The Art of Being Mistaken by Victoria Daniela
A ghostwriter is mistaken for a famous artist and gets a glimpse of a very different life.
The bus is delayed again, but no problem, right? You can just take a cab. You call for one but even they said it might be delayed. So, you sit on the curb with your luggage, a blue suitcase with pink flowers standing next to you, just waiting for a ride home.
Then a yellow cab approaches, a sweaty driver comes out, apologizes profusely, takes hold of your luggage and starts heaving it into the trunk. He yanks you off the curb, his other hand splayed across your back, leading you to the backseat of the cab, and apologizes more for the delay. You want to say, "Oh, it's alright! I wasn't waiting that long!" (you were waiting forever) but the words are stuck in your throat.
"Alright," the cab driver huffs as he gets inside. "Off we go!"
You smile your polite smile, your home address prepared in your mouth. But the cab begins to drive off. Shit, where is he going? You didn't tell him your address! You want to object (wait, where are we going?) and you suddenly think this man might be a stalker, and he somehow knows your address already, knows everything about you and your weaknesses. Oh god, he's kidnapping you, he's going to kill you, he's going to -
"So, Miss, are you excited about the event?" he asks.
"What are you talking about?" you want to say. But the words are stuck in your throat.
"Ah, so excited that it makes you speechless, huh?" he says, looking at you through the rearview mirror. "Yeah, it'd leave me speechless too. I mean, your art is a pretty big deal right now."
Your nails grip the cushion of the seat. You're not an artist, you're a ghostwriter (he picked up the wrong person). You send manuscripts to celebrities and their agents, write about their innocent childhood years, drug addiction days, the rise and fall to fame, then you stay in the shadows when the reviews come in. You can't draw or paint to save your life.
"I've gotta admit, I've seen your work, and honestly?" He frowns and shakes his head. "I don't get it. I mean, you've got stuff in a museum, so I guess that means something. But I think your work looks like - and forgive me - it kinda looks like crap."
The words are stuck in your throat.
"Now, I'm not trying to be rude, just giving my two cents. I mean, art is subjective, right? I'm allowed to have opinions." He sniffs and runs the back of his hand across his nose. "But maybe cut back on the color blue?"
You don't know what to say. You are not an artist, painter, or whatever this cab driver thinks you are. You realize there must be a mix-up - you just stole someone's cab.
You want to go home. But the words are stuck in your throat.
You arrive at a hotel. Someone who claims to be your manager looks you up and down and says, "My god, you've let yourself go."
You're not sure how long it's been since the last time you've supposedly met (you've never met this man in your life; he has the wrong person) but he shoves you through the doors, gets you checked in. He tells you the rundown; there'll be drinks and hors d'oeuvres, but you don't have to eat anything, and there'll be critics and collectors, wannabe artists and people who're going to see your work for the first time.
"Oh, but I'm not the person you think I am," you want to say. But it's impossible to get a word in with this guy's incessant chatting, smothering you like he's got a pillow over your face.
You sleep on a king-sized bed. Room service brings your breakfast (everything is vegan). You get dressed, planning to sneak out before someone realizes you are not an artist, but your manager breaks in and claims you're already late. He brings you to a photoshoot. The photographer flirts with you and says things like, "Smile like you're Time Top 100!"
You don't say a word to anyone. Instead, you smile and stare into each white flash of the camera.
The night approaches and your manager says you're running late again (isn't it your job to keep me on track?). He throws you in the car again and speeds down the road. You arrive at the art gallery, a tremendous building with lights glittering all around. Before you step out, the manager pulls you back to your seat.
"Almost forgot," he says, pointing a finger up to you. "Your mother might be here, she might not. So keep an eye out for that." Then he scoots by and leaves you alone in the car.
Inside, there's a painting on every wall, abstract and mostly blue. A lot of blue, to be honest. You're not a fan of abstract, but who are you to judge?
Someone hands you a drink and you're swept up into someone's conversation.
"Here she is, the star of the show!" someone claims. They run up to you (are these your friends?) and kiss both your cheeks. You stumble backwards until a hand catches you. A handsome face appears but doesn't look at you first.
