Paint and Perfume43Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0rqnBDpbL4
I adjust my scarf in the cracked mirror of my small studio apartment, tugging at the loose ends until they hang unevenly over my patchwork coat. My reflection smiles back at me - crooked, a little rebellious, and completely unapologetic. It's an image I've come to embrace. I don't mind that things aren't perfect. In fact, I thrive on it.
The apartment is as unconventional as I am. The walls are lined with my artwork—some finished, others still in progress. Vibrant splashes of color stretch across every surface, from the paint-splattered floor to the mismatched curtains that barely keep the chill of the city outside. The scent of jasmine incense lingers in the air, mixing with the faint traces of paint and the half-empty cup of coffee that has long since gone cold.
"Lena, we have to leave soon," Mia calls from the couch, scrolling through her phone, her tone already edged with impatience at my last-minute preparations.
"I know, I know," I say, stepping carefully over a pile of old sketchbooks as I rummage through my jewellery box. "But this necklace - it's going to tie everything together."
Mia arches an eyebrow, leaning back with a look of playful disbelief. "Pretty sure they won't care what necklace you're wearing. It's black tie, not a gallery show."
"They're going to care about everything," I retort, holding up a chunky, metallic necklace I designed myself. The jagged shapes glint under the dim light. "Art is in the details."
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the faint tug of a smile at the corner of her lips. "Speaking of art... guess who's going to be at the gala tonight?"
"Someone who actually appreciates it?" I ask hopefully, still fiddling with the necklace clasp.
"Nope," Mia says, grinning mischievously. "Alexander Grant."
I freeze for a moment, my breath catching in my throat before I let out an exasperated groan. "Of course he is. The walking embodiment of late-stage capitalism. What's he going to do, buy a painting just to melt it down for the gold in the frame?"
Mia laughs, light and carefree. "Don't forget, your work is one of the highlights of tonight's auction. He might actually buy one of your pieces."
I twist my lips into a wry smile. "Yeah, so he can hang it in his office to impress his soulless investor friends." My voice is sharp, though I don't even know if I mean it. "I just want to make enough to pay my rent and eat. Anything else is extra. If he buys something, well, that's fine. But I'm not doing this for him or anyone else like him."
Mia raises her hands in mock surrender. "That's the spirit. Just... maybe don't say that to his face?"
I spin toward the mirror one last time, adjusting my outfit. My patchwork coat swirls around me like a kaleidoscope, the chaotic colors clashing against the deep purple of my dress. I grab my favorite combat boots and slip them on with practiced ease.
Mia makes a noise of disbelief. "Combat boots? At a black-tie gala? You are impossible."
I grin, stamping my foot lightly for emphasis. "Combat boots. They've been with me through every mural, every protest, and every exhibition. If they can handle that, they can handle anything."
She shakes her head, but there's admiration in her eyes. "You really are something, Lena."
I've never been interested in the usual markers of success - money, fame, climbing the corporate ladder. I just want to make a difference in the world. Whether it's through humanitarian work or the art I create, I want to help people, challenge the status quo, and leave something behind that matters.
For the past few years, I've been working with charities on farming and education projects. I don't need a mansion or a designer wardrobe - I just need enough to get by, to eat, to pay rent, and to keep doing my work. To me, true success is about purpose, not possessions. But this gala and auction could help me reach even more people. Everything else is secondary.
Now, standing in my apartment, I adjust the necklace around my neck one last time, the jagged edges catching the dim light in a way that almost feels defiant. I run a hand over my patchwork coat and let out a breath. My eyes drift over the mismatched furniture, the scattered canvases, the chaos of unfinished projects. It's not much, but it's mine. And it's honest.
I'm a bit nervous about tonight, being surrounded people who live in a world that's so removed from the realities I've seen. But still, it feels different. For all my disdain for the system, for the pretentiousness of it all, I can't deny the small thrill of knowing my work will be displayed. It's not about the money. Not at all. But the recognition - that's something else entirely. Maybe if my work sells, I can start more projects, help more people, make a bigger impact.
I think about the murals I painted in Colombia, the kids and sense of community. The people who saw them, who understood them. That's what matters. But as much as I hate to admit it, part of me wants tonight's crowd to understand too.
My reflection in the cracked mirror stares back at me - wild, unapologetic, determined. I grab a bottle of my favourite perfume and spritz it over myself and then grab my bag and shout to Mia.
"Let's go!"
She squeals in excitement and jumps up from the couch. Together we head for the door before I pause to take in the space around me. This apartment, cluttered with unfinished projects and half-formed ideas, is mine. It's chaotic and imperfect and I love it entirely. No gala, no wealthy investor, can ever change that.43Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7EO5TLJqB1
And yet, I can't shake the feeling that tonight is a turning point.43Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0J4oecMuZT
