Against All Odds

I never saw myself as anything but an artist. They put my coloring books on the front porch so I would go outside to play. I think I was born old; others thought so too because a friend of my mom's used to call me “Grandma” and I was only seven. Growing up outside of Boston was uneventful. Except for the time I decided to walk into a gallery on Dartmouth Street in downtown.
I believe it is still in business.

I’d just finished art school and wanted to hit the pavement with my big black portfolio…that is what we did back in the day. I have never been one who is easily intimidated so a visit to a fancy gallery was just another interesting moment in my life. I walked in, dressed very stereotypically in black from head to toe. I had on a turtle-neck sweater and black straight-leg pants, with a black “p” jacket, black boots and a very large “afro.”

A very handsome, distinguished woman by the name of Barbara asked if she could help me, only she said it in such a way as to infer that my presence was like seeing a fly in her soup. Barely twenty years old and not aware of any sort of protocol I asked, if I could see the owner of the gallery. Looking down her nose at my portfolio she said….May I ask why? I looked at her as if she was dumb, deaf and blind and said…”I’m an Artist” and before I could get the part out about wanting to show my portfolio; this woman said “Of course you are dear” and then proceeded to go about her paper work like I was no longer standing there.

I asked her again and she said, “I am the owner and I do not see artists work without a reference
from a collector or an appointment.
“Can I make an appointment with you for tomorrow I asked, “ she looked over her nose as if she had on glasses and said; “since you are here let me see what you have….however, I am going to tell you this now…..I’m not looking for any more artist to represent. My stable is full! She almost snatched the handle of the portfolio out of my hand. Undaunted I persevered…..” I’ve been painting every since I was a little girl and all I want is a chance for someone to see my work and tell me what they think.” My friends and family keep telling me I’m great, but I do not feel great, I do know that I’m ‘ very good’ though.
She gave me a rather evil smile and opened the portfolio.

Her head moved in a very stiff sort of way from left to right , up and down while she flipped
the pages of my portfolio using dainty, delicate, long , manicured fingers. I enjoyed the way she
seemed to be treating my work with an air of reverence until she looked up at me with eyes the color of steel barricades and said; “ You are very talented, I like your work very much…..strong figures and
quite emotionally captivating faces. Your sense of fat and thin line works well with your compositions. I especially, like your style of drawing. It is bold, direct, natural and somewhat “in your face”. Nice, edges. What is your name?
“ My name is Gale Fulton Ross, I said . Barbara slowly closed the portfolio and with a very deliberate stare said these words…..Gale, you do not have a snow-balls chance in Hell of making it in this business….I suggest you take your life in another direction.”

'Why, I said?
Why don’t you think I can be an artist?'
“Oh you can call yourself anything you want but until the art market or art world calls you that you are nothing but someone who has given themselves an undeserved title. There is very little room in the art world for most women and less than that for a Black one. Although I like your work….I would never be able to sell it and I , young woman, am in the business of selling Art. So find a good husband, get a state job and paint on the weekends."
With that she dismissed me with a wave of her hand. She no longer looked up from her papers and she did not say one more word. Her sigh of annoyance said it all. I gathered my portfolio and slowly, walked out the door.

When I entered the gallery initially it was white/gray and pristine. It had the track lighting, the predictable modern blonde wood floors, extraordinarily high ceilings and some of the biggest paintings I’d ever seen. It was composed of three rooms of paintings and sculpture. The biggest
and most important room was the one you entered when you came through the front door and
two others, much smaller were on each side. I knew in my heart I wanted to hang my art in the
main room. I had big hopes. The gallery appeared to be enormous but it did not feel bigger than me.

I clearly remember, when I was leaving, that it seemed to rise up and engulf me like I was a small irritating knat in the palm of that woman’s hand. Boy, did she piss me off!!
More than that she helped me to see that Boston was not the town for me. Nope, I was going to make my way in good old New York City. The art capital of the world! I knew the people there would see my work and “get it, get me!” This was somewhere around 1968.

The reason I am telling this story is simple,
 I want you to understand the title of my blog, “Against All Odds!” I proved that woman Barbara wrong and it was because on that day, many years ago, that she gave me enough motivation to last me forty years! I have suffered through the poverty. I’ve struggled with identity. I’ve stood on my feet at an easel until my legs felt like wood. I have met amazing people, seen more than half the world and made good money.
I did it because I could not let her be “right.” I am an artist because I do the work!


3:03 A.M June 30, 2012

Sarasota, Florida gale fulton ross, artist