“Critique” is the continuation of a previous short story entitled “Collaboration.” You might want to read it first:
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Fatima was scribbling notes on a yellow notepad, flipping back and forth between the pages. "I think we can get this into that gallery we talked about. The one in Chelsea. Remember? Serena loved my work, so how could she pass up my little brother?"
Ahmad summoned a smile that wouldn’t betray the disquieting tightness in his chest. "Yeah, that would be amazing." He shuffled towards the coffee maker, the old machine sputtering to life with a groan that echoed through the loft. He needed caffeine for this conversation, and fast.
“I took a break from touching up your painting to put together a list of galleries we can contact if things don’t work out with Serena. Look, in addition to Blue Door, there’s Brick & Mortar, Hudson View…” Fatima’s eyes gleamed as she tapped her pen against the notepad. “Actually I ran into that new assistant, what’s-his-name at Tenth Avenue the other day. He seemed quite impressed with your portfolio.”
Ahmad poked and prodded, hoping for a miracle, but the old machine was stubbornly unresponsive this morning. "Looks like we're out of luck on the coffee front," he sighed, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair.
Fatima hopped down from her perch, her eyes narrowing as she surveyed him. "You don't seem as excited as I’d hoped you would be."
"No, I love it, Fati. I really do.” Ahmad leaned against the counter, rubbing his eyes. "Just tired, I guess." He checked his watch - the coffee shop would be open. Maybe they needed a change of scenery. “You must be hungry? Do you want to go get something to eat? We could beat the line if we hurry.” He glanced out the open kitchen window at the bustling street below. A siren wailed as it went by - all the energy and noise felt like freedom to him.
Fatima was examining the mural, her back to the window and the sprawling, chaotic streetscape. "I wanted to make sure it had structure, you know? Your work is so fluid and vibrant, but it needed some grounding. Like that Elias Rafiq piece at Blue Door. Remember? Serena said it's selling for a fortune." Her hand traced the clean and geometric lines she had added.
Ahmad nodded, suppressing another yawn, the mention of the artist making his eyes sting. He really needed that coffee. "Yeah, I get that. Grounded. And your work does look incredible." Two men were out of their cars and shouting at each other outside the rental garage across the street.
"But?" Fatima pressed, turning to face him, her eyebrows raised expectantly.
Ahmad sighed, pushing away from the counter. "It's just different from what I envisioned, I guess.” The words felt inadequate, a feeble attempt to express the unease that was gnawing at him. “Anyway, hey let’s talk about it over coffee, get some fresh air.”
Fatima's expression had tightened considerably. "Different?"
"Oh maybe that’s not right. I don't know. Your style is so precise and beautiful, not like mine. Maybe it's just me being too attached to my original idea."
Fatima strode past Ahmad, hefting the window shut. “I don’t know how you work with all that noise. It distracted me all night.” She turned toward him with her arms crossed, too close to him to be comfortable. "Tell me exactly what you think is wrong, Ahmad."
"No, it's not that. Nothing’s wrong. I appreciate all the work you put in. Really, I do."
“You think I overstepped.” Fatima’s lips were twisting across her face.
Ahmad sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It's not that simple, Fati. It's amazing work. I just need to process it."
Fatima's eyes flashed with a mix of frustration and disappointment. "You know, I was trying to help you. Make it something truly special."
"And you did. It’s just... I wanted it to be more about the city's chaos, the organic growth."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "So my contributions ruined that?"
"No, they didn’t ruin anything. They just changed it." They looked together at the mural for a moment. “Really, let’s go get some food, Fati. This conversation will be better over food.”
Fatima ran her left hand through her hair, pressing on her temple. Her eyes were clenched tight. “Just tell me what I did wrong, Ahmad, because I worked all night on this. I missed an entire night’s sleep for you. You think I wanted to do that?” She waved her notepad in the air. “I even made a list of galleries that would be interested in this. I even talked to Serena about this - they’re opening up again and need new talent. Do you know how hard it is to build relationships on Chelsea? Jesus, I went out on a limb for you, Ahmad.”
“I don’t even want to exhibit in Chelsea!”
Fatima froze in place, eyes widening. She was clearly shocked, and Ahmad surprised even himself. But now it was said. “I never asked you to do that, Fati!”
