What It’s Worth: A short story

Hi friends, it’s been a while since I’ve written here, and I’m thrilled to reintroduce myself and this space!

Over the past year, I’ve started pursuing my Master of Social Work (MSW). I just started classes in January, but it’s already given me new perspectives on people, systems, and the stories we tell about them.

As such, this space will now be a mix of my passions: thoughtful takes on culture, occasional think pieces, and, when inspiration strikes, creative writing.

Interested in any of my artwork? Take a look at it here and let me know in the comments. ​​👇👇 I’d love to share that passion with you all too.

To kick things off, I’m sharing a short story I’ve been working on, What It’s Worth. It’s a psychological exploration of art, identity, and the lengths we go to feel like we matter. I hope it resonates with you in some way.

I’m really hoping to hear all of your thoughts. And if you’re here for cultural commentary, stay tuned. 🌸

xxx

Act I: $0

I always chased creating something that could actually matter. Something beyond my identity as a frazzled near-middle-aged woman needing an outlet for my cosmos of emotions. This afternoon, I finally leveled myself in a state of flow.

Pinks bled into yellows, swirling like marmalade on toast. Oranges pulsed so vividly, you could almost taste their juice. Paint strokes poured out of me like instinct under the afternoon sun slanting over the Chicago skyline. My vanity mirror cast long, anamorphic shadows around the room.

Sure, my brushes and my apartment shared the same frayed edges. An entropy I pretended was deliberate. But today, my groove was rhythmic. My mood journal, a therapist-prescribed habit, marked the day as a 6.7, which was apparently the perfect pairing for such an upbeat piece.

Stepping back, I squinted at the canvas. A self-portrait, technically. My features were half-formed yet fully recognizable. Pride bubbled up only to be bulldozed by disappointment. Well, at least it’s accurate. I shrugged.

My sister Alice was bringing over another fancy finance Mark or James or John. I lit some Anthropologie candles, made a valiant attempt at chicken pot pie, and welcomed them in. Introductions were exchanged — tight smiles, laborious hugs.

“I’m Imogen,” I said, offering a sheepish handshake.

Alice’s latest acquisition wore a stiff expression as I took him on the obligatory tour of my offbeat, loft-dwelling life. My sister’s favorite family feature.

“What’s that?” Fancy finance guy asked, gesturing toward my easel, draped in a faded bedsheet.

“You’re painting again?” Alice’s excitement brimmed as she spun crimson wine in her glass.

“Yeah. But nothing great,” I brushed off. “How about we eat?”

“Oh, c’mon! Let us see it!” Alice insisted with a feigned enthusiasm. “I’ve already told him how remarkable your art is. Did you know this little genius sold her first painting at 11 years old?” She smirked like a cat with a canary.

“To Mom’s friend,” I corrected. Still, her insistence cut through my reluctance. “All right, all right, I’ll show you. Promise me no judgments, okay?”

I shuffled to my “creative corner” by the big window, gripping the sheet like a magician about to botch a trick. “Ta-da!” My heart thrashed like a trapped moth. Vulnerability is the currency of art, isn’t it?

Silence enveloped the room.

Alice’s eyes went wide, and then both of them smiled. Not polite grins — full smiles that warped their faces into strange, fixed shapes. A gust slapped the window behind me, rattling the glass.

“Woah, I feel…” Finance guy faltered before Alice cut in.

“It’s JOY!” she exclaimed, her hands pledging over her chest.

“Joy?” I repeated.

“I haven’t felt…” Alice hesitated. “I haven’t had such happiness in years.”

Finance guy’s dimples carved into his cheeks in a giddy state. “This is ART,” he declared with reverence.

I wanted to believe them, but the painting stared back at me, daring me to try to feel the joy too. “Are you guys messing with me? I mean, I know this area could be cleaner, and maybe it’s not the most original piece — ”

They weren’t listening. Standing like statues, transfixed, their eyes nearly glazed over with satisfaction. Had I really brought joy? Could I keep bringing it? Or had my art become so boring it was pleasant?

“I particularly love that nod to the little boy playing ball with his father. Man, how sweet,” Finance guy said. His laughter bordered on delirious as he pointed to strands of my hair in the portrait.

“Oh, that’s not — ” I started.

“No, no,” Alice shook her head. “That’s ridiculous. Look here, the right corner! Oh my god, the callback to Ms. Levinston!”

