If Smooth Was A Flavor

Chapter 1

Lila

The scent of oil paints mingles with fresh coffee in my studio as I step back from the canvas, brush poised in my paint-stained fingers. Ida B. Wells stares back at me, her gaze fierce and unwavering, exactly as I imagined her while reading about her fearless journalism.

"What do you think?" I ask my empty studio, tilting my head. "Too much shadow around the eyes?"

My phone buzzes with a text from Maribel. "Still hiding in your cave, sis?"

"Not hiding. Creating history," I text back, dabbing more burnt umber onto my palette. 

The canvas before me is part of my "Hidden Figures" series - women whose stories deserve more than footnotes in history books. My brushstrokes flow smoother now, more confident than when I started this journey. 

"You would've loved this," I whisper to the memory of Gran, who first told me stories about these remarkable women. The afternoon sun streams through my studio windows, catching the dust particles dancing in the air. It reminds me of summer evenings on her porch, listening to tales of courage while fireflies blinked in the darkness.

My phone chimes again. "Feed yourself something besides inspiration," Maribel insists.

"Can't stop now. Almost got her eyes right." I respond, then turn my phone face-down. The canvas calls to me, each stroke bringing Ida's determination to life. There's power in these portraits - not just in who they depict, but in who might see them. 

My brush moves with purpose now, adding highlights to capture the gleam of intelligence in her eyes. The studio fills with the soft scratching of bristles against canvas, the gentle tap of brush against palette. 

The clock on my studio wall catches my eye - 2:15. My heart jumps into my throat.

"No, no, no." I scramble to cap my paints, nearly knocking over my easel in the process. "Forty-five minutes. I can do this."

My hands shake as I clean my brushes, the water turning murky brown in the sink. The meeting at Riverside Gallery is at 3:30, but downtown traffic will be brutal this time of day.

"Keys, portfolio, business cards," I mutter, patting down my paint-splattered overalls. "Need to change."

I dash to the corner where I've hung my interview outfit - a yellow wrap dress that Gran always said brought out the warmth in my complexion. The fabric whispers against my mahogany skin as I slip it on, trying not to think about how many months of ramen noodles went into paying for my portfolio case.

My phone buzzes again. Maribel. "Break a leg, sis. They'd be crazy not to love your work."

"Thanks. Freaking out a little." I text back.

"Deep breaths. You've got this."

I grab my portfolio, double-checking that all twelve pieces are properly arranged. Ida B. Wells, Bessie Coleman, Dorothy Height - women—-much like me— who never backed down from a challenge. The irony isn't lost on me.

"Okay, ladies," I whisper to my paintings as I slide them into the case. "Time to show the world what you're made of." My hand lingers on the leather handle, remembering all the previous galleries that said my work was "too niche" or "not commercially viable."

One last glance in the mirror - my curls are cooperating today at least, though there's a tiny splash of paint on my cheek. I take a deep breath and grab my keys.

This has to work. My bank account can't take many more rejection letters.

The gallery's bright lights illuminate my portfolio as I carefully arrange each piece on the viewing easel. Ms. Thompson, the gallery owner, studies each painting with an unreadable expression, her silver-rimmed glasses catching the light.

"This is Ida B. Wells," I explain, my voice wavering. "I wanted to capture the moment she decided to stand against injustice, to write about the truths others feared to speak."

"Interesting technique with the shadows," Ms. Thompson says, leaning closer. "The way they frame her face but don't diminish her presence."

"That's exactly the effect that I was aiming for. These women fought against being overshadowed, so I use darkness to emphasize and enhance their light instead of diminishing it." My heart pounds as I move to the next piece. 

"The perspective here is unusual." Ms. Thompson taps her chin. "Looking down from above?"

"Yes! I wanted viewers to see the world as she saw it - without limitations. When children see these paintings, I want them to understand that their dreams have historical precedent. That they're part of a legacy of determination."

I switch to Dorothy Height's portrait, the deep purples and golds in her clothing catching the light. "She advised presidents and stood alongside civil rights leaders, but many history books barely mention her name. My art aims to change that - to make these stories impossible to ignore."

Ms. Thompson removes her glasses, folding them deliberately. "Your technique is impressive, Ms. Carter, and your passion is evident. However..." She pauses, tapping her glasses against her palm. "I have concerns about the marketability of such focused historical pieces."

My stomach tightens, a familiar knot of disappointment forming in my core. I've heard this before from other gallery owners, but it doesn't sting any less - if anything, each rejection makes the pain sharper, more personal. My fingernails dig slightly into my palms as I try to maintain my composure.

"Have you considered branching out? Perhaps some landscapes, or portraits of contemporary figures? Our collectors tend to prefer pieces that... complement their decor." The way she emphasizes 'complement' makes it clear - my work celebrating historical Black women doesn't fit her vision of what belongs on wealthy collectors' walls. 

"Complement their decor?" The words taste bitter on my tongue. "These women changed history. Their stories deserve wall space just as much as another sunset or bowl of fruit."

"I understand your position." She slides my portfolio closed. "But I have to think about what sells. Art is a business, after all."

"It's also supposed to challenge perspectives, to make people think." I trace my finger along Ida's frame, feeling the smooth wood beneath my fingertip, remembering the hours I spent perfecting every brushstroke of her resolute expression. "When was the last time a matching sofa set changed someone's worldview? When has anyone ever looked at their perfectly coordinated living room and felt moved to make a difference?"

"Ms. Carter-"

"These aren't just paintings. They're windows into forgotten stories, portals into moments that shaped our world but somehow got pushed to the margins of history books. How many little girls might see themselves in Bessie Coleman's determination? How many might look at her soaring through those clouds and realize their dreams don't have to stay earthbound either?"

Ms. Thompson's lips thin. "Noble intentions don't pay gallery rent. Perhaps when you've established yourself more, we can revisit this conversation. For now, I suggest expanding your repertoire."

"Thank you for your time," I manage, proud that my voice doesn't crack. The gallery's pristine white walls suddenly feel suffocating, decorated with exactly the kind of safe, commercially viable art they want from me.

Outside, I lean against my car, the metal hot against my palms. My phone buzzes - probably Maribel checking in. I can't face her optimism right now, can't bear to add another rejection to our running tally.

"Establish myself more," I mutter, mimicking Ms. Thompson's tone. "Right. Because apparently, history only matters if it matches the curtains."

The late afternoon sun beats against my face as I trudge to my car, portfolio heavy in my hands. Each step on the concrete feels like walking through molasses. My phone buzzes again - probably Maribel checking in for the fifth time.

"Hey sis," I answer, sliding into the driver's seat. The leather sticks to my legs in the summer heat.

"So? How'd it go?"

"Same story, different gallery." I rest my forehead against the steering wheel. "Apparently, my work would be more 'marketable' if I painted pretty landscapes instead."

"They didn't!"

"Oh, they did. Complete with that condescending 'establish yourself more' line." The air conditioning whirs to life, offering little relief. "I'm starting to think Gran's stories about perseverance skipped the part about paying rent."

"What's your bank account looking like?"

I wince. "Let's just say I might need to switch from ramen to air for dinner."

"Come over. I’m making my famous gumbo."

"I can't. Need to figure out my next move." My gaze drifts to the gallery's pristine windows, where abstract shapes in soothing beiges and blues mock me from their perfectly lit displays. "Maybe I should compromise. Just until I build a name for myself."

"Lila Carter, don't you dare." Maribel's voice sharpens. "Those women you paint? They didn't compromise."

"They also probably had more than twenty-seven dollars in their checking account."