Agatha managed to travail in her field against all odds. Indeed the deck was stacked as they say. They weren’t a wealthy family by any means, but they had a roof over their head, lived in a decent neighbourhood, ate (whether well or not was debatable since her mother wasn’t a cook by any stretch of the imagination) and wore clean serviceable clothes.
When she would have continued on to university, her mother became ill and she’d had to put her educational plans on the back burner in order to take care of her. It was five years since her mother had passed, but it seemed like yesterday. Agatha pushed on, getting her degree while working two jobs, one at the grocery store, the other cleaning until she’d happily accepted a job at Spencer and Groban.
Not that she was living on easy street as yet, there were numerous debts to take care of but the steady paycheck paid well and she loved working in the creative department. She called it that because in reality, that’s what she did, created the art for the campaigns expected to run and she delighted in the creativity. Her spare time was spent painting, whether it was the main street in town, interesting characters at the park or the beautiful river running behind her home she was a recognizable entity to many.
On any given occasion, passers-by stopped to watch, commenting and seemingly enjoying her art and she wished their interest would garner a few sales but as yet, she hadn’t sold more than a handful of paintings. She was hoping to change that by entering her paintings in the town bizarre where she planned on showing a large portion of her work .
Agatha was excited, eager in fact. She probably should have been nervous, but she wasn’t. As she saw it, people would either buy her work, or they wouldn’t and she was prepared to attend and enter as many opportunities as possible in order to become a recognized artist.
The day finally dawned she headed to her allotted space, placing oversized ceramic pots or urns beside each other while stacking others and then brought out several easels as well. She puttered, adding decorations such as flowers, flower pots, even scarves to enhance the theme of each painting. Then she carefully added her paintings, some framed, some not, taking great care in placing them where she thought the available lighting would enhance the look and feel of each painting. The sun was now streaming through overhead trees and she was pleased she’d decided to place a tent over top both to protect the paintings and also for those wishing to stop by.
Agatha smiled and nodded at the others nearby, some selling candles and wax, others selling homemade bread, cookies, pies to butter, cream, milk and eggs. The variety was delightful and aromatic. She was both pleased and perturbed to have cookies and pastries beside her since she was tempted to buy everything.
She did pop across the way to buy a large double double coffee that hinted at vanilla in the mix but was so delicious she knew she’d be back for more. Then she obtained a couple of chocolate chip cookies and settled on a makeshift seat to enjoy while reading her latest novel.
She looked up from time to time when someone stopped by, smiled, asked if they needed assistance and many asked about the paintings and if there was a story attached. Sometimes there was. Sometimes it was too raw, too painful to relate and she’d shrug and suggest each painting held a meaning to the beholder.
Around mid afternoon, a suave looking gentleman sauntered by, then took a few steps backward when he noticed her paintings. He took his time examining each one in turn, his facial expression changing from delighted to surprised to touched and any number of emotions in between. His obvious delight was captivating.
“Your work is incredible. You’ve managed to capture a moment in time in each one. Was that your intent?” he asked curiously.
“Probably not.” She smiled. I paint in the moment, whatever happens, happens. I never force a painting, it becomes what it is in that moment and I let it be.”
He smiled and nodded as though he understood exactly what she meant then asked, “Do you have a representative that sells your art?”
“No, nothing that grandiose, your talking to the representative, painter, dreamer in the flesh,” she remarked with a grin.
“You should have one. Your work is special and I think you have captured a corner of the market never before tapped.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Artists have, for the most part, left their roots, a lot paint what they suspect will sell, and don’t get me wrong, selling is always good, but selling a moment, a feeling, that’s remarkable and special and will carry you a long way.”
“Your lips….” she smiled again.
“If I may, this is the name of a man who should see your work. Give him a call, he’s incredible, he has an art gallery and knows his stuff. He’ll do right by you.”
“That’s very generous and most kind, thank you,” Agatha remarked taking the business card.
He turned to leave and said, “See that you call. You’ll be pleased you did. I guarantee it.”
As she watched him walk away, others approached and before long she’d sold five of the fifteen paintings available and was delighted. Perhaps he’d brought good luck with him she mused. Before the day was done, she’d sold nearly all her paintings. Dusk was beginning to fall, and without proper lighting it would be impossible to truly enjoy the paintings so she began packing up. Tomorrow was another day, and if it went as well as today, she couldn’t be happier.