by Sionna Fox
Her door burst open, revealing her rather more harried than usual assistant. “Ms. Thorpe, you’re gonna want to see this.”
“For the last time, Holly, it’s Frannie. What’s wrong?”
She came around the desk with her phone in her hand and pressed play on a video from the local news station.
“What am I watching?”
“Just wait.”
Frannie reflexively wrinkled her nose when the camera panned to Trenton Everett Markham III. He’d just announced a Senate run, invoking the bogeymen of immigrants, feminists, and queers to rile up his would-be constituents. A few years ago, she would never have taken his chances seriously. Now, he disgusted her at the same time as he struck fear in her heart. Their deep purple state could go either way, between rural conservatives convinced the government was coming for their guns and white suburbanites who wanted tax cuts, social services be damned. And Markham was holding up the museum schedule mailer that had gone out last weekend.
“Shit.”
Through the tinny speakers of her phone, she heard him rail about public funding being used to spread filth in the community. The glorification of sin would not be tolerated on the public dime. This had to be stopped. The gay agenda was poisoning the youth. He ranted on at the shell-shocked local news host, and the producers let it go, seeing viral spread and dollar signs, Frannie was sure. She turned away from Holly’s phone and put her head in her hands, dread roiling in her stomach.
Her desk phone rang.
She took a deep breath, straightened her glasses, smoothed the lapel of her blazer, and picked up. “Frances Thorpe, Special Exhibitions, how can I help you?”
“Have you seen the news?” Her boss didn’t bother with a greeting. They’d all left the board meeting to the same video.
Frannie flipped over her phone. Notifications for the museum’s social media accounts flashed across the screen every couple of seconds. This was bigger than local news. Shit, shit, shit.
“Yes, sir.”
“This is not what the board meant when we talked about bringing additional publicity to the museum. There’s talk of a boycott.”
“Jonathan, the kind of people who are going to boycott this exhibition weren’t going to come anyway. You know that. Right-wing Christian fundies were never our demographic. If anything, supporters will go out of their way to buy tickets for this.” She could spin this. She could turn this around.
“And what about our funding? He’s talking about curtailing the use of state and federal funding on arts programs. This is 1989 all over again. This is worse than 1989. They didn’t have social media in 1989.”
“They can’t touch the public grants we already have for this year.” She inhaled slowly. “And if we lose them next year, they only make up fifteen percent of our operating budget; we can make up the shortfall.”
“Frances, they’re talking about boycotting our corporate sponsors until they pull their support. They want to bury us.”
“What? Where? All I saw was a bunch of posturing about public funding.”
“It seems we’ve gone viral.”
“Shit.” In twenty years, from internships to slogging away in assistant curatorships, Frannie could count the number of times she’d been moved to curse at work. Most of them involved a hammer and her thumb when she used to pitch in with installation. “Sorry.”
“Shit is right, Fran. This is not good.”
“I’ll fix it. I’ll figure it out. We can make this work. Please don’t make me pull the exhibition.”
“I’m not going to ask you to. But that doesn’t mean the board won’t. You need to get in front of this, now.”
“Okay. I know. I’m on it.”
* * *
There was something perverse about still having a Google alert for your dead best friend, eight years after they’d died. But Ashley was officially the executor of Rian’s estate, and while she could easily have delegated keeping tabs on where their name still popped up in the news, she hadn’t.
It was bittersweet every time she saw the proof that Rian’s legacy lived on. They’d never believed their work was made to last—“it’s temporally fixed, Ash. The only thing it will be good for in a few years is nostalgia”— but Ashley never agreed. They used to argue about it all the time. Every shoot, every assignment, every magazine editorial, every snapshot of her hungover, or jet-lagged, or dancing her face off in some nameless club mattered. Evidence. A document. And she had been right in the end.
She’d rather have her best friend here with her to argue about it.
Rian thrived on confrontation. Look at me, see me; all of us weirdos exist and there is fuck-all you can do about it. Until they hadn’t and all that was left was the work. Confronting people with it was Ashley’s job now.
Her phone pinged. Curious, she followed the link to a local news channel, and watched, horrified as one Trenton Everett Markham III yelled at the bewildered host about the corruption of youth until he was red-faced and wild-eyed. He called on viewers to boycott the museum hosting an exhibition of Rian’s work and promised, if elected, to eliminate funding for gay pornography masquerading as art.
Rian would have fucking loved it. Their very own Mapplethorpe moment. But Ashley’s stomach sank.
She’d worked with Rian’s former agent, gallery director, and primary collectors for over a year to make this tour happen. They’d pored over the applications of galleries and museums that wanted to host it. She’d campaigned to give it to the Briggs Museum of Art.
They were small, and the local population had historically limited access to contemporary art outside of a handful of small galleries that hosted a First Friday that was still heavily dominated by cishet artists working in traditional media. They needed something other than landscape paintings and the odd Rothko-esque color field. It was exactly the kind of small city that deserved access to Rian’s work and Ashley had been impressed at the director’s promise to get local kids into the exhibition through educational grants. Some kid was going to see themselves for the first time, the representation kids like her and Rian never had.
