Chapter 142
Elara
I hesitated in the stairwell, one hand gripping my supply case strap, the other holding my phone with Raven's warning messages glowing on the screen. My instinct screamed to keep walking, to get out of this building and back to the Bronx where I could breathe. But another part of me—the part that had learned the hard way that ignorance never protected you—needed to know what was happening.
I found an empty corner table in the self-service area, far from the clusters of celebrating contestants, and sat down with my untouched plate. The sushi had gone completely cold, the rice hardening at the edges. I set my fork aside and pulled out my phone, my stomach already tightening with dread.
Twitter loaded slowly, the spinning icon making my heart race. When the feed finally appeared, Isabella's post was right there at the top of my mentions, posted less than an hour ago.
"Thank you to everyone who's supported me through this journey. I gave this competition everything I had—six years of training at Parsons, every technique I've learned, every ounce of dedication I could muster. Coming in third place has taught me something important: there are some things that effort alone can't overcome. Like the power of capital. #PraxisPrize #ArtistLife"
Two hundred and thirty-seven comments. My finger trembled as I scrolled through them.
"Isabella you were amazing! Third place is still incredible!"
"The power of capital is real... but true artists won't be defeated!"
"I get what you're saying... the top two both have pretty deep connections."
The last comment had forty-three likes. I felt my throat constrict. She hadn't accused me directly—she was too smart for that. But the implication hung there, perfectly crafted for her followers to run with. The "six years at Parsons" emphasized her credentials. The "effort alone can't overcome" suggested the winners hadn't earned it through skill. And "power of capital" painted a picture of corruption without her having to prove anything.
I kept scrolling, my hands getting colder with each comment. Then I saw it—a retweet from @NYArtReview with 3.5K retweets and 8.2K likes. Posted forty minutes ago.
"Observations and Reflections on the Praxis Prize Preliminary Results."
The article link sat there, the headline reading: "Technique and Emotion: The Delicate Balance in the Praxis Prize Preliminaries."
Byline: Ethan Holt, Senior Editor.
My vision blurred at the edges. I clicked the link with a finger that had gone numb.
The article opened with a disclaimer about objectivity—"As observers of the contemporary art scene, we must approach emerging competitions with both enthusiasm and critical rigor"—but the framing was anything but neutral. The first three paragraphs were devoted entirely to Sloane.
"First place winner Sloane Kennedy's 'Phoenix Rising' demonstrates a breathtaking command of technique. Her mastery of color theory, compositional balance, and her contemporary interpretation of classical painting methods all reveal an artist of exceptional maturity and depth. This is, without question, a deserving first place."
My hands clenched around the phone. Of course. Of course Ethan would use his platform this way.
The article continued with measured praise for Isabella—"Third place Isabella Torres displays the solid foundation of six years at Parsons. Her technical execution rivals that of Kennedy's, with only a slight gap in thematic depth"—before pivoting to me.
"However, the second-place result raises questions worth discussing. While the judges emphasized the work's 'emotional authenticity,' we must acknowledge certain technical deficiencies. Rough brushwork, thin layering, harsh color transitions—these are hallmarks of insufficient foundational training."
"Of course, we understand the judges may wish to encourage 'raw emotional expression.' But should artistic standards accommodate technical compromise? When a high school student's work"—the phrase was italicized, as if my age was somehow damning—"ranks above two artists with years of professional training, we must ask: is this an over-valorization of 'sincerity,' or are other factors at play?"
"It's worth noting that this contestant's materials were damaged before the competition—a circumstance that naturally evokes sympathy. But did the judges award extra points for this unfortunate incident? Art competitions should be based on the work itself, not the creator's circumstances."
The conclusion twisted the knife: "We respect the judges' decision, but hope the Praxis Prize maintains its traditionally high standards. True art should withstand the test of both time and professional scrutiny."
I read it twice, my vision sharpening with each word. Ethan had done exactly what I'd feared—dressed up his bias in the language of objective criticism. He'd questioned my technical ability, suggested my score was inflated by sympathy, and implied the judges had compromised their standards. All while wrapping it in phrases like "we must ask" and "worth discussing," as if he were simply raising legitimate concerns rather than undermining my legitimacy.
And he'd praised Sloane to the heavens. "Without question." "Exceptional maturity." "Deserving."
The article had been shared 3,547 times. The comments section was a battlefield.
"Ethan Holt is being way too harsh! This article reeks of personal bias!"
"But he has a point about the technique. I saw the photo—it IS rough. Should sympathy really factor into scoring?"
"I looked at the work images. It's raw, yeah, but the emotional impact is undeniable. Isn't that what art is supposed to do?"
Someone had started connecting dots: "Wait, isn't Elara Vance the Vane family foster daughter? And isn't she involved with Julian Vane somehow? This smells fishy."
Sloane's fans had mobilized: "Our girl Sloane's first place is 100% deserved! Some people really think sympathy points equal talent."
My phone buzzed—a text from Raven. "DO NOT read the comments. I'm serious. Focus on the work."
Too late. I'd already seen enough to know exactly what Ethan had done. He'd built a narrative where Sloane was the obvious, unquestionable winner and I was a questionable anomaly—a high school kid who got lucky, whose damaged materials had earned me pity points I didn't deserve.
I took a screenshot of the article and texted it to Dr. Sterling with a simple message: "You should know about this. The New York Art Review's coverage is already shaping public opinion."
Her response came in ten seconds: "I saw it. This isn't objective art criticism—it's an attack with a preset agenda. I'll handle it."
I set my phone face-down on the table, my hands shaking so badly I had to clasp them together. Around me, the whispers had gotten louder, less cautious. People weren't even bothering to lower their voices anymore.
"Did you see The New York Art Review piece? Guess there really was something off..."
"She's still sitting there eating like nothing happened. The nerve."
A girl at the next table held up her phone to her friend. "Even the professional media is calling it out. You really think she earned that second place?"
Her friend glanced at me, then quickly away. "I mean... if even Ethan Holt is questioning it..."
Someone else, closer to the buffet line, laughed. "Technique deficiencies but gets second place? Yeah, capital's power is real all right."
A guy I vaguely recognized from the check-in area had his phone pointed in my direction. He muttered to his companion, "Gonna post this on Instagram. 'The contestant the professional media just called out, in person.'"