The Work

These were the loops she got stuck in now. Trains of thought, grooves in her mind she’d slip into, arriving surprised at her destination having obliterated her gum.

then the man she left it for kept her dependent on an allowance from him, and even though his death could have made her rich again, she had rejected

Now she knew for sure. An established artist she admired profoundly had judged her his equal.

It was like a sort of wealth grenade. Money made money.

Life didn’t offer you constantly expanding opportunities. You were born with the potential to pivot any which way, and then one by one avenues were sealed off.

In artworks and in the industry, compromise was obvious to her.

Would a family of her own be an enrichment or a duty?

If Frick was the dick he sounded like, it made her furious to think of how his money shaped the market and perceptions of art in his own time. And still

All the so-called ‘estate sales’ that were eighty per cent second-hand furniture superstore trash.