by Lori L. Otto
“What are those jeans?” I ask the salesman, pointing to the ones he’s wearing.
“Aren’t they great?” he says, modeling from the side. “We’ve got some right over here.”
“Jeans, Miss Holland? I’m not sure I can abandon my trousers.”
“You sound like my dad,” I tell him, frustrated. “You’re a cool guy, Abram, with an awesome job. Stop dressing like my forty-nine-year-old father.”
“You’re Livvy Holland, aren’t you?” the employee asks.
“Yes.”
“Your dad dresses very well for a 49-year-old man,” he says. “Your friend here...” He shakes his head at my agent.
“His name’s Abram.”
“Yes, Abram? Her father dresses much better than you.”
“My mom dresses him,” I tell him as an aside.
“Got it,” he acquiesces. “Miss Holland, show me what I should wear.”
We spend the next hour in the store picking out jeans, nice shirts and shoes for him. The salesman gives him the card for his hair stylist. Abram is a good sport about the whole thing, even though I can tell he’s a bit embarrassed.
“Well if that wasn’t an ambush makeover,” he says on our way out, carrying three bags full of clothes. I carry another bag with three pairs of shoes. Even though it was my idea, he insisted on spending his own money on the purchase.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I just think it’s time you start playing the part of the agent of the hottest young artist in town,” I tease him.
“Hottest?” He raises his eyebrows.
“Not in that way,” I tell him. “But we both know I’m the next big thing, right?”
“I know that,” he says confidently, even though I was just being silly and cocky with him. “I’m glad you recognize your potential as well. I just hope you’ll get back to it soon, love. I know you can.”
“Thanks for believing in me,” I tell him sincerely.
“Thank you for being honest with me about my lack of style. I’m glad you’re comfortable enough with me to confront me in such a manner,” he laughs, motioning to his purchase. “It means we have some trust. I’m glad you trust me.”
“You’re welcome.” He’s parked in the same garage I am, so I help him load his shopping bags into the trunk. “I have to go tell my parents the good news.” I’m giddy, remembering the check I have in my purse. A part of me wants to keep the amount a secret so I can spend the money on whatever I want, but I know I have to hand it over to Dad. I’ll be glad when I turn eighteen next year and get to take over managing my finances. Granted, I’m not certain how to do that, but it can’t be as difficult as Jon makes it out to be.
CHAPTER 10
My parents and I leave for Connecticut on a chilly, Monday morning in November. In the back seat of Dad’s car, I pull out my phone and call Jon.
“Morning,” he says, his voice still thick with sleep.
“I thought you’d be up,” I tell him. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, baby. What’s up?”
“I just wanted to tell you goodbye. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to call tonight. We’re supposed to be having dinner with a dean or something.”
“Okay,” he says through a yawn. “I’ve got a project to finish anyway. Just keep an open mind,” he suggests. “Ask lots of questions. Find out which dorms are co-ed–”
“Why do you want me to get... that?” I whisper.
“It’ll be easier to sneak me in, don’t you think?” I roll my eyes, having no doubt he can sense me doing it. He laughs on the other end of the line. “Just have a good time.”
“Okay. Love you.”
“Love you, too. Call me when you get in tomorrow night.”
“I will. If we get in early, maybe I can stop by the campus? We could have dinner.”
“That’d be nice. I have class until six.”
“I know. I’ll call you.” I tuck the phone in my bag after ending the call.
“Contessa, don’t forget you still have homework to do for Wednesday.”
“I know, Dad. He said he wants to help me.”
“How is he going to help you with a personal interpretation of Walden? The key word there is personal.”
“Sometimes I just understand things better when we talk about them. Is that wrong?”
“I can talk about Transcendentalism,” he offers. “I’ve read Thoreau. Let’s discuss it.” I glare at him as he watches me through the rearview mirror with a slight smirk. I know he’s just messing with me.
“Jacks, leave her alone,” Mom says. “You might put us both to sleep.” I start laughing as Dad stares at her curiously, pretending to be offended. “Eyes on the road, honey,” she says, patting him on the cheek.
We have lunch with an old friend of Dad’s on campus when we arrive. He tells me about the traditions of the school, the history, things that I’ve heard a little about over the years. One of his daughters graduated from Yale and lives nearby; the other one is in her third year and still lives on campus. We’re supposed to meet her tomorrow if she can get caught up on her studies.
After lunch, we meet with a dean and a tour guide, a sophomore in the art program named Manny.
“Mr. Holland,” he says, extending his hand. “I don’t know if you remember me.”
“I’m sorry, no,” Dad says, shaking his hand anyway.
“Well, it’s been more than ten years, so I can’t blame you. I’m Emmanuel Cortez.” I watch my dad’s expression change to awareness and surprise.
“No kidding!?” he exclaims, clearly taken aback.
“It’s me. I heard some people in the art department talking about you bringing your daughter to tour the campus, and I volunteered to show her around.”
“Livvy, this is Manny,” Dad says. I glance over at Mom, who’s just as confused as I am.
“You took my spot at Nate’s Art Room,” my tour guide tells me. I remember the story my mother had told me last year. To keep me in the program founded by my parents to honor Nate, they had to give me a spot belonging to another child. That child–Manny, apparently–was given a scholarship to the most prestigious art school in Manhattan to assuage Dad’s guilt.
“It looks like you did just fine without it,” I tell him, smiling. “No hard feelings?”
“Of course not,” he says with a laugh. “I’m at Yale. I’d never be at Yale without the education I got at the institute.”
“It’s so nice to see you again, Manny!” my Mom says, still shocked.
“Thank you, Mrs. Holland. And thank you both for the opportunity.”
