Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 101398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Bishop Galleries has been our family’s business since our grandfather founded it sixty-five years ago in Uptown Manhattan. After starting as a single location, Bishop Galleries has since expanded to two other New York spots, one in Chelsea and one in Brooklyn, and has dabbled in the Chicago, Miami, and Paris markets as well.
If my family’s gallery chooses to represent you as an artist, it will undoubtedly certify your success.
All things I should probably be thankful for, being an artist myself.
Eight years ago, with our grandfather having passed away, our parents went through a nasty divorce and switched their priorities from business to one-upping each other with younger and younger spouses.
Our mom is now on her third marriage and currently living with some twenty-eight-year-old surfer in the Bahamas. And our father is still based in New York but spends a lot of time jet-setting around the world with his twenty-five-year-old supermodel trophy wife.
Saying our family has turned into a dysfunctional mess would be the understatement of the century.
Knowing there was a desperate need for actual leadership, Breezy took over.
“If I do recall, you’re the one who wanted to be my agent,” I interject. “And I also recall you making a shitload of money in commission doing it.”
“But that was when our parents were still capable of running the galleries and you were willing to sell your art,” she claps back. “You haven’t sold a piece for over two years, Ben. At this point, I’m doing my job for free.”
I start to open my mouth to remind her that my priorities are way more important than selling fucking paintings to rich assholes, but her voice is in my ear again.
“And so are you.”
“Breezy—”
“I know you’re going to say you don’t need the money, but you do,” she says gently, interrupting me. “The medical bills pile up every month. Your savings and investments are getting smaller by the day. And your insurance stopped covering home health six months ago.”
“Breezy, my finances are fine.” Sort of.
“Ben, you know as well as I do that now is the time to get as much financial security as you possibly can. Or else…”
“Or else what?” I question. “I will never let her be put in some fucking facility—”
“And neither will I, you idiot,” Breezy chastises. “I would never even think about letting that happen, and you know it. But I am suggesting that you sell a painting or two. It’s not like you don’t spend every waking moment, besides the ones you spend with Summer and mysteriously rescuing women in trouble, in your studio. Get paid for it. And hire a damn assistant!”
“I’ve been trying to find one,” I hedge.
This assistant conversation started a year ago, and I sort of attempted to follow through. Though, I wouldn’t say I’ve kept up any sort of effort since. It’s not my fault everyone I interviewed was insufferable.
“Putting up some stupid flyer and making people go through the strangest interview process I’ve ever heard of doesn’t count as trying,” she counters on a sigh. “You and I both know you haven’t hired anyone because you don’t want to. Which is why you don’t have to do anything now, because I’m sending you someone. Fully vetted. Ready to go.”
“What?”
“His name is Paul. He’s a graduate from Harvard and has his master’s in Art History. He is the perfect candidate.”
I furrow my brow. “He sounds boring.”
“Well, you’re not going to be paying him to entertain you. He’s there to do all of your boring work shit that I no longer have time to do. Sounds like a match made in heaven to me,” she continues championing Paul like he’s some kind of golden-assistant-man-boy. “Plus, he’s willing to move to Red Bridge—”
“No. That is not going to work. I’m not having some bumbling stranger lurking around my house…around Summer. No way.”
“I’m not sure if you know this, but in order for an assistant to assist you, they have to be with you.”
“I don’t give a shit. It’s not happening, Breeze. Find another solution.”
“There are no other options. You need an assistant. You need someone who can handle all the daily calls that come in related to your work. Someone who can manage your email. Someone who can continue your online presence.”
“What online presence?”
“Your website and Instagram and—”
“What the fuck? I have an Instagram?”
“God, you are so clueless.” She sighs. “Thankfully, Paul isn’t. He’ll be there—”
“Nope,” I cut her off before she can try to finalize this crazy bullshit. “Not happening. If you’re so hell-bent on me having an assistant, then I’ll hire one myself.”
“We already tried that route.”
“Yeah, well, we’re going to try it again.” The line goes quiet. “Do not send anyone here, Breezy,” I add. “I mean it. I won’t play nice.”
“You are so frustrating!” she bellows on a groan.
“Tell me something I don’t already know.”