The Art of Curating Romance - Chapter 1, Part 1

Natalie Rosetti's first impression of Martin Laurent wasn't particularly good. Especially since he had been vandalizing a Botticelli.

Okay, maybe not vandalizing, exactly. Maybe just hovering a little too close, gesturing with a pen in hand like he owned the place. But in Natalie’s world, where the Louvre was a mandated pilgrimage, Gentileschi was the ruling goddess, and art historians started religious wars over the direction of oil painted brushstrokes, that amounted to a capital offense.

She marched across the gallery floor of the university’s museum, the purposeful click of her kitten heels echoing off the walls. 

"Excuse me,” she snapped, stepping between him and the Primavera giclée. “You can’t be that close to the artwork. And definitely not with a Sharpie.”

The man - tall, with tousled brown hair, wearing a green oversized button down shirt - turned to her. His blue-eyed stare was even, and his manner was infuriatingly unperturbed.

“It’s a gel pen,” he said. British accent. Of course, Natalie thought. “And this is just a print, not the original. Unless the Uffizi suddenly downsized and thought this uni was important enough to loan to.”

Natalie blinked and felt herself recoil a little from the comment. “I know it’s a print. I curated this exhibit.”

“Then you must know Botticelli would’ve hated the framing.”

She stared at him, all glossy hair and smirk, like he a prime contender for an award for Most Punchable Face in Academia.

“You must be the Art Department new professor,” she realized. Only a professor could have an insufferable, halo-around-the-head attitude like his.

“Indeed. Natalie Rosetti, Assistant Curator of Collections, was it? I hear you're quite knowledgable on Italian art. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He extended a hand, still holding the pen in his other. She bristled at the way he said assistant. “Martin Laurent, Professor of Art History and specializing in early Italian Renaissance Art, specifically Botticelli. Coming here from Oxford.”

She did not shake it.

“Oh,” he said, hand retreating, “So you're an ice queen? All right then.”

Natalie took a deep breath. This was fine. This was manageable. She’d dealt with worse. Entitled donors, broken climate controls, that one time a student sneezed on a Caravaggio (copy of course, thank god). One arrogant professor with floppy hair and a penchant for boundary-pushing? Easy. She'd had that plenty of times before.

"I would just rather that honorable professors kindly understand the concept of keeping a healthy amount of space from valuable works."

Right as she said these words, she felt herself recoil internally at herself. That had come out sassier than she'd meant to. She'd always had issues with controlling her tongue.

He snorted at that. "Valuable works, indeed."

She glared at him. "Are you implying that our collection is subpar? I guess the Ashmolean at Oxford spoils you instead of teaching you actual appreciation."

He raised an eyebrow at the barb. He gestured around the room. "I'm not devaluing this by any means. I'm merely pointing out that I'm hardly on the verge of snapping the head off the Venus de Milo."

Natalie scowled. "No, you’re just barging in with the subtlety of a Roman emperor, knocking over centuries of meaning like it’s furniture. Saint Catherine didn’t get flayed on a spiked wheel just so you could casually dismantle this gallerywith a smirk." She pointed at a picture behind him. There hung a fresco fragment of a saintly woman in gold, and a rather fierce expression gracing her oil-painted, porcelain-colored skin. 

Martin blinked, caught somewhere between admiration and amusement. “That’s… also rather dramatic. And inaccurate."

“Oh, please.” She folded her arms. She couldn't back down now. “Catherine stood her ground against philosophers and tyrants. I can manage one overconfident visiting professor with a self-righteous, destructive streak.”

Martin’s grin twitched. “So I’m a tyrant now?”

"No. You're just an art bro."

God. She cringed at herself. Her sister was always telling her that her fatal flaw was that she always dug herself way too deep into arguments. She'd gotten it from her passionate Sicilian grandmother (that, and her love of Italian culture and history). That was certainly the case now. This had blown up.

And the thing was, she knew that he also wasn't wrong. They didn't have outrageous valuations for their art like at the Ashmolean. Of course not. The university only had minor original Monets. Otherwise it was mostly reproductions of paintings, initial drafts, or little curious objects. She found these the most fascinating personally - their original sketch studies by artists like Fra Bartolommeo, or beautiful 15th and 16th century embroidered fabrics, or little parts of marble statues - all in this little backroom of the gallery that she liked to refer to as "the room of overlooked beauties." But these were far from grand masterpieces. 

Expecting Martin to take advantage of her stumble, she braced herself. But instead, all he said was, "I've never heard of an 'art bro' before. But whether or not I am one, I assure you, I'm not defiling the works. I would never."

The sincerity in his voice took her aback. She bowed her head a little. "Well, as long as we have an understanding," she said.

"I hope we do," he said.

Giving him a little hum, she glanced over at a little sketch of a couple in a garden. Ink over pencil, and from an unknown year. "Perhaps I overreacted. But you can imagine how frustrating it is to me that people don't really see. Students aren't impressed. Not even professors sometimes. But the most interesting art pieces are the ones where you understand the artist's context. The background. But of course that's not what draws most people to the museum, if they even come at all." 

She sighed and shook her head, more so at herself than anything. There she went again, getting all worked up over things she didn't need to be upset about. That was just how it was. Unless you were a crazy art historian, that is. Her sister and parents had always told her many times she needn't be so temperamental.

She gave him a wave of her hand and said flatly, "Apologies for my outburst. I'll let you take your time looking around." With that, she sidled away and retreated back to the museum office.

Given that disastrous first meeting, she assumed that he'd flee and never return. Oh well. Speech or not, she knew that it wasn't likely she'd convinced a hot-shot Oxford academic to condescend to her little museum. No fancy Michaelangelos here. She certainly wouldn't be seeing him around much.

---

Except that Martin kept showing up.

For the next two weeks, he would come nearly every day to the museum, lingering in front of the objects she loved most - the ones in the room of overlooked beauties - scribbling mysterious notes in a leather-bound journal. And he was always conveniently there when she was on her shift, installing this or that object label or surveying the museum to plan their next exhibition.

He always had the audacity to smile at her when she walked by. It was a sardonic smile, one that mocked her, the meager assistant curator who only had a master's degree. Oh, she knew very well that he was looking down on her. Perhaps this was some sadistic way for him to take revenge for her rude treatment of him on day one. She knew that academics could be this petty - she'd had firsthand experience with it, unfortunately.

As she fiddled with the mounting of a label for a little piece of woven fabric depicting a scene of the Nativity, she vowed to herself that she would, under no circumstances, allow Professor Martin Laurent to win at this game.