"Hey, keep your hands where I can see them," he chuckles. Everyone laughs. Everyone drinks. The handsome face finally looks at you and flinches. Oh, god, he's obviously going to recognize that you're not his actual partner! It's all over now -
His hand loosens its grip from yours. "Did you get enough sleep?"
You bring a hand to your face, touching your eye bags with your fingertips.
He points them out. "Yeah, you look tired."
What happened to his voice? It was all playful and fun just a second ago.
While your friends drift away (who are these people?) your partner creeps closer to your side, a hand on your hip. His stare is intense, brow furrowed and solemn. You imagine he's about to give you an aggressive kiss until he speaks.
"Listen, I'm gonna get this over with," he says in a low voice, champagne glass in one hand. "I'm breaking up with you."
You blink. "I know, I know," he continues. "It's your big night and this isn't what you need right now but... I think it's for the best."
You can't think of anything to say.
He plants his pointer finger over your lips. "Shh... don't say anything. It'll only make it worse."
You simply stand in shock. Someone should tell the real artist about this.
He clicks his tongue and steps back. He's about to sneak off until he remembers you. "Oh, hey, I'm gonna go mingle."
The rest of the night is loud. Someone calls you a phony. Another asks for your autograph on a napkin. You don't even have to say anything. This is great! No one suspects a thing. Maybe you can adjust to this life. All you have to do is paint, show up to your own art shows, and stand around while everyone tries to gather what you're trying to say.
You pass by a random couple. They grab you by the shoulders and steer you towards a painting. "Oh we were just talking about this one! We think it's genius..."
The painting is the least abstract out of all of them. There's actually a face you can make out. The painting is a swirl of reds and blues, splatters and blots, a violent bruise. One eye is smaller than the other. The title card reads "Mother."
"Is she... here?" the woman asks. You simply shrug. It's the most honest you've been so far.
You stroll between the crowds, a drink in hand, soaking up the approval of strangers who don't even realize you're a phony. But nobody has to know. This life seems easy. Maybe painting can be the bridge for your words.
Wait, is that your mother? Well, not your mother but -
Oh shit, she's walking towards you. Her portrait is almost accurate. Her lips are pressed thin, one of her eyes is smaller than the other in a crooked fashion. There's a fiery anger behind them.
"Darling," she says with gritted teeth. "Every one of these paintings is horrendous."
You're not sure what to say to that.
She takes a sip from her champagne glass, eyes peering over the rim to stare at you. She puckers her lips and hands the drink back to a waiter. "And your taste in champagne is just as terrible."
You want to chime in with, "I don't think I get to choose the drinks."
But, of course, the words are stuck in your -
"Oh, are we still not on speaking terms?" she asks in a high-pitched voice. She waves her hand across the room. "I came to your ugly art show. What more do you want from me?"
You merely stare at her, mouth agape. It happens so fast, you barely register the backhanded slap.
"You were always so difficult," she hisses. She storms off, leaving you alone in the middle of the room.
The room is silent, all eyes staring at you for a moment of brief shock, until they turn their backs, returning to their small talk, drinking, and whispering. No one comes to your aid. They don't want to meddle in someone else's business. Even you wouldn't want to, if you had been a mere witness.
But no, you were the one who got slapped. Shame floods your face. You've never felt so alone.
Everyone seems to care more about the art than the artist.
But then again, you are not the artist.
You gulp down your champagne. Your heels click on the floor as you make for the exit. The night welcomes you as you settle down on the steps. Your cheek stings.
A woman runs up to the front of the gallery, out of breath, stopping just before you, rolling in with a suitcase - wait, that suitcase kind of looks like yours, the blue one with pink flowers all over it. When she leans back to breath, you flinch at the uncanny resemblance.
The artist realizes it too. Well, there's some slight differences. She's slimmer and has better posture. Her clothes are stylish. Her skin looks amazing. She knows how to accessorize (is she wearing real gold?).
