“I’m glad you like them,” she said, trying to sound cool and casual.
“I’ll need limited editions. Let’s say sixteen of each. Large size. Thirty inches by forty inches would be ideal. The bigger pictures make more of an impression. Usual contract terms. Oh, and I’ll want an exclusive on these images for the duration of the contract.”
“Certainly.” Vivian struggled to conceal her excitement. “I’ll print and mat the pictures for you as soon as I can set up a new darkroom.”
“How long will that take? I would very much like to have them for my show next week.”
Vivian’s euphoria died in an instant. It would take time to put a new darkroom together. She could not ask to use the Herald’s facilities again, not for the purpose of printing pictures intended for a gallery show. She would find a way to print the pictures. She had to find a way.
“I’ve, uh, lost the cottage I was renting in Adelina Beach,” she said. “But I expect to find new lodgings soon. I will get another darkroom set up right away.”
“You’re welcome to use mine while you’re here in town,” Joan said. “It’s in the back of the shop.”
Vivian nearly collapsed with relief. “Are you a photographer?”
“I was a hobbyist for a few years. I don’t do much photography these days, but I’m still a member of the Burning Cove Photography Club, hence the darkroom. I don’t have much use for it myself, but I make it available to other members of the club. It’s fully equipped with a commercial enlarger and an extra-large easel.”
“That sounds perfect. What time would be convenient for me to use it?”
“Would tomorrow work for you? I’d like to get a couple of your pictures on the wall as soon as possible.”
“Absolutely,” Vivian said. “I really appreciate this.” She slipped the prints back into the portfolio and turned to leave. But two steps toward the front door she stopped and turned back. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“What is it?”
“You looked surprised to see me when I walked through your front door a few minutes ago.”
“Well, yes, I admit I was rather startled. It was the portfolio, you see.”
“What about it?”
“I had heard that you had given up trying to make it as a serious photographer.”
Vivian’s mouth went dry. “I beg your pardon?”
“I was under the impression that you were pursuing a career in, well, to put it politely, photojournalism. Crime scenes. Fires. Famous actors caught in scandalous situations. That sort of thing.”
Vivian clutched her portfolio very tightly. “Where did you hear that?”
“You know how it is in the art world. There are always wild rumors circulating. I believe that an associate of mine, the proprietor of the Kempton Gallery in Adelina Beach, mentioned that none of the more exclusive galleries there were hanging your work these days because of your association with the press.”
Vivian recalled her last depressing encounter with the owner of the Kempton Gallery. He had treated her latest photographs as if they were beneath contempt.
“Richard Kempton told you that?” she said.
“Yes. He said it was all over town that you were no longer serious about your art.”
A wave of fury swept through Vivian. She took a deep breath. “That explains a few things.”
“I’m sorry,” Joan said. “But everyone knows the art world can be very cruel to an artist who is believed to have dipped her toe into commercial photography.”
“Given the rumors, why are you willing to hang my pictures?”
Joan winked. “Let’s just say I know what it’s like to try to balance on the very fine line between the commercial world and the art world. Before I opened this gallery I sold hats at Bullocks Wilshire in L.A.”
“Really?”
“Nobody pays much attention to a woman who sells hats, even very expensive hats. But things are different now that I sell art. People who move in the most exclusive circles are terrified of being accused of having acquired bad art. Here in Burning Cove my wealthy clients will buy whatever I tell them to buy.”
“What’s the difference between selling hats and selling art?”
“As far as the business end of things goes, there is no difference. It’s all just smoke and mirrors.”
“What about artistic vision? Doesn’t that matter?”
“Absolutely. But whether or not the works of an artist with a great vision actually sell is very much up to dealers like me.”
Chapter 31
What the hell just happened in there?” Nick asked. He glanced through the window and saw the dealer sitting down behind her desk. He turned back to a flushed and seething Vivian. “Did that gallery owner insult you?”
“What?” Vivian looked startled. “Oh. No, not at all. She wants to hang two of my prints and she’s offered me the use of a fully equipped darkroom that she maintains in her back room. I’ve got an appointment to develop my pictures tomorrow.”
“That’s great.” Nick took her arm and steered her toward a sidewalk café. “So why did you come out of the gallery with fire in your eyes?”
Vivian’s jaw tightened. “Because she enlightened me about why my career had stalled in Adelina Beach.”
“Did she?” Nick asked softly. “And what exactly did she have to say about it?”
“Evidently there are rumors going around to the effect that I have debased my artistic vision by dabbling in scandal sheet photography.”
“Debased, huh?”
“None of the reputable galleries in Adelina Beach will hang my work for fear of making it look as if the proprietors can’t tell the difference between real art and cheap, freelance photography. Apparently the owner of the Kempton Gallery started the rumors. So much for keeping my newspaper work a secret.”
“But the proprietor of the Ashwood Gallery here in Burning Cove is willing to display a couple of your photos in spite of those rumors?”
Vivian clutched the portfolio to her breast. “She saw what I was trying to do with my series, Nick. But in addition she said there was intimacy and sensuality in my work.”
Nick reflected on the parade of muscular young men who had displayed their very fit bodies in Vivian’s studio.
“Hard to miss the intimacy and sensuality in your pictures,” he said.