And they would be at risk of losing it.
Ashley suspected, based on the museum’s history, the special exhibitions director was going to face major pushback from her board. They’d played it very boring and safe for years prior to appointing Frances Thorpe, and this was going to be too much change, too much controversy.
“Ash? You ready?” PJ, her bassist, peeked out from the booth where they’d been setting up to record. She hadn’t even noticed they were waiting on her.
“Yeah, gimme a minute.”
She tapped out a quick message to Rian’s agent, asking him to get in touch with the museum and find out if they’d lost any sponsors and if there was anything they could do. She couldn’t explain why, exactly, she was determined not to let Frances Thorpe lose the show. Something about the language of the application made Ashley suspect that Frances Thorpe needed this for herself and wanted it for the kid she had been. She bit her lip before adding, Give Frances Thorpe my personal contact info. Tell her I’ll do whatever I can to help.
“Alright, let’s go.” She tossed her phone onto the couch and stepped into the booth.
2
Well that’s just…interesting.
Frannie had been dodging bullets in her inbox for days. Homophobic screeds full of spelling mistakes insisting that she was an agent of the devil turning the youth against god and threatening to expose her for what she was, to bring wrath and judgment down on her by letting her family and neighbors know she was a filthy homo. Which was…weirdly hilarious. A person would have to be incredibly clueless and straight to see Frannie, with her suits and her slight pompadour, and not immediately assume she was a lesbian.
Frannie had ditched hiding her own identity behind long hair and jeans and T-shirts and gone full dapper lesbian when she was in college. She’d been fortunate to have family who hadn’t so much batted an eyelash when she came out
as said, we know, we were waiting for you to tell us, please let us buy you a suit that actually fits you for graduation. Twenty years ago, that had still seemed like a big deal. For some it was still too much to hope for. But having these supposed warriors of god move from showing up on her digital doorstep and onto her literal one wasn’t something grad school had prepared her for.
But this message was different. This message was from Rian Sampson’s agent and contained personal contact details for Ashley Patterson. If Frannie’s heart flip-flopped a bit, it was only because that meant they were aware of what was happening and they were nervous about the future of a show that was supposed to have a load-in in less than a month. It had nothing to do with having Ashley Patterson’s contact info.
There was no time to fangirl. She was doing yet another interview this afternoon. She’d been told to get out in front of the mess and she was doing her damnedest, accepting any interview request that came from somewhere even half-way sympathetic. She was up to her eyeballs in journalists and bible-thumpers alike.
She took her glasses off to clean them, pushed her forelock out of her face, and straightened the collar of her shirt, using the chat window on her computer screen as a mirror while she waited for the producer on the other end to let her know they were ready to cut her in. The circles under her eyes looked harsh and dark in the grainy window. The late nights catching up on the work she was supposed to be doing all day while she struggled to put out the fire Trenton fucking Markham started were getting to her. And for as many interviews as she did, as many sympathetic outlets as she talked to, he was in front of conservative rags, on their talk shows, spouting off to anyone who would listen about the evils of governments funding gay pornography.
Poor Holly could barely keep up with the museum’s social media accounts and had been driven to tears more than once by the awful things people said. Hell, Frannie was ten years older than she was, had years longer to toughen her skin against some of this shit, and she’d still cried more than once since this blew up.
At the producer’s cue, she put her glasses back on, straightened her face into a carefully neutral, though slightly positive and inquisitive, expression she’d had to perfect with a quickness and faced the camera.
It was a blur of the same statements she’d been making. The museum believed in the value of the work. They were proud to bring a show like this into their community. This was art not pornography. There was a long, long history of provocation and social commentary in art. Public funding ensures the possibility of access for all; art shouldn’t be a treat for only the wealthy. Seeing it in person, the scope, the size, the layout of the installation, the way individual pieces interact on a wall can’t be replicated by online galleries or even books.
And then they pulled the rug out from under her.
“We’ve received word that Wilson Industries is pulling their funding for the show in light of the controversy. Does the museum have a statement?”
The look on the host’s face in the chat window, the triumph of catching her off-guard with that news, would be burned into Frannie’s brain for the rest of her life. Her jaw dropped, just for a second, but long enough that in the back of her mind she knew that fucking clip was going to be all over the goddamn conservative blogs within minutes.
She closed her mouth and cleared her throat. “We’ve certainly been grateful for their support in the past, and hope to continue our partnership on future projects. I have no further comment.”
She was only vaguely aware of their thanking her for her time and signing off. She closed the video chat window, logged out of the program to be on the safe side, put her head on the desk and screamed.
Their single biggest financial backer was pulling their funding. They were fucked.
Jonathan opened the door. “You heard.”
“On live television, no less.”
“They sent out a press release, didn’t even come to the board.”
“Can they do that?”
“Their support is discretionary.”
“Shit.”
“Fran, we might—”
“No. We are not going to let Trenton fucking Markham win. I’ll figure something out.”
