Warhol's Prophecy

45

ADAM WALKER HAD seen the same words before. Many times.

And one in particular.

Rejection.

It appeared in nearly all the letters he had received from publishers or record companies over the years.

He had assumed that the idea of rejection, the very act and process of being rejected, would somehow lose its sting. Surely if he suffered rejection often enough, it would become easier to live with.

He had found that wasn’t the case.

It still hurt.

Perhaps that was a good thing. Perhaps when rejection ceased to bother him, then that was finally the time to give up. But that idea never entered his thinking.

Yet it hurt. Every time it happened, it hurt. And it angered him. To think that someone could dismiss his work so easily was annoying.

He looked at the letter again, re-read it.

The record company thanked him for sending samples of his work (he always sent transparencies), but they didn’t use freelance artists for their album sleeves. Hence this latest rejection.

Rejection.

He crossed to a small filing cabinet in his study and slid open one of the drawers.

From inside he withdrew a black clip-file and flipped it open.

There were over forty rejection letters and slips inside it already.

He knew, since he had placed each one there carefully.

Walker found the hole-punch, snapped open the file and added the latest letter to the batch, then he shut the file and slid it back.

Out of sight, out of mind?

If only it was that easy.

He looked around at his canvases, his work.

What now?

Walker knew what he must do.

He found a fresh canvas and prepared himself.

Never give up.

As he moved about the study, he glanced occasionally at the portrait of Becky.

The sight of the child made him think of Hailey.

He’d rung her office three times that morning. The first time, she hadn’t arrived yet. No return call had been forthcoming, despite his urgent request to her secretary.

Perhaps she’d forgotten to tell Hailey.

Yes, that was it. The secretary hadn’t told her he’d rung. Otherwise she’d have called him back, wouldn’t she?

He’d rung twice since then.

Hailey was out at lunch, he was told. Again he’d asked if she could call him on her return. He hoped the secretary would give her the message this time.

He wanted to make sure she got his flowers. Wanted to be certain that she knew he was sorry for what had happened the day before.

If he could just speak to her.

He would stay in and work, wait for her call.

He had to leave the house later, though. If she called and he wasn’t there, he could catch her tomorrow or the next day.

She would understand if he wasn’t at home.

He wouldn’t be out very long.

But there was something he had to do.