My night was spent switching between job rejection emails and trawling RightMove. Competitive me got riled up each time my inbox pinged, hoping for that change of direction I was desperately after. But each job I lost out on only spurred me on to want to find the perfect building for my gallery.
I picked through listing after listing of similar sized buildings, in both London and Sheffield, comparing features, locations and costs. That way, no one could accuse me of jumping the gun and racing for the first option that popped out. But of all the places I found, modern or classic, none of them felt right. I couldn’t see my dreams reflected in their windows the way I could the old bank building.
Speaking to Lainey only solidified my feelings. I could use the money I had saved for a deposit to pay the rent. I wasn’t flush by any stretch, but I had enough to get the business up and running. After all the calculations and what-ifs, I worked out I had six months to prove myself.
In that time, I could host an amazing opening night – because parties – and be in business long enough to know whether my experiment worked. At the end of that time, if it hadn’t worked out, I could pull the pin knowing I’d at least tried. Wasn’t that the least I could ask of myself? Losing money was a risk I was going to have to take, no matter how scary it was.
I scribble the number of the estate agent down in the front of my diary, but waiting for the morning to roll around so I could call was like waiting for my lotto numbers to come up.
Phone pressed to my ear, I pace my kitchenette as the dial tone rings out a handful of times. It’s almost midday before I do get hold of someone and, when we get to talking schedules, the earliest I can see the building is Wednesday. I flop back on the sofa and stare at the ceiling. A spider scurries away.
This isn’t the worst thing in the world. While I’m in London, I’m a few hours away anyway, but knowing that isn’t stopping the bird in my ribcage from dive-bombing into every window it can find in the great comedown.
Still, it’s an opportunity. Before I get onto the big-ticket item of a venue, I can’t walk into this venture without knowing my competition or my game plan. With nothing else to do, I toss an overnight bag in my car and shoot back up to Sheffield to study some of the galleries in the area.
Dad dances on the spot at the sight of me strolling into his store mid-afternoon, takeaway cup in hand, muffin in my mouth and looking for a place to sleep. There’d never be any problem staying with him, but it’s always polite to ask. The store is empty aside from him.
‘I can’t say this is a massive surprise.’ He smiles as he downs a box of brushes and crosses the store to hug me.
‘Okay if I camp with you a few nights?’ I say. ‘Until Wednesday?’
‘What surprises me is you went home in the first place,’ he says. ‘You can’t shake it, can you? That building, I mean.’
I wrinkle my nose and jiggle my head a bit. ‘I think I’m going to do it.’
‘Good.’ He grins as he begins unwinding a key from his keychain. ‘Well, you have my support.’
‘You don’t have to do that.’ I dangle my old keys from my finger, brimming with all the touristy charms and keyrings a university student would pick up in her first year in London. ‘If it’s okay, I’ll be home for dinner. I’ve got some things to do first.’
‘Haven’t developed any allergies, have you?’ he calls after me. ‘All that fancy London food?’
‘I’ll bring the wine,’ I answer as I shoulder my way out the door and walk to the first gallery on my list.
I can’t pretend I’m going to be the first person to own a business. It would be stupid to do so. There are always going to be others. But if I’m going to survive past the first few months, I need to find my point of difference. What are others doing, and what was I going to bring to the table that would be so completely unique that I’ll be overrun with artists jostling to show their wares?
Talking to gallery owners as I wander the city gives me an opportunity to start piecing together what’s happening in the area, how they source their art and who they work with. One has a revolving roster of the same artists. Another that’s in an old house and smells of mothballs and old carpet showcases landscapes from only locals, and another that’s strictly modern art has a dedicated student space. Still, it’s not quite right for me.
I want an openness and inclusivity, and an ever-changing schedule will bring fresh, exciting voices that capture attention. Whether they’re modern art or classic doesn’t bother me. I know from my work at Webster that I can straddle both worlds. And, as much as I’d love to be able to headline with massive artists, I need to be realistic. Until I make a name for myself, the big names will be elusive. I hate to admit that he’s right, but Christopher Dunbar may very well be exactly who I need right now.
I return to Dad’s that first night with my mind brimming with ideas. Scribbled notes become mind maps, directives, exhibition ideas and sketches of an imagined floor layout. An unexpected bonus of all this brainstorming is that it unlocks something I’d long thought buried. I was now desperate to get my old camera out.
Late Tuesday afternoon finds me in Loxley Common with Fiona’s digital camera dangling from my neck. It’s not quite my old film camera – I’d left that one back in London – but it scratched an itch. The urge to create art had been nudging at the base of my mind for months, but I’d ignored it in favour of corporate life and ladder climbing.
Now, I hungrily snap images of the world around me. Because it’s been so long, self-doubt rears her shouty head as I try to get an old gate in focus, but I do my best to ignore the noise in favour of capturing something, anything. It works, and I’m soon zooming and framing trees and playing with dappled light and a spare lens I’d packed.
By the time I arrive home to the smell of what would be an amazing dinner, it’s starting to feel natural again, like those university summers spent with fingers imprinted with the ridges of a shutter button. With shots of trees and textures, benches and neighbourhood fences loaded from the memory card, my laptop begins to resemble a small studio. Photos are loaded and cleaned up as I dabbled with editing software I was sure I’d long forgotten how to use. It makes me miss having the school darkroom to use at a whim. Film cameras are so much more fun than this.
A darkroom. I scrawl that quickly on my notepad, too.
I go to bed satisfied with my lot for the day. I’m okay. Today has helped me remember that I’m good at this. Take that, Kit, Christopher, whatever your bloody name is. As I drift off to sleep, I cross my fingers and hope the building I’m about to inspect is everything I’ve dreamt it to be.
I’m out the front door hours before I need to be on Wednesday, telling myself I can grab breakfast and jot down questions while I wait. Sitting in a café on the high street proves near impossible, my leg trampolining around the place, so I get up and walk off my anxious energy on the way to West Bar. It feels like the slowest thirty minutes on record, and I catch every red pedestrian crossing known to man.
When I turn in from the main street, I skip out onto the kerb and look up to see the building hovering above me. From the outside, it’s just as incredible as the photos. Built during the Victorian era, there’s plenty of beige stone and tall, arched windows. There’s a small car park off the side street, which is overgrown and very green, but cleaning it will be the easiest part of the whole project, I’m sure of it.