Finance guy furrowed his brow. “That’s…where I was pointing?”

“Sure, babe,” Alice replied, dismissively patting his arm.

My eyes flicked to the corked wine bottle on the counter. Spiked? No, impossible.

The dinner that followed was a blur. My circular table became a stage for forced conversation as Alice and finance guy kept stealing glimpses of the painting. Their expressions were oddly…hungry.

“I actually know someone big in the art world,” Finance guy announced, popping off his IPA cap with a practiced air. “Freddie Park. Brilliant dude. I could set up a meeting.”

My cheeks burned. Compliments are supposed to feel good, aren’t they?

“That’s so kind of you. Thank you,” I managed.

Alice rolled her eyes. “I’m sure Gen already has a prominent place in some hip gallery. Freddie’s a big deal, but isn’t he a little…too commercial for you?”

“Of course I’ve heard of Freddie Park,” I retorted. My mind raced through the potential meeting. Would he reject me outright? Or worse, lowball me into irrelevance?

“Good. I’m texting him right now.” Finance guy’s phone glowed as he typed furiously. “You could really be someone, just mark my words.” The pride of his own connections oozed out of each word.

Someone. The word stuck like a frog in my throat.

Act II: $10K

It wasn’t my first time at the Freddie Park Gallery. I’d haunted its pristine halls many times in my hopeful 20s, seeking a supernatural spark to ignite my own flame. Today would be different though. Today, I stepped through the doors as a real somebody. A real artist. Or at least, potentially so.

The gallery reeked of River North pretension. Sterile walls, dark wooden benches too rigid for sitting, and bannisters soaring high enough to remind you exactly where you belonged: beneath their ambitions. The smell of varnish mingled with expensive cologne formed a near-nauseating perfume. Even the lighting was curated, as if each ray passed an audition to exist in Freddie’s carefully constructed world.

A polished woman at the front desk, who introduced herself as Erin, led me through a maze of bold art pieces. Colors screamed, patterns demanded attention. “LOOK at ME,” they muttered with urgency. Nothing like what I had to offer.

We stopped at a heavy door. Erin knocked as a muffled phone conversation faded.

“Yes, Erin? Is she here?” Freddie’s speech exuded a confidence honed to precision.

Oh boy. Showtime. My head floated as Erin led me in. Freddie’s office was a statement. Massive floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the room in natural light. Custom-built shelving held books and culturally-relevant artifacts.

“You must be Imogen.” He stood from his desk, one hand slicked back black locks while the other extended a firm handshake.

“Yup, that’s me,” I glanced around, desperate for something to anchor me. “Wow, what a space you have.”

“It does the job,” Freddie replied, gesturing toward a sleek leather chair.

Erin reappeared with two cappuccinos. I wished mine was spiked with Valium. But Freddie made conversation flow effortlessly — his past shows, the Artforum exposé, my “artistic process.” Whatever the hell that means.

After 20 minutes, he grew visibly restless. Freddie’s eyes darted toward the box by my feet, lips tightening. “Well,” he said, lilting with anticipation, “I heard you have something truly remarkable in there. Let’s take a look, shall we?”

My heartbeat drummed as I bent to unwrap the painting. It’s only a painting, I reminded myself. Taking a deep breath, I turned the canvas toward him.

Freddie simply examined it. Then, he laughed in disbelief. Was it joy or secondhand embarrassment?

Soon, another face emerged. It was the same glazed look that Alice and finance guy had. Freddie’s laughter rose in waves. Not cruel, but strange. Delighted? Hypnotized? Just to be safe, I reached for the canvas, preparing to pack up.

“What are you doing, Imogen?” Freddie halted me mid-motion.

“Clearly, I must have wasted your time,” I stammered, flush creeping up my chest and neck.

“Magnificent,” Freddie declared. He glaring at the piece with awe. “This isn’t just art, Imogen. It’s salvation. Do you know what collectors crave right now? Not beauty. Beauty’s safe, forgettable. They want chaos! Something to tear them apart, then put them back together again. And you…” He gestured toward the painting with a slight tremble. “You’re going to give it to them.”

I was frozen gripping the frame. “You…like it?”

“Like it? I’m utterly infatuated. Please, let me see it again.”

Tentatively, I angled it his way. He devoured the piece with the zest of a gambling addict at a slot machine. This is…good? Did I really impress THE Freddie Park?

