First Steps

"…Claire…Claire! Hey!"

I pull myself reluctantly away from the canvas in front of me and turn my head to the side, bringing my best friend's face into view.

"Are you going to answer that?" she asks, stabbing her paintbrush in the direction of my cell phone, which I belatedly realize is alerting me to an incoming call.

I sigh, irritated at the distraction, but the buzzing stops before I decide whether to put down my brush and answer.

"Might've been Ben," she quips, wiggling her eyebrows up and down.

I smile at the thought but turn back to my work, pausing only to reach out and brush a line of green paint across the pale skin of her forehead. "Final project's due tomorrow, Andria," I intone, brows furrowing critically at my own work. "Ben should be the least of your worries."

She retaliates with a swipe of her red-dipped brush across my cheek. "Call me that again and poor Ben's going to find you wrapped in a body bag the next time he stops in."

I pause and study her obviously-pissed-off look in amusement. In our first year, posters with each student's name were hung on the dormitory doors to help students find their way to their assigned rooms. I had arrived at our door just in time to witness a tall blonde tear down a poster proclaiming Andria Sydoryk, and slap up a loose leaf paper with a single word written in all-caps with a pink Sharpie – Tandy.

Now, in our fourth and final year in our Fine Arts Undergrad program, we're nearing the end of the three-year lease on our cramped studio apartment. The last of our final exams, the current projects in front of us, are due the day after tomorrow. It's an uneasy feeling especially since neither one of us knows what we're doing next year, or if it'll even be together.

Sobered by the thought, I turn back to my work, touching up a spot where blue and green seem to meld together wrong. I hesitate before cleansing the brush in my water cup and applying a deep grey tone to the sky in light, streaky strokes.

"He probably just wants to go out tonight, maybe catch a late movie," I say distantly, already losing myself again in the colours and feelings of the scene. I dip into the black and lightly tint the grey areas, before taking a finer brush and adding white tones too.

"Uh, I'm thinking he most likely wanted to meet for breakfast," Tandy intones, reaching over to pull of the shade on the tiny window facing the street. I wince at the strong sunlight filtering through, into the room. "You got so lost in your work you probably didn't even notice when I left to take a nap around three."

"Too busy," I reply, judging my work in the new light. "This project is worth too much to mess up."

"My God, Claire, that's practically a masterpiece," she exclaims, leaning over to examine the piece. "I love the way you use colour and shapes, rather than specific detail to give your art life – your personal style is going to be one of the hallmarks of our art age, I can just tell!"

"You've got even bigger plans for me than I do," I joke, but I set my brushes down, satisfied that I can do no more right now. Maybe I'll sit down for a bit tonight and re-examine it once more.

"You've got the talent for it," she replies, straightening her long, toned legs as she stands and stretches. "You just need to find your muse, your Mona Lisa, if you will. Hey, weren't you supposed to drop that other painting off at _ today?"

I stand so fast I almost knock over my paint palette. "Shoot, I bet that's what Ben was calling about!" A glance at the clock tells me I don't have time even to shower.

Tandy laughs and points me towards my room. "You better change into something clean, at least. Wait until the inevitable proposal to start dressing like a slob around Ben – he can't handle as much of you as I can."

I swat at her as I hurry past, but don't bother with a reply. The sister I never had, Tandy can handle more of me than anyone, so arguing would be futile.

I don a strappy black blouse and debate dress pants before settling on high-end dark denim jeans and black boots that hit mid-calf. I gather my unruly hair into what I hope is an artfully messy bun at the back of my head and pick up the painting, already wrapped in burlap, before sprinting out the door. Being late for this meeting would hurt my artisan dreams worse than failing my final project.

X

I arrive just on time (which as Ben would say, is ten minutes late in the business world) and am ushered straight through the lobby and into an elevator made completely of glass, showcasing a breathtaking view of the city. Five floors up, we step into a wide hallway and immediately turn into the boardroom behind the heavy double doors. The secretary waits until I'm seated just to the left of the table head before disappearing back into the hall. She doesn't say a single word more than necessary, giving only a nod at my thanks.

Carter Yen, the Head of Public Relations, and the bigwig I'm meeting today, hasn't arrived yet, so I take a moment to catch my breath and smooth the stray hair away from my face.

