Drew Zwiesler

Little black book

LITTLE BLACK BOOK The winter is often very harsh in the big city. Tall steel buildings do little to insulate the buzzing streets of Albany, New York. Hundreds of people swarm like bees through the glistening sidewalks lined with buildings for entertainment, food and eccentric fashion. Standing in one spot one could recognize a splendor of emotions across the faces of passing strangers. Unaware of the thoughts and deeds that would occur throughout their day. Attuning my awareness and emotions to those of the eyes of a tall bald man that struck mine, I looked away quickly and checked if it was safe to cross the roadway yet. Main Street was always busy around 6:30pm when my shift usually ended. Sometimes I chose to volunteer overtime, but most free time I did get I liked to fill with a rewarding activity. The advisor at my firm had recommended I take the internship at the local art history museum because most painting jobs were unpaid or unavailable at the moment. I definitely needed the money, since I had hardly invested in the art supplies I needed for upcoming projects. There I was, just like every other dreamer, in a big city pursuing my career as an artist. The fast pace rush of the people and cars was an overwhelming change from the farmlands I had grown up in Illinois. My hometown road went 6 miles before any gas station or shop was spotted and only had few local visitors, if any. I was raised to not care about money. My father was often drunk, grudgingly he would laugh while watching crime stories on the TV news channel most days. My mother worked at a beauty salon doing hair and nails, and was not home very often. So, by the time I was 18 I was far from ready to leave our little home. I knew my parents tried their best, but I was a dreamer. I didn’t need a bright shiny new life, but maybe just a slightly shiny one. It was hard to make a name as a painter, but it’s been done before. It might as well be an art form old as time, and it was my passion. Now, living in the city, I could hardly take in the inspiration around me. A fast pace arena of constant lights and sound with high echos, and long shadows. I couldn’t wait to paint the main street I was staying on. My mother had thought it’d be a good idea to move to my aunts house in Albany, NY before getting my own place in the city. Costs are high, and I had only worked in the hair salon with my mother a few times a week. I didn’t make enough to get an apartment in New York. But I was hoping that one of my paintings would sell for big money. It had been several months with my internship at the art museum now, and the staff had gotten to know me. When I told them I was an artist myself, they let me know that you can sign up to have your art shown in a gallery nearby. I was ecstatic! I had never had a chance like that, for other people to actually view and critic my art would be amazing. They told me where to go, and so I went and signed up. When I got to my aunts house that night, I ran up to the attic where I normally painted. I pulled out my phone and looked back at some pictures I had taken earlier of the city. I took a little time to relax, and then began painting. I didn’t check the time much, but it seemed like I had been painting for hours. I had got home from work around seven, and my phone read one in the morning. I couldn’t believe it, but I was satisfied with my work. The artwork had to be submitted online to be approved by the gallery before I could take it in. When I got to the website and filled out my information the next button took me to a credit card info page. I didn’t know you had to pay a fee to show your work. I hardly even knew this place before today. I prayed that it would only be thirty dollars or so because I hardly had any money after moving. I clicked through to see the cost and was astounded at the charge of the gallery . They charged five hundred dollars per square foot of canvas shown. I could never afford that. My canvas was 50” by 40.” That would cost me over three thousand dollars. I felt defeated. No one was ever going to see my work. I left work that last night before the event still mad that I couldn’t participate. As I walked down the city sidewalks, I passed an alleyway with a large green dumpster. At first I didn’t notice anything, but at second glance I saw a cool looking canvas sticking out of the dumpster. It was so big that the lid couldn’t shut. I stopped to look at it. It was an abstract painting, but nothing I would put on my wall. I went to walk away, but saw a small black book jammed into the side of the canvas. I grabbed it to look and see what it was. It look used. When I turned it the center pages, I could not believe what I had found. The book was cut out in the center and wrapped in the middle was a roll of cash in a rubber band. I quickly ran home and unwrapped the money. I counted it three times over to make sure I wasn’t losing my mind. Tightly rolled together, I had found five thousand dollars . I began to cry. I called the gallery and told them I was ready and able to be there for the exhibition. I cleaned up my painting and was ready to go. The next night I couldn’t be happier. There were hundreds of people at the gallery. Many people nodded and smiled at my work. We had to price our art, so I marked it with the price it had cost to get in. By the end of the night my painting had not sold, but I was not upset it was a good time. I started to pack up when an older man came up to me. He said he was a painter himself, and had been his whole life. He thought my painting was wonderful, but he just couldn’t stand for that price. I told him I would understand if even a hundred or less could do. I was just hear for the show. He said, no I meant that number should be thirty thousand or maybe even three hundred thousand at the looks of it. You have amazing talent. You should think about working for me, and continuing your art. I was holding back from crying. It was everything I could have imagined. That was the start of my career, and fortunes only grew from there.