Freddie sat back at last with perilous satisfaction. “Imogen, you have IT. I can promise you my crowd will fight tooth and nail to buy this.” His words held a crushing mass. “So, “let’s list the starting price at, what do you say, ten thousand?”

I choked on my bitter cappuccino, coughing until tears blurred my vision. “You can’t be serious. I’ve never sold anything for more than a thousand. Maybe.”

His steadiness was eerie. “I suppose there’s a first time for everything.”

Act III: $50K

I sat on my quilted bed, glass stem in one hand and a snow globe in the other. Alice had gifted it to me years ago. Shaking it and watching the minuscule flakes glide around the orb was my private ritual. Buildings get dusted in blankets of snow? Just give it a whirl. You can watch the storm all over again.

The last few days had tested me. At Freddie’s expert counsel, I was trying to recapture lightning in a bottle. Alas, each endeavor fell flat. My groove had surrendered to an internal war on self-critique.

“Don’t worry, Imogen, all of my artists go through this. Hell, if anything, this should just remind you that you have IT!” Freddie reassured me on every call. But “IT” was a phantom. Something I’d never truly understand, let alone harness.

Tonight, however, was about celebration. I grazed the thick gold embroidery near the collarbone of my Miu Miu dress. Creative and classy? At least my outfit is!

Belly full of wine, I made my gallery entrance. The crowd was a sea of dark tailored clothing with flowing accent pieces, clinging with purpose in all the right places.

Freddie emerged like an actor hitting his mark. “Imogen, my bright star!” He pulled me into a loose embrace. His hands brushed my shoulders as if positioning me for a portrait.

Alice swept in moments later, her cream blouse cinched tight at the waist with a corset. Her usual flair turned up to eleven, she leaned in with a knowing smile. “Baby sis! Look at this turnout!” Her voice dropped conspiratorially. “Don’t worry, Gen. Even if they hate it, they’re still eating out of your hand tonight.”

Before I could respond, the lights overhead dimmed, and a hush fell over the crowd. Freddie stepped onto a small platform, holding a glass of champagne aloft.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us this evening. Tonight, we have the privilege of unveiling a piece that I believe will remind us why art matters. Please, join me in welcoming the brilliant, the visionary…Imogen Hart!”

Polite applause rippled through the room. I smiled stiffly, the apples of my cheeks aching. Visionary? Bold words for someone who had to refund an Etsy sale last month.

Erin clicked a button in the corner of the room. Slowly, the curtain fell away, exposing my painting under a strong bulb.

The yellows glowed, practically dancing off the canvas. For a moment, I let myself believe. Maybe it was good. Really good. The painting seemed to throb all on its own, each brushstroke a separate vein.

Scanning the room, I noticed teeth. Teeth everywhere, stretched in feral grins. Eyes bulged and glinted. Laughter erupted — loud, unstoppable.

One platinum-haired woman stumbled, clutching her date for support. The date shouted with vigor, near-frantic, “What is this?! I haven’t felt THIS in years!”

Another couple, nearing seventy, clung to each other. He gushed, “Bunny, it’s me and Bobby at our old place on Elm!.” Bunny pressed her hands to her chest. “My first time with clay… It’s like it’s here. In me.” She hugged herself tightly, gently rocking back and forth like a child.

Freddie’s voice rose above the rest. “I told you all!” he bellowed. “SHE. IS. A. VISIONARY!” Applause exploded like aftershocks. My hands clenched into fists. The crowd’s ravenous joy morphed into the pressure of an insatiable demand.

“Gen, this is even more incredible the second time!” Alice raved, gripping my palm. “To be fully honest with you, I couldn’t see it before,” she continued. “All those art classes, those rough drafts you showed me. Now it all makes sense. It’s all worth it!”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Freddie gesture to Erin. She nodded, and the sheer sheet descended over the painting. Instantly, the room shifted. Noise halted. The crowd stilled as if someone had pulled the plug on an electrical current. Then, slowly, they returned to mingling.

Freddie moved effortlessly through the crowd, switching from ringleader to salesman. “Yes, of course, I’ll have the auction details sent over tomorrow. Let’s discuss the starting bid…”

“Freddie,” I called through the hordes of people.

He turned, demeanor alight. “Imogen! Look at this. Wouldn’t you say your piece elicited something rare and truly meaningful?”