The building itself is sleek and very modern, one of the largest in Washington. Headquarters of some giant conglomerate company, I've never before had reason to venture into the world of business politics and Armani suits inside. Ben, on the other hand, is one of their elite junior members and spends most of his time holed up here. These white, sterile walls are likely as familiar to Ben as the inside of his own apartment.

I am suddenly struck by the oddity of never having stepped into his world before. We've been dating two years now, and Ben's arguably the second-biggest part of my life in Washington, behind only Tandy, and has even visited my home in Canada last summer.

The unsettling realization is cut short as the heavy double doors swing open, revealing a stout man in a no-nonsense suit. His greying hair is slicked back in a style that I assume is supposed to be suave, but the cutting coldness in his dark eyes draws me to my feet. It never gets any easier, meeting with Mr. Yen.

"Ms. MacNeil," he greets, shaking my proffered hand. "You have found your way here finely, I see."

"Yes," I manage, clearing my throat. Unlike Mr. Yen, business is not my strong suit.

"Excellent," he says, not batting an eye, though his gaze cuts to the burlap wrap leaning against the table edge. "You've brought it with you, I see. May I?"

My hand reaches out jerkily to pick up the painting, which Mr. Yen slides smoothly from the burlap.

Studying the work, Mr. Yen's eyes relax with satisfaction, though they don't lose their cold edge. "Yes," he says, laying the artwork on the table, "I think it'll do nicely. You've got quite the hand, Ms. MacNeil. You should be very proud, to have such a company interested in the work of an unknown student."

The way he says it doesn't feel like a compliment, and I find myself studying the piece rather than trying to form a reply. A large painting, the design is both simple and well-known. Resembling the American flag, seven broad red strokes cover most of the canvas, unconventionally uneven, though projecting strength and confidence in thick red patriotism. A suggestion of a square in the left corner is done in traditional blue, but the relaxed lines suggest wind rippling across the design. Each of the stars, dashed in slightly varying sizes, is shadowed to stand out from the page.

"You're Canadian, am I correct, Ms. MacNeil?" Mr. Yen asks, regaining my attention.

I'm so surprised I can hardly form an answer. "Yes, I am," I manage, trying to figure out how he'd know such a fact, based on our previous talks.

"I am most impressed, to see such a rendering of my beloved national symbol, brought to life by a foreigner." There's an inflection in his tone on the last word, though I can't tell quite what he means to suggest.

He appraises me then, his cold eyes travelling down to my feet and back up, lingering a second too long on my chest. Repulsed, I fight the urge to shudder as Mr. Yen continues.

"We are willing to pay a nice sum for the work, as we've previously discussed," he says, pausing. I nod, recalling the impressive figure discussed at our last meeting. "However, we have one condition."

"What might that be?" I ask bluntly, not sure how to phrase the question more tactfully.

"I see the promise in your talents," Mr. Yen says, catching e off-guard with the compliment. "I can only imagine what a Claire MacNeil piece might someday be worth. I will purchase this first piece today, for twice the amount I've already offered, provided that you bring me a painting worthy of a spot in the Metropolitan, within the next five years."

I am silent for a moment, surprised at the offer, and more than a little intimidated. "What sort of painting would you like?" I finally manage.

"What I like most about this one," he answers, gesturing at the flag on the table, "I can see the inspiration in it – the design was not commissioned by me, merely discovered. No, it's your own impression that really brings the image to life. If I were to instruct you to paint the White House, the painting would lack that same inspiration that drove you to create this image here. No, I want you to bring me another work like this, something purely your own. "

I am beyond speechless, and Mr. Yen seems to sense that and continues seamlessly.

"Preferably, it'd be along the same theme as this first one, but I'm open to reasonable artistic variance," he finishes, reaching into his suit to produce the contract, already drawn up.

He hands me a pen, gesturing for me to take a seat. "I've made the changes to the financial information, as well as adding a clause for the second painting, due no later than five years from this date."

I hesitate, pen a hairline from paper. The sum described in the contract would pay off my current student loan, as well as provide for any further schooling I might decide to take. However, part of me cringes at promising another painting to Mr. Yen, another part of my soul.

That's what being an artist is, I tell myself, shaking my head. I quickly sign my name and stand, shaking off the collared feeling of being under contract. It's something I'm going to have to get used to, I internalize, shaking Mr. Yen's hand in parting.

The first big sell of my career, and the promise of another – I'm on my way.

It's a dizzying feeling.