Freyja frowned. Each of her prints measured twenty-four by thirty-six inches, not something she could carry on the bus.
“Is that a problem?”
“No,” Freyja said. Maybe her brother Arni could get the van the restaurant used for off site events. She looked at the list. “These aren’t the best.”
“Maybe not, but they’re the ones most likely to sell. Trust me.”
“Of course.” What choice did she have? Freyja took another bite of muffin. “How do we establish a price?
“We don’t, I do. Likely about six hundred dollars each.”
“With forty percent going to the gallery it doesn’t leave much.”
“Fifty percent, dear.”
“Half goes to you?” Freyja put down the muffin. “That leaves less than a hundred dollars after the cost of mounting.”
“If any are sold.”
That was a sobering thought. Freyja had spent the balance of her student loan to mount these photographs. Even with her student discount it still cost her twenty-four hundred dollars.
“I don’t want to be rich, Carly.”
“Really?” The older woman studied her over the rim of the coffee mug.
“All I want is to make enough money from my photography to be independent, to have the time and resources to nurture and develop my creative ideas.”
“To make a living at what you love doing.”
“Exactly.” Freyja exhaled. Carly understood.
Carly folded her hands and leaned forward. “The dream of every artist, dear, is to do just that. To live to work, not work to live.” She dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “Unfortunately, for all but the very talented and the very lucky, that’s all it is, a dream.”
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