She's holding a burning cigarette in her other hand. There's smoke in the air and you watch her breath fly away. Finally, the words become unstuck and you speak into the cool night air. "I think there's been a mix up."
from FICTION on the WEB short stories https://ift.tt/4m5CAHj
via IFTTT
 |
| Photo by Jasmine Pang, from Pexels |
Then a yellow cab approaches, a sweaty driver comes out, apologizes profusely, takes hold of your luggage and starts heaving it into the trunk. He yanks you off the curb, his other hand splayed across your back, leading you to the backseat of the cab, and apologizes more for the delay. You want to say, "Oh, it's alright! I wasn't waiting that long!" (you were waiting forever) but the words are stuck in your throat.
"Alright," the cab driver huffs as he gets inside. "Off we go!"
You smile your polite smile, your home address prepared in your mouth. But the cab begins to drive off. Shit, where is he going? You didn't tell him your address! You want to object (wait, where are we going?) and you suddenly think this man might be a stalker, and he somehow knows your address already, knows everything about you and your weaknesses. Oh god, he's kidnapping you, he's going to kill you, he's going to -
"So, Miss, are you excited about the event?" he asks.
"What are you talking about?" you want to say. But the words are stuck in your throat.
"Ah, so excited that it makes you speechless, huh?" he says, looking at you through the rearview mirror. "Yeah, it'd leave me speechless too. I mean, your art is a pretty big deal right now."
Your nails grip the cushion of the seat. You're not an artist, you're a ghostwriter (he picked up the wrong person). You send manuscripts to celebrities and their agents, write about their innocent childhood years, drug addiction days, the rise and fall to fame, then you stay in the shadows when the reviews come in. You can't draw or paint to save your life.
"I've gotta admit, I've seen your work, and honestly?" He frowns and shakes his head. "I don't get it. I mean, you've got stuff in a museum, so I guess that means something. But I think your work looks like - and forgive me - it kinda looks like crap."
The words are stuck in your throat.
"Now, I'm not trying to be rude, just giving my two cents. I mean, art is subjective, right? I'm allowed to have opinions." He sniffs and runs the back of his hand across his nose. "But maybe cut back on the color blue?"
You don't know what to say. You are not an artist, painter, or whatever this cab driver thinks you are. You realize there must be a mix-up - you just stole someone's cab.
You want to go home. But the words are stuck in your throat.
You arrive at a hotel. Someone who claims to be your manager looks you up and down and says, "My god, you've let yourself go."
You're not sure how long it's been since the last time you've supposedly met (you've never met this man in your life; he has the wrong person) but he shoves you through the doors, gets you checked in. He tells you the rundown; there'll be drinks and hors d'oeuvres, but you don't have to eat anything, and there'll be critics and collectors, wannabe artists and people who're going to see your work for the first time.
"Oh, but I'm not the person you think I am," you want to say. But it's impossible to get a word in with this guy's incessant chatting, smothering you like he's got a pillow over your face.
You sleep on a king-sized bed. Room service brings your breakfast (everything is vegan). You get dressed, planning to sneak out before someone realizes you are not an artist, but your manager breaks in and claims you're already late. He brings you to a photoshoot. The photographer flirts with you and says things like, "Smile like you're Time Top 100!"
You don't say a word to anyone. Instead, you smile and stare into each white flash of the camera.
The night approaches and your manager says you're running late again (isn't it your job to keep me on track?). He throws you in the car again and speeds down the road. You arrive at the art gallery, a tremendous building with lights glittering all around. Before you step out, the manager pulls you back to your seat.
"Almost forgot," he says, pointing a finger up to you. "Your mother might be here, she might not. So keep an eye out for that." Then he scoots by and leaves you alone in the car.
Inside, there's a painting on every wall, abstract and mostly blue. A lot of blue, to be honest. You're not a fan of abstract, but who are you to judge?
Someone hands you a drink and you're swept up into someone's conversation.
"Here she is, the star of the show!" someone claims. They run up to you (are these your friends?) and kiss both your cheeks. You stumble backwards until a hand catches you. A handsome face appears but doesn't look at you first.
