Chapter 7
As winter settled over the coastal town,
bringing cold rain and dramatic,
gray skies,
my career took another massive,
unexpected leap forward.
Elias,
the curator I had met at my second exhibition,
called me on a Friday afternoon with news that made me drop my coffee mug.
He had shown my portfolio to the director of a prestigious gallery in New York,
a massive,
multi-level space in the heart of Chelsea,
and they wanted to feature my work in their upcoming spring showcase.
It was the kind of opportunity that most photographers spend decades chasing,
a chance to step onto the national stage,
and be reviewed by the most influential critics in the industry.
My hands shook as I held the phone to my ear,
listening to Elias outline the details of the potential contract,
which included a significant advance and a generous travel budget.
I thanked him profusely,
hung up the phone,
and immediately walked over to the cafe to tell Aunt Ruth the news.
She screamed with delight,
nearly dropping a tray of freshly baked muffins,
and pulled me into a tight,
flour-covered hug in front of all her customers.
But later that night,
sitting alone in my loft with a glass of wine,
a quiet,
insidious doubt began to creep into the back of my mind.
New York was a massive,
overwhelming machine,
and accepting this offer meant stepping completely out of my safe,
controlled sanctuary in Carmel.
It also meant that I would be physically closer to Boston,
closer to the family I had successfully escaped,
and closer to the ghosts of my past.
I spent the entire weekend pacing across my hardwood floors,
weighing the incredible professional benefits against my own lingering anxieties,
and wondering if I was truly ready to be that visible.
On Sunday evening,
I looked at the photograph of the elderly woman at the bus stop,
the image that had started this entire,
beautiful journey,
and I realized that shrinking away from success was just another way of hiding.
I had not rebuilt my life just to stay comfortable,
I had rebuilt it to see how far I could actually go.
I called Elias on Monday morning,
my voice steady and completely devoid of hesitation,
and told him to draft the necessary paperwork.
I was going to New York,
I was going to display my art on the biggest stage possible,
and I was not going to let any residual fear dictate my future.
I spent the next three months preparing relentlessly,
shooting new material along the coast,
and selecting the absolute best pieces to represent my vision.
I was no longer just Wendy who helps out,
I was Wendy Dixon,
May you like
an artist about to take Manhattan,
and I was finally ready for the spotlight.