Then Fatima was kneeling down to clean up her work, murmuring to herself. She tossed her notepad to the side. “I don’t even know why I try. He’s just going to throw away an opportunity like this because of some…” She punctuated her words by throwing paint brushes into a metal can. Clink. Clink.
Ahmad swallowed hard as he knelt down beside her to clean - he needed her to understand how he felt. “It doesn’t feel right, Fati. The exposure in Chelsea is great but it isn’t my audience, you know? I've always pictured my work somewhere more... grassroots, more connected to the city, like that community center in Bed-Stuy or that warehouse gallery in Bushwick. I want people who know the streets to see it, not just art collectors and critics and Saudi princes."
Fatima paused, her scrubbing slowing. She looked up at him, her eyes narrowed in disbelief. "You're serious?" she scoffed. "You're turning down Chelsea for... Bed-Stuy? Bushwick? Sometimes I just don’t get you."
Ahmad sighed, picking up another brush. "It's not about that, Fati. It's about..." He searched for the right words, his gaze drifting towards the window. A homeless man pushed a shopping cart piled high with belongings past the rental car garage. "It's about authenticity. About staying true to where my inspiration comes from."
Fatima scrubbed meticulously at one of Ahmad’s brushes where paint had dried from the night before. “You know what, Ahmad? You think this is fun for me? It’s not. I didn’t need to come here and do this. But you needed my help, you asked for my help, and now you’re acting like I’m the bad guy. I’m always the bad guy. God, this stupid brush.”
“I didn’t… I’m not…” Ahmad stammered, his voice trailing off as he searched for words that wouldn’t make the situation worse. He felt trapped, cornered by her accusation. Had he asked for her help? His frustration the night before, the hours spent staring at the canvas, unable to capture the essence of his vision. Maybe he had, in his own way, silently pleaded for her guidance, for her approval. Or maybe he just wanted her to see, to truly see, the city as he did, with all its vibrancy and chaos. But had he really asked her to come?
Fatima was picking savagely at the brush, her chest heaving raggedly with each breath. Then her gaze darted around the loft. She saw the scattered paint cans, the overflowing trash bin, the dirty dishes piled high in the sink.
Then she stood abruptly, tossing the paintbrush at Ahmad. She snatched up the can of paintbrushes and hurled it across the room. The metal container clattered against the brick wall, spewing its colorful contents in a wild arc across the floor.
"You always do this," Fatima's voice cracked, the accusation hanging heavy in the air. She stepped back, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if seeking warmth in the increasingly chilly loft. "Every time I try to contribute, you push back. It's like you don't trust me to do anything right."
Ahmad opened his mouth to protest, but the words stumbled and caught in his throat. He recognized the familiar glint in her eyes, the telltale sign of her spiraling emotions. He had seen this before, many times. It started with a slight tremor in her voice, a tightening of her jaw, and then the floodgates would open.
He reached out a hand towards her, his voice barely a whisper. "Fati, I..."
But she whirled around, her eyes blazing. "Don't, Ahmad. Just don't. I'm tired of being the bad guy. I'm tired of always being the one who's wrong, who doesn't understand, who oversteps. I guess everyone needs a scapegoat."
Her words stung, slicing through the thick tension in the loft. Ahmad flinched as if she had slapped him. He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off with a sharp gesture.
"I should just go," she said in a tight voice, turning away once more. "Clearly, I'm not wanted here."
He watched helplessly as she crossed the loft, her footsteps echoing hollowly on the concrete floor. She paused at the top of the stairwell, her back to him. "Clearly, I'm not wanted here."
The quiet was deafening. Ahmad couldn’t even look at the mural. He wanted to scream, he wanted to tear it all down and start over. But most of all he just wanted to rewind time, to understand what he had done wrong.
It was too quiet in his studio. He didn’t like having the windows shut - it felt stifling. Since the city was his work, he liked to feel immersed in it. But the window was a lot heavier than it looked. Opening it back up would be a lot of work.
Ahmad reached for his phone. His chest felt so tight.
Fati, don't be angry. Please, we can work through this. I really appreciate everything you've done. I have so much gratitude, I always have, I’m just not good with the words to express it. -Ah
How could he get her to see that?
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