I blinked back in return.

He lowered his voice. “I wanted to check in, though. This kind of attention can be, well, overwhelming. Frightening even. You know what they say: art is never finished, only abandoned.”

My insides twisted. “What are you getting at?”

Freddie’s shiny demeanor never faltered. “The audience can’t get enough of you. They’re already starving for more.” He gestured to the chattering hoard. “Look at them,” he murmured.. “That’s what true art is supposed to do. It’s destruction and resurrection. If it doesn’t make people feel like they’re alive for the first time — or like they might die trying — it isn’t worth their time.”

It was tempting to bask in his praise. Indulge in his macabre philosophy. Let it feed the part of me that had long longed for this moment. Nonetheless, there was a catch in his tone that pulled me back.

“Oh, and I had to tell you right away,” he continued. “A very special client has made a request. It’ll be easy. Oh, and wonderfully ambiguous.”

“What is it?” I asked.

Freddie’s eyes gleamed as he leaned even closer. “He wants it to exude, in his words, ‘raw anger.’”

Erin strode towards us carrying a rectangular package wrapped in heavy brown paper.

“A little something,” Freddie waved off. “I give all my artists a gift when we’re on the brink of something great. Call it a reflection of your potential.”

Later that night, I unwrapped it: a mirror, heavy and ornate. The frame was made of gilded patterns. And there, top and center, was a miniature version of my painting. How could he possibly…? It throbbed faintly, sending a shiver down my spine.

Act IV: $1M

“How’s the project going?” Freddie’s voice cooed through the phone.

Oh, fine. Just grappling with self-hatred in my cage of a studio. No big deal. Instead, I lied. “It’s really something, Freddie. Lots of rage. Brimming with…pissed-off-ness.”

“You know, art isn’t about healing or joy. It’s about exposing the raw, bleeding edges of humanity. That’s what collectors want, and it’s what you’ve proven you can give them. Why stop now?” He piqued.

The embryos of attempted art surrounded me, accusing in their incompleteness. Showers were sparse, meals erratic. The window sill had become a graveyard of gem-colored wine bottles — cruel reminders with blinding reflections in the daytime. Brushes caked with dry paint lay abandoned. The air in my loft was thick with the metallic scent of oils. I chalked it up to necessary casualties.

Freddie’s pushy insistence invaded every corner of my mind. His hunger tangled with my own aspirations — a virus feasting on my sanity. Was this really a “noble venture”? Or just an ego-driven spiral using creativity to justify it?

By the end of our call, I found myself embodying “raw rage.” On cue, the blank canvas loomed, its emptiness taunted me.

Fuck. Come on, Imogen. Just paint something. ANYTHING. I slammed the side of my head, sending a low ringing through my ears. My hands vibrated as I smeared reds, browns, and grays across the palette, streaking in off-black and white.

A sudden thud jolted me. My attention darted to the window.

A bird was pressed against the pane. Its patterned chest crushed flat, wings splayed wide as though mid-flight. It remained stuck for a moment before dropping to the pavement below.

I looked down, my breath catching at its small, crumpled body. Helpless. Hurting. Its head tilted slightly, and in that moment, its eyes met mine. Big, wild, and full of something unnameable. Confusion? Pain? The bird lifted its head in a futile fight before succumbing to rest. The finality of its collapse sent an ache through me. Oh, little bird.

I picked up the brush. My flow was returning like a fever. Hello, old friend. How I’ve needed you.

The speakers blared Bikini Kill, Hole, Fiona Apple — kindling for the fire already raging. I attacked the canvas, each stroke a puncture, a tear, a release. I layered color over color. My movements were erratic, driven by something primal.

I stepped back to scrutinize the turmoil on canvas. A gap. Something’s missing.

Adrenaline surging, I reached for a green bottle, smashing it against the table in one swift motion. Thick shards glinted as I twisted one between my thumb and index finger. The edge sliced cleanly through my skin. The sting was electric as exquisite blood bloomed from the wound. Perfect. I smeared it across the canvas, dragging my thumb through the streaks to form jagged slants.

My strifes of now collided with the wreckage of then, and somehow, it was all there in harmony. Memories surged through me like slides in a projector.

Schoolyard kids threatening to kick me. The man who broke more than my heart. Alice’s smirk. Freddie’s manipulative praise. My mother’s ceaseless discouragement.