"Hey, keep your hands where I can see them," he chuckles. Everyone laughs. Everyone drinks. The handsome face finally looks at you and flinches. Oh, god, he's obviously going to recognize that you're not his actual partner! It's all over now -
His hand loosens its grip from yours. "Did you get enough sleep?"
You bring a hand to your face, touching your eye bags with your fingertips.
He points them out. "Yeah, you look tired."
What happened to his voice? It was all playful and fun just a second ago.
While your friends drift away (who are these people?) your partner creeps closer to your side, a hand on your hip. His stare is intense, brow furrowed and solemn. You imagine he's about to give you an aggressive kiss until he speaks.
"Listen, I'm gonna get this over with," he says in a low voice, champagne glass in one hand. "I'm breaking up with you."
You blink. "I know, I know," he continues. "It's your big night and this isn't what you need right now but... I think it's for the best."
You can't think of anything to say.
He plants his pointer finger over your lips. "Shh... don't say anything. It'll only make it worse."
You simply stand in shock. Someone should tell the real artist about this.
He clicks his tongue and steps back. He's about to sneak off until he remembers you. "Oh, hey, I'm gonna go mingle."
The rest of the night is loud. Someone calls you a phony. Another asks for your autograph on a napkin. You don't even have to say anything. This is great! No one suspects a thing. Maybe you can adjust to this life. All you have to do is paint, show up to your own art shows, and stand around while everyone tries to gather what you're trying to say.
You pass by a random couple. They grab you by the shoulders and steer you towards a painting. "Oh we were just talking about this one! We think it's genius..."
The painting is the least abstract out of all of them. There's actually a face you can make out. The painting is a swirl of reds and blues, splatters and blots, a violent bruise. One eye is smaller than the other. The title card reads "Mother."
"Is she... here?" the woman asks. You simply shrug. It's the most honest you've been so far.
You stroll between the crowds, a drink in hand, soaking up the approval of strangers who don't even realize you're a phony. But nobody has to know. This life seems easy. Maybe painting can be the bridge for your words.
Wait, is that your mother? Well, not your mother but -
Oh shit, she's walking towards you. Her portrait is almost accurate. Her lips are pressed thin, one of her eyes is smaller than the other in a crooked fashion. There's a fiery anger behind them.
"Darling," she says with gritted teeth. "Every one of these paintings is horrendous."
You're not sure what to say to that.
She takes a sip from her champagne glass, eyes peering over the rim to stare at you. She puckers her lips and hands the drink back to a waiter. "And your taste in champagne is just as terrible."
You want to chime in with, "I don't think I get to choose the drinks."
But, of course, the words are stuck in your -
"Oh, are we still not on speaking terms?" she asks in a high-pitched voice. She waves her hand across the room. "I came to your ugly art show. What more do you want from me?"
You merely stare at her, mouth agape. It happens so fast, you barely register the backhanded slap.
"You were always so difficult," she hisses. She storms off, leaving you alone in the middle of the room.
The room is silent, all eyes staring at you for a moment of brief shock, until they turn their backs, returning to their small talk, drinking, and whispering. No one comes to your aid. They don't want to meddle in someone else's business. Even you wouldn't want to, if you had been a mere witness.
But no, you were the one who got slapped. Shame floods your face. You've never felt so alone.
Everyone seems to care more about the art than the artist.
But then again, you are not the artist.
You gulp down your champagne. Your heels click on the floor as you make for the exit. The night welcomes you as you settle down on the steps. Your cheek stings.
A woman runs up to the front of the gallery, out of breath, stopping just before you, rolling in with a suitcase - wait, that suitcase kind of looks like yours, the blue one with pink flowers all over it. When she leans back to breath, you flinch at the uncanny resemblance.
The artist realizes it too. Well, there's some slight differences. She's slimmer and has better posture. Her clothes are stylish. Her skin looks amazing. She knows how to accessorize (is she wearing real gold?).
She's holding a burning cigarette in her other hand. There's smoke in the air and you watch her breath fly away. Finally, the words become unstuck and you speak into the cool night air. "I think there's been a mix up."
from FICTION on the WEB short stories https://ift.tt/4m5CAHj
via IFTTT
Comments
Post a Comment