Chapter 9 - The First Edition
The summer arrived with a sudden, blazing heat that turned the valley floor into a white, shimmering pan of salt and clay. By July, Dana’s studio had become a hive of professional activity—not for the boutique market, but for the regional print exhibition in Santa Fe.
Kendall had spent three months producing a limited edition of twelve prints from The Boundary series. Each page was numbered, signed, and registered under her own copyright line with the Library of Congress—a legal protection Naomi had insisted on setting up before the trust case was officially archived.
The gallery director from Santa Fe, a sharp, elegant woman named Elena Vance (no relation to the trustee), spent an hour reviewing the prints on the long zinc table. She didn't look at Kendall like a child prodigy; she looked at her like a competitor.
"The line work is remarkably clean, Kendall," Ms. Vance said, using a pair of white cotton gloves to lift the edge of print number three. "There’s a tension here that you don't usually see in young regional printmakers. It’s very architectural. Very controlled."
"She knows where the edges are," Dana said, her voice filled with a quiet, professional pride.
"We’d like to include the entire edition in the August new artist showcase," the director said, turning to me. "The gallery commission is standard, but the trust agreement terms your lawyer sent over are perfectly acceptable. All proceeds will be routed directly to the independent account via electronic transfer. No personal checks."
"That’s exactly how we need it," I said.
Kendall stood by the iron press, her hand resting on the heavy steel flywheel. She didn't look excited by the gallery invitation; she looked satisfied, like a carpenter who had verified that a door frame was perfectly square.
"The edition is limited to twelve, Ms. Vance," Kendall said firmly. "I’m destroying the linoleum blocks this afternoon. There won't be a second printing."
The director looked up, her eyebrows rising in surprise. "Destroying the blocks? But Kendall, if the edition sells out on opening night, we could easily run a second series for the retail shop."
"No," Kendall said, her dark eyes flat and calm, looking straight at the woman. "Twelve is the edition. When the blocks are cut, the work is done. I don't want my designs turning into an inventory list."
Ms. Vance looked at Dana, who simply nodded with a fierce, approving smile. A slow, respectful nod came from the gallery director. "As you wish, Kendall. Twelve it is. We’ll list them as 'Blocks destroyed by the artist.' It adds value to the provenance anyway."
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After they left, Kendall took her heavy wood-carving chisel and walked over to the three linoleum blocks resting on the table. With three deep, violent strokes, she cut a wide, ragged X through the center of each design, rendering them completely unusable for future prints.
She didn't look sad as the black linoleum curled away under her blade. She looked clean. She was clearing the table for the next line, the next landscape, the next boundaries she would draw with her own hands.