I stared into Freddie’s mirror as I splayed emotion onto burlap. The figure peering back had something scarlett smeared across its cheek. But when I touched my skin, my fingers drew no markings. What is this thing?

At last, stepping back, I saw it. Flurries of residual fury had finally been translated into art. Real art. Raw. Ravaged. Alive.

Act V: Not For Sale

There was a biting chill the night of my next unveiling.

The mysterious buyer wanted to flex his new possession to his circle before owning it all on his own. Tickets to the event had grown so popular, they had their own price tag. As for my attire, I poured my vision into the role of femme fatale: a carnal scarlet Versace gown with a signature pin on the strap. Powerful.

Freddie wove through the venue with static electricity. Faces were familiar, but the outfits were bolder tonight. I sensed something almost feral.

Alice stood at my side, her corset cinched tighter than ever and her champagne flute already empty.

Freddie took to the podium. “And now, another piece from everyone’s favorite new art-ist, Imogen Hart!” The audience clapped wildly. Some even threw out a hearty “Waaaah-hooo!”

Murmurs rippled across the room as Erin triggered the curtain’s slow ascent.

Dramatic gasps. Then gulps.

Heat emanated off the crowd’s bodies as the noises grew rougher, more perilous. “Goddammit, Bunny!” a man shouted. “You ALWAYS undermine me!” His hand cracked across her face, leaving a red mark.

Alice steadied herself on my arm before collapsing into a faint. “Alice? ALICE?!” I knelt down, shaking her awake. Turning my head, I saw a woman dig her nails into her own cheeks, leaving trails of claw marks.

Around the room, verbal assaults and physical fights erupted. Splashes of red on tailored suits. Sharp shattered glass. No. No, this needs to stop. Erin cranked the covering back down.

Instantly, the gallery shifted. They dusted themselves off with shame debossed in their eyes.

“What the FUCK was that?” Alice hissed. She grabbed my arm as the crowd dispersed. “Gen, are you…okay? This is getting…weird. You’re getting weird.”

“That was…transformative!” Freddie’s voice boomed. He pulled me to the front of the room. Cheers erupted again. It was wilder this time as hands reached toward me, desperate and grasping. Zombielike.

“Freddie,” I whispered. “What exactly…what is happening?”

“There, there, my little artist,” Freddie held a firm hand on my back. “Let’s take a breather in my office, shall we?”

I slumped into the same rigid chair. My body felt hollow, deflated.

“Oh, Imogen, love. You did SUCH a remarkable job on this piece. Brava! Finding you was like finding a diamond in the haystack.”

“You mean the rough?” I stammered flatly.

“Sure. Either way,” he continued. “The crowd adores you. You’ve given them something rare: a reason to feel. This is why I do it, Imogen! People don’t care about art. They care about what it does to them. How it breaks them, how it fills the void. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? To matter? Well, now you do.” Freddie poured dark liquid into a decorated glass.

“But what about the people? They were hurting each other.”

Tender yet rehearsed, he remarked, “Oh, sweetheart, that’s the price of expertise. True art moves people. Sometimes violently. Isn’t that worth it?”

“No,” I said softly. “No, it isn’t.”

Back at the loft, I found myself getting lost in the mirror’s abyss. Its surface was pristine, too perfect. Every flaw of mine accentured. In the days that followed, the mirror followed me. It seemed to breathe.

Freddie called again, late one night. “Gen, we have a new project,” he proposed eagerly. “Something calmer, more serene. A perfect follow-up — ”

I stared into the mirror. It lured me to cross over. “Not interested,” I said firmly.

Freddie paused. He shifted colder. “Burnout, huh? Thought this might happen.”

“No, Freddie. I’m not interested. You made your commission, and I’m done. Now leave me alone.”

I hung up and turned to Freddie’s mirror. Its jeweled frame shimmered in the dim light. My own personhood looked distorted, eyes hollowed, face malformed into something I barely recognized. As I peered deeper, longer, the image of my painting twinkled like a personal north star. With a shriek, I grabbed the nearest palette knife and swung. The glass shattered, cascading fragments around me like a broken spell. The cord tying me to Freddie’s universe now severed.

Somehow, the next morning, I found myself in front of a blank canvas. Bright as freshly fallen snow. Paintbrush in hand. Ready. What do I feel like making today?