“I love it! I wish I could do the same. So much of my life is having to sit perfectly or walk perfectly or just be perfect. Perfection is as obnoxious as it is unattainable.”

Alicia took a sip of her drink. The women had ordered the same one because the name was so intriguing. A house specialty, it was called There’s Always Money in the Banana Stand, and it was a mixture of two kinds of rum, lime juice, pineapple juice, banana syrup, and egg white. Nicole had no idea what egg white was doing in a cocktail, but she couldn’t argue the result. If this was what the banana stand was serving, it’s no wonder they were flush with cash.

“I had to get to that point with my art, too—you know, giving up on perfection. There was always one more brush stroke or one more texture. I could add another highlight to the hair or a shadow on the dress. Finally, I had to start giving myself permission to walk away. To just say, It’s done!”

“I’m a little envious. I want to be at that place, too, but I guess the industry I’m in just doesn’t allow it. Although I’m better now than I used to be.” Breaking off a piece of a corn chip from a basket, Nicole dipped it in a bowl of green salsa. But before putting it into her mouth, she continued.

“I still pursue perfection to gain other people’s approval in a professional context. I have to. God has given me a job, and I want to do it well. But my true affirmation, what makes me content with who I really am, no longer comes from others. It comes only from God.” She dropped the chip into her mouth, then broke off another corner.

“Exactly! One hundred percent. Critics will always be around to tell you you’re terrible. You’re a terrible artist. A terrible person.” Leaning forward, Alicia lowered her voice. “A lady in my church—in my church—came up to me one Sunday morning and said she’d seen a photo of my art online and couldn’t believe a Christian would paint a picture of Marilyn Monroe. Why? Because she was a hussy. Then she said since I thought Marilyn Monroe was so wonderful, I must be a hussy too.”

Nicole almost spit out the remnants of her chip. “She actually used the word hussy?”

“She did, right there by the coffee bar in the foyer.”

“I thought I’d been called every name in the book for some of the photo shoots I’ve done, but I’ve never been called a hussy.”

“Well, if you want that square on your bingo card stamped, come to my church. I’ve got a lady I can introduce you to.”