“I can’t believe you’re here,” my dad continues, dumbfounded. Manny nods and looks back in my direction.
“What do you study?” I ask.
“Photography,” Manny tells me. “Well, fine art, technically, but my focus is photography.”
“Film or digital?”
“Film,” he says. “Only film. It’s so much more versatile and unexpected. Anyone can digitize stuff in Photoshop,” he says with a disgusted expression. “It takes a real artist to create effects and develop film using lighting, paper and chemicals. It’s trial and error, and a little luck,” he admits. “And there’s no ‘undo.’ Only redo.”
“That’s awesome,” I tell him genuinely excited. “I’d love to see your work.”
“I’d love to show you,” he says. “If you have some time, Dean Miller wanted me to give you a tour of the art building.”
“Yes, and Mr. and Mrs. Holland,” the dean says, “I wanted to talk to you about all of the opportunities we have for your daughter here. I thought the kids could spend the afternoon together, and then we could all go to dinner around six. I was going to invite a few professors to join us.”
“What do you say, Tessa?” I give my dad a look. “Livvy, I’m sorry.”
I smile, happy that he got the message. I didn’t know if I’d ever break him of the habit of calling me by my nickname in public, but he was trying. “That so
unds great!”
“Watch your surroundings,” Dad says. I wave goodbye to him and Mom, following Manny toward a large building. It looks like something Jon would be impressed with, with lots of lines and sharp angles.
“This is the architecture building,” Manny tells me as we cross the street. “The art school used to be there, too, but it’s now actually that building over there. Nothing spectacular. It was originally a Jewish center, but now houses the Yale School of Art.”
“That’s where your classes are?”
“Most of them, yeah. The darkroom’s there, which is where I spend a lot of time.”
“Do they have a gallery?”
“Oh, yeah. Different ones, actually.”
“Do you have anything in them?”
“Not yet,” he says. “They’re for senior projects and people in the master’s program. I have a portfolio, though. And a small studio space.”
“You have a studio?”
“Everyone does.”
“Can I see? Your work, I mean, not your studio.”
“Ummm...” he hedges. “Well, hell, you’re an artist. Sure! Come with me.” He takes me past the art building to a smaller building. “The studios are in this other building. That’s where all of my work is.”
“This campus is really pretty. And quiet,” I tell him.
“Definitely a change from Manhattan. I never realized how noisy the city was until I came here. It’s nice.”
As we walk down the hall, Manny starts rubbing his hands together nervously. “I have to warn you, about my photography...”
“It can’t be bad,” I quip quickly.
“That’s a very subjective adjective. Some people might consider it bad. I predominately shoot nudes,” he explains.
“Oh,” I tell him, surprised. “Okay.”
“They’re very tasteful, I think. I’m focusing on high-key photography right now. Lots of light. I just feel like it’s the best way to shoot the human body to truly capture its subtle beauty.”
“Let’s see it,” I encourage him.
“You’ve sketched nudes, right?” I shake my head.
“I just turned seventeen,” I explain. “I’m not sure that’s entirely legal.”
“Nah, it’s art,” Manny says. “You’ll draw them here. So, you just turned seventeen?”
“Last month. I skipped my sophomore year.”
“Wow, creative and smart.”
“You have to be, to come here!” I argue with him. “You’re going to tell me you’re not both of those things?”
“No, I am,” he says cockily, rounding a corner into a room that’s divided into smaller cubes. “Here are the studios,” he says as he puts his hand on my back, guiding me through a maze of temporary walls. “And here’s mine.”
“Wow,” I say, stepping back to take it all in. His entire workspace is plastered with his photography, and just like he’d warned me, most of them are pictures of naked people–naked women.
“Shocked?” he asks.
“Amazed,” I tell him as I move in closer to examine his work. The bright lighting obscures many details of their bodies, bringing out curves and shadows, lines and subtle tones. Nothing is overtly sexual, but many are definitely sensual. A few of the models pose with white material: some smooth, some wrinkled, some sheer. All hide just enough to keep the photos from being considered obscene. “These are incredible.”
“Thanks,” he says confidently.
“Where do you get people to pose for these?”
“All over,” he says. “The school hires some for classes, but some are just local models.”
“They’re such beautiful photos. I bet it takes a long time to stage one.”
“Surprisingly, no,” he says. “I’ve been working on high-key lighting for years. I only started shooting nudes when I came here, but I’ve kind of mastered the lighting. I can show you.”
“How?”
“I could shoot you.”
“Yeah, right,” I tell him, feeling the blush form on my cheeks.
“Not nude, Livvy,” he laughs. “Come on, my set-up is across the hall. I’ll show you my process.”
“I don’t know,” I tell him, unsure.
“Oh, you want to,” he tries to urge me to do it. Laughing, he takes my hand and pulls me out of the studio space into the hallway. “Let’s take one for your boyfriend,” he suggests. “You’ve got one of those, right?”
“I do. He might like that,” I consider his offer. “You’re not gonna sell the picture, are you?”
“That hadn’t even occurred to me... but no. It’ll be beautiful. I promise. He’ll more than like it. He’ll love it.” He opens the door into a separate room with controlled lighting. Another student is shooting photos of some ornate glass vases in a corner. Manny takes me to a space with a white backdrop and three large lamps looming overhead. He flicks each one on and adjusts some filters around them, bouncing light off of them strategically. “Sit on that bench,” he instructs me.
I do as I’m told, crossing my legs and putting my hands in my lap. My eyes wander around the room as he continues to set up. After choosing his lens and loading the camera with film, he focuses on me from a tripod.
“Just look straight ahead at me,” he says. “You can smile, it’s okay.”
I laugh nervously, feeling a little silly. He snaps a few pictures and