Milagros Maldonado: The Artist

“Don’t forget to stop and pay the electricity bill by five today, unless you want to come home to a dark house,” said Maria Maldonado. She handed her daughter an envelope filled with cash for the utility bill, then gave her daughter a hug before she left for work. Milagros Maldonado nodded her head and sighed deeply. She hated that money was so tight, but that’s how life was. She looked up at the clock, then realized? that she had two hours before her meeting with a man who was interested in her art. She hoped it would be a good meeting, because her family needed the cash.

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Milagros left her house at ten thirty in the morning. She got into her 2014 black Toyota Camry, happy that she’d filled up earlier in the week. She was nervous about her meeting and took some deep breaths to calm herself. She was meeting an art collector named Terry George. She already didn’t like him because she never trusted people who had a last name that could be a first name; she also feared that she’d flub up the names. She continued with her breathing exercises to put herself at ease.

It took her forty-five minutes to get to Simba’s Bar and Grill, which was on the outskirts of town. Milagros couldn’t believe there was a bar this far outside of town, but there were already four other cars parked beside hers, so what did she know?

She gathered her purse and her art portfolio from the back seat, then locked her car door. She again took deep breaths to calm herself, as her heart was racing. She slowly walked to the entrance of the bar and opened the heavy wooden door. She stepped into the bar and froze after taking two steps inside. She waited for her eyes to adjust to the dark setting of the bar, and after about twenty seconds, with her sight back at full strength, she walked up to the bar and placed her purse onto the bar counter. Her art portfolio was on the chair next to her. The bartender greeted her, took her order, then set a coaster on the bar before preparing her drink. “Here you go, a Cadillac margarita on ice, with salt on the side, and a lime wedge.”

“Thank you.” She gave him a credit card and told him to open a tab. Who knew how long she’d be here? Milagros stirred the ice around with the red straw before taking a drink. The margarita was superb, and she gave the bartender a smile. She looked at her watch. She was twenty minutes early, so she got up and went to the restroom to freshen up.

She walked into the women’s bathroom and turned on the hot water in the sink. After it warmed up, she scooped water into her hands and washed her face. It felt refreshing and her nervousness diminished. She looked into the mirror and gave herself a quick smile. She looked at the clothes she was wearing. She wore blue jeans,  a white blouse and a Levi’s jacket. She looked at her reflection and lightly slapped her cheeks. “Okay, girl, you got this,” she said out loud followed by, “Let’s get this.” She opened the door and went back to her seat at the bar.

About twenty minutes later, a man in a red houndstooth sports coat, a white dress shirt and a black tie, carrying a beat-up brown leather briefcase came through the door. Milagros remembered him saying something about a beat-up briefcase and she smiled and waved at him. “Ms. Maldonado, it’s nice to meet you,” he said. He offered up his hand.

“Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. George,” replied Milagros, as she shook his hand. She grinded her teeth, hoping she hadn’t flubbed his name. His smile said she hadn’t. Now she had one less thing to worry about. They moved from the bar to a table that provided a view of the small hills on the outskirts of town.

They ordered drinks and made small talk. George told her nothing would happen until he had finished his first drink, which was a Jack Daniel’s with Coke. The bartender served them their drinks, the second one for Milagros. They talked about the weather while George enjoyed his drink. He played with his straw, then chewed some of the ice that was in his glass. Milagros looked at him then asked if he wanted another drink. George nodded his head, and Milagros called the bartender over. “One more JD and Coke please, and also a water with a lemon wedge.”

When George’s second drink was served, he was a changed man and all business. “May I see your portfolio please,” he asked with a smile. Milagros returned the smile and handed her art to the man she hoped would be interested in it. He looked at each painting, nodded his head, and quietly said, “Uh-huh,” as he moved from one painting to the other. “Yes, Ms. Maldonado, these paintings are well done, very good.” He reached for his drink and then chewed on another ice cube.

“Thank you, Mr. George, I’m glad you liked them.” She smiled at him. She felt like she was floating on air.

“But isn’t there more?” he asked, with a furrowed forehead. He looked through her portfolio again to see if he had missed any of her works.

“Ah, the ones that you want to see are getting prepped for my art exhibit next month,” said Milagros proudly.

“Oh, that’s too bad. I was looking forward to seeing them.” His smile disappeared.

Milagros sat back. She bit her upper lip not knowing how to reply. She wracked her brain trying to come up with a solution. All she could do was covertly run the palms of her hands on her lap over and over, hoping the man would not notice her stress.

“Look, I was expecting to see all of your works.” He opened his beat-up briefcase and unlatched a compartment. He showed her a $10,000 check in her name. He sighed and shook his head. Milagros’ eyes were as big as saucers when she saw the check. He took some papers out of his briefcase and placed them on the table nervously, then picked them up and started to straighten them, as if he were a news anchor getting ready to broadcast. Milagros still didn’t know what to say. When George was finished with his drink, he cleared his throat and said, “Look, I’m in town until tomorrow evening, if you can finagle a way to get those works to me, well, you know what you’ll get.” He tapped his briefcase for emphasis. He took out his business card and gave it to Milagros. “I hope to hear from you soon. Thank you for your time, Ms. Maldonado.” He shook her hand then left the bar.