“It’s a lot of money, Fran.”
“I know. Goddammit, I know.” Cursing at work was becoming the norm. “Look, Sampson’s agent sent me an email. They’re aware of the situation. Let me talk to them. Maybe we can fundraise. Give me a little time. Please.”
It was a harebrained scheme at best, but if she could get Ashley Patterson on board…maybe. Fuck, if she’d really thought they were going to lose funding, she would have been giving a donor pitch with every interview and begging members for more money the second this thing broke. But they could catch up. Ashley could help.
“See what you can do.”
“Just, tell the board we’re working on it. We’ll make up the shortfall.”
Jonathan nodded grimly and left. Frannie opened her email, took a deep breath, and sent a desperate plea for help.
* * *
“Ah, fuck.”
“What?”
“That museum in Wentworth lost one of their major sponsors.”
“Shit. What are they gonna do?” PJ’s practicality was a blessing sometimes, but it also made her a terrible person to vent to. And right now, Ashley wanted to vent.
Fucking puritanical fucks. Cowards. “I don’t know. The special exhibitions person is talking about setting up a fundraising campaign, but that’s never gonna make up the kind of shortfall they must be facing.” She pulled on her ponytail. They were behind schedule in the studio. What she was about to say was stupid. She couldn’t afford it. But something about this museum hosting this show, and with this woman at the head of it, made Ashley want to do something really stupid. “I think we should do a show.”
“Ash, we’re three days behind already. You don’t have time to organize a show. Besides, no offense, but your tours mostly break even, dude.”
“I know. I know. But I have to do something.” She bit her lip and scrolled her contacts. “Work on the bridge of track seven, it was sloppy as shit on the last take. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
She stepped into the hallway and dialed the number.
“Frances Thorpe, special exhibitions, how can I help you?” The voice on the other end of the line was crisp and clear, with a hint of wariness. Something about it reminded Ashley of being sent to the principal’s office as a kid. The Frances Thorpe who’d been making the rounds of every news show on the planet to talk about the controversy was calm, cool, and collected, her face a pleasant mask behind her wire-rimmed glasses. Untouchable, dapper, and fine, hot. The Frances Thorpe on the phone was bracing for a fight. God only knew the kinds of phone calls she’d been getting lately.
It took Ashley’s scrambled brain a second too long to speak. “Hi Frances, this is Ashley Patterson.” She flinched at the way her voice caught and then smoothed, putting on the most charming version of her accent. This was not a flirting call. This was business.
“Wait, what?”
Ashley plowed on. “Listen, I’m in the middle of a recording session, but I wanted to let you know I got your message. I will share the shit out of any fundraiser you set up.” She bit her lip and inwardly cursed herself for cussing. The pause gave her an idea. One that would be far more cost-effective than trying to nail down a free venue. “But what if you sweetened the deal by offering rewards to donors?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Donor tiers. Up to a certain dollar amount, it’s a straight donation, or maybe they get a postcard and the exhibition booklet. But say, a couple hundred dollars and up gets you something in return.”
“We don’t have stuff to give away.”
“Yeah, but I do. And I have friends who do. You have a party for the opening right? Charge double for the tickets and I’ll play an acoustic set. You could give private after-hours tours of the exhibition. Stuff like that. People h
ave raised serious cash for stuff like this by essentially auctioning off their time.”
Silence. Ashley knew she wasn’t crazy. But maybe museum people didn’t do stuff like this. Maybe Frances Thorpe was so stuck in the grant-writing, corporate schmoozing cycle she couldn’t think outside the box she was in.
“That’s…I don’t want to overstep my bounds, because I never knew them, but somehow that feels like exactly what Rian would have wanted. Guerrilla fundraising, damn the man.”
And that was why Ashley wanted Frances Thorpe to have this. Got to feel it and smell it and get up close and intimate with Rian’s work. She got it. “Rian would have been the first to admit that sucking the corporate teat was a necessary evil sometimes if you wanted to get real money, but yeah, they would have loved this. Fuck it, five grand gets you a print from my personal collection.”
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t. Look, I’m not saying I’m giving away my favorite print or anything. But if some rich asshole wants to drop five grand on a print and get to feel warm and fuzzy about supporting a small museum in the process? They can have one of my least favorites.”
“I can do tours. The museum doesn’t have much else we can offer.”
“Trust me, we’ll make it worth it to people. Let me make some phone calls. We’ll get a donation page up and fill in the tiers with to-be-announced. You’d be surprised at what people are willing to give even before they know what the rewards are. We’ll work out the details later.”
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Thank me when we pull this off. And we will, Frances, I swear to god we will.”
“If we’re going to work together, call me Frannie.”
Oh god, Principal Frannie was even better than Principal Thorpe. Ashley squeezed her eyes shut. This was a professional relationship. They were working on a project together. Of course, she’d never been very good at keeping the personal and professional separate. See basically every relationship she’d ever been in, up to and including hooking up with Rian whenever one of them was lonely, bored, or horny.