a year allowed her to stay in the city.

At first, she’d glamorized the job, talked herself into thinking it would catapult her art, Toulouse-Lautrec impressionism from a 21st century woman’s perspective, but her heart was really in nature. Animals, birds, Audubon. She loved the science of it. But who bought nature anymore?

Evie slung her bag over her shoulder to walk the six blocks to work. Before crossing with the light, halfway to The Garden, she waited. She was a few minutes early and she let two lights pass. Wolf was right on time, a black crow who’d been meeting her at the corner every day since she’d shared her raisins. “Wolf,” she said. The crow made a sound like “Evie”. She’d taught him that. People underestimated crows. Evie held a plum to the tree branch and let the bird pick. When Wolf was done, she crossed the street.

In her dressing room, Evie pulled the invitation from her bag. Fiber in 3-D, selected works by Inez Reis. The Star Gallery was known as the Star-maker Gallery and Inez had gotten herself a show. Evie couldn’t say she wasn’t jealous, but Inez was her friend. She looked in the side pocket of her bag to make double sure she’d stuffed it with her contact cards, the postcard-sized cards with her name, her phone number, and her email, two full-color pictures of her work (her latest, female Toulouse-Lautrec style paintings). Some of the most influential people in the industry would be there.

She pulled a dress from her bag and hung it next to her mirror - a fitted tank dress with a crisscross front, yellow linen. She thought the color would make her more memorable. She envisioned chatting with the famous, passing out her contact cards. She imagined her art adorning walls of prestigious galleries, her name on the lips of art enthusiasts worldwide.

She rushed to the train after work. “An accident,” people were saying as they stood waiting on the platform. The train would be late.

“How late?” she asked a man with a briefcase.

 “No telling.”

She looked at her phone. If the train was much later, she’d be late to the opening, or miss the opening altogether. Maybe, if it came within the next five minutes, she’d be okay. She shouldn’t have taken so long getting ready. She smoothed her dress. Maybe, if she took the bus. How far would the bus get her?  

Evie wandered unfamiliar streets from where the bus dropped her off, following directions on her phone to the gallery. She walked cobblestone alleys and passed little shops. She stopped at a window filled with wild animals and birds, mounted, stuffed, looking like stop-action footage - an artic fox on the prowl, a raccoon in repose, a bobcat reaching for a pheasant above its head, an otter on its back held a shellfish. Mice looked like they played on the window floor. Birds took flight in the space above the land-bound. A crow, looking like Wolf, sat on a branch in the upper left corner of the window, his head cocked and looking right at her. Evie opened the red wooden door, and a bell rang.

“A lost art,” the man said about taxidermy. The birds. Evie especially loved the birds. A cheery indigo bunting, woodpeckers of all kinds, hawks, an eagle, even hummingbirds. How did he do it, she asked. He would show her if she liked.

Evie never made it to the gallery that night. She fell in love with the concept, with the process that Daniel taught her. She was already in love with birds. She sobbed over dead birds, laughed at their antics, spent hours engaged in their behaviors. Now, she specialized in the taxidermy of birds.

She called her shop, The Urban Bird Garden. She brought Wolf to her shop where he stayed. In almost no time, Evie’s work became famous. In her taxidermy, Evie strove to imitate the nature in each bird, the natural, its reality, realistically. Her painting was impressionistic, a tryptic for each bird. The contrast of bird and scene gave an ephemeral quality to the piece, a work of art that let each bird sing. People wanted to own her birds. Galleries wanted to display her birds. Evie’s work became known worldwide. They sought Evie, her techniques, her knowledge. She changed the art world, people’s perspective on birds, on life as art, on nature, and Evie had found what she loved. What if she hadn’t taken that bus, she sometimes wondered.

What really happened:

 Evie worked as an exotic dancer after graduating from art school. Who was she kidding? She was a stripper. But even as a stripper in the afternoons – she felt more comfortable dancing in the afternoons, safer – she made more money than she’d probably ever make as a painter, and for sure, more than a gallery assistant. She made over $100,000 at The Urban Garden. Pay for a gallery assistant was $35,000 at most. How was she supposed to pay for canvasses and materials with that? Anyway, a sarcastic smile came to her face, she was already a known artist of sorts. Afternoon regulars at The Urban Garden came to see her dance. And who knew? Maybe her Toulouse-Lautrec paintings from a woman’s point of view, might become popular someday.

Evie pulled the invitation from her bag. Fiber in 3-D, selected works by Inez Reis. The Star Gallery was known as the Star-maker Gallery and Inez had gotten herself a show. Evie felt maybe more than a tinge of jealousy, but Inez was her best friend. Her very best friend. Evie looked in her bag, in the side pocket, to make sure she’d filled it with contact cards, postcards with her name, her phone number, her email, and two full color mini samples of her work. Some of the most influential people in the industry would be at Inez’s show.

She pulled a dress from her bag and hung it next to her mirror - a fitted tank dress with a crisscross front, yellow linen. She didn’t want to steal the show, but she thought the color would make her more memorable, give her a chance to chat with the famous, give her an opportunity to pass out her contact cards. And something about the yellow made her feel hopeful. She imagined her art on the walls of prestigious galleries, her name on the lips of art enthusiasts around the world. Her mind raced with possibilities.

She rushed to the train after work. “An accident,” people on the platform were saying. The train would be late.

“How late?” she asked a man with a briefcase.

 “No telling.”

If the train was late, she’d be late to the opening, or possibly miss the opening altogether. And it was at least another fifteen minutes walk, from where the train stopped to the gallery. She looked at her phone. If the train came within the next five minutes, she’d be okay. She shouldn’t have taken so long getting ready. How far would the bus get her? Maybe, if she took the bus …  

She made it. The train was only five minutes late, and Evie made it to the opening. And, oh my gosh, Inez deserved the show. Evie especially loved her giant octopus, its reaching tentacles woven from used Keurig pods. Inez introduced Evie to Marguerite Anderson and Harriet Jacks, to Cooper Ferdman and Curtis Kaminski, to the most influential people in the industry. Evie floated on cloud nine in a yellow dress. She gave out her contact cards until she didn’t have anymore. This was where she wanted to be. She’d focus on her art. She’d work hard to make her own name.

Evie got a couple of shows from the opening. After that, they kind of fizzled. Galleries didn’t spend money on medium tier artists, although she had a few loyal buyers, a few more loyal galleries.

Moving to nights at The Urban Garden doubled her income. Wolf switched his everyday meeting time to evenings. Crows were smart. They lived long. Wolf met Evie every day for nine years. She’d take the night manager job at UG’s.

 Though Evie never achieved the recognition she yearned for, her love for art (and birds) never wavered. In her spare time, she continued to paint, to find solace in her creativity. Wolf showed up in many of her paintings. Evie joined a birdwatching club. That she could have taken a bus to Inez’s opening, so long ago, had been such an insignificant choice, it hadn’t even registered in Evie’s memory.