Milagros watched him leave the bar from her window seat as he got into a black SUV with tinted windows. She looked at what was left of her drink, then stirred the plastic straw around the glass, before consuming the rest of her drink, ice and all. She sat there stunned, as her mind went back to the image of the $10,000 check in her name. That would help her and her mother out and would make things better. But how could she get the check? She began to formulate a game plan.

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After she got home from her meeting, she called her mentor at the university, who had been involved in getting her artwork exhibited on campus. After giving her play by play of her meeting with Terry George, she asked her what she should do. “Milagros, you’re an artist, right?” asked her mentor.

“Of course, I am.” She felt her face turn into a scowl, because she didn’t like to have her artistic talents challenged. “But I’m hell-bent on showing my artwork to the public. I want my goddamn show.” Milagros was emphatic. “I’ve worked hard for this, and I deserve it.

“Milagros, have you forgotten why you became an artist? What’s the bottom line for any creator?”

Milagros thought for a moment before answering. “Well, to be able to make money from doing something that you love,” Milagros answered.

“Hello? Hello? Did you just hear yourself? That collector wants to buy your paintings, why are you being so stubborn?”

Milagros sighed deeply, then went silent for a moment before she uttered, “Well, let me think about it.”

After getting off the phone, Milagros contemplated what her mentor had told her. She didn’t like it. She felt that she was getting cheated out of showing her work to the public. Truth be told, this would be her first exhibit to be shown, and she was excited to show her work at the university. It made her feel like a real artist. After all, how else was she going to be known? She felt an artist needed to show their work, and by word of mouth, little by little, she hoped to become a well-known artist in the community.

Milagros received a text from her mother, asking if she had paid the light bill, which brought her back to the present. “Oh shit,” she said out loud. She grabbed her car keys and made sure she brought the envelope with the money in it and went to pay the utility bill. Driving there made her think how much she and her mother could use that ten-thousand-dollar check. Milagros got a headache from thinking about forgoing her show and just taking the money. But it saddened her to think about that because she had prepped for the show for the last two months. In fact, she had already bought her outfit for her showing but now all of it could disappear. She paid the four-hundred-dollar utility bill with the twenties her mother had given her. She counted the money on the counter. Each time a twenty hit the counter, it made her feel less and less sure about having an art show. Milagros left the utility company in a depressed state. She’d woken up this morning excited about her possible sale to an art collector but now everything was in doubt.

When Milagros’s mother got home, she filled her in on everything that had transpired. “Mija, he showed you the check?”

“Yes, but he also wants to see the art that’s going to be displayed at the university. No paintings from there, means no money.” Milagros held her mother’s hands in her own. Her mother gave her a hug for support.

“Well, mija, you’re an adult. It’s your decision to make. I know how much you’ve been looking forward to your showing.”

Milagros nodded her head and frowned. “Amá, I knew you were going to say that. Help me to decide.”

“No, mija, this is your decision, and yours alone.”

###

For the rest of the night, Milagros thought about what to do. Part of her wanted to have her show and make her debut at the university, hoping to make a name for herself. She was confident in her abilities, and she wanted to show that off to her community. The other part of her was more logical and understood how much that check from George could help their household. Milagros asked God for guidance and then finally fell asleep.

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The next day Milagros awoke feeling reinvigorated, and happy that people wanted to buy her art. She smiled thinking of herself as an artist. She walked towards the back room of the house that she used as her art studio. She looked at the blank canvases that were on easels, then at her works in progress. She smiled, because, yes, she was an artist. She mixed her paints and dabbed them on the palette, and for the next six hours, she created a Southwestern landscape that she knew was good. An artist instinctively knows when they have a good painting and when they have shitty ones. This was one of the good ones. Looking at her work, she smiled, nodded her head and pumped her fist into the air, because she knew she was an artist. Then she got an idea.

She called her art connection at the university and told them of her predicament. After explaining everything, she asked for help removing her art before the showing. She hoped that she wasn’t burning any bridges at the university, but after last night’s sleep and her kick-ass painting session this morning, she finally realized that having an art showing was one thing, but the selling of art was the whole point of being an artist. Besides, having a showing didn’t guarantee sales. It was more for her to put her name out there. But the fact that a man came in with a check for her, even before he’d seen her paintings, gave her the confidence that she did have the talent to sell her works.

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In the end, Milagros reimbursed the university for the work they’d already put in for her show, lest she lose valuable connections in the art world. Of her $10,000 check, she got to keep nine-thousand and fifty-eight dollars. But more importantly, she was still in good standing with the university and the local art community.

The offer by Terry George motivated Milagros to put in more hours of painting per day, and after about six weeks, she had enough paintings for another show. Her art sale was picked up by the local media, which in turn led to her being interviewed and put on the cover of Artists Today magazine. Now, everything was going her way. She no longer suffered from imposter syndrome, thanks to her first sale. It wasn’t just one or two paintings, but twelve works in all.  Milagros now understood that she was an artist, and a good one, too. She smiled as she thought of the events that had recently transpired. She’d always remember the day when she officially found out that she was a talented and professional artist; it would forever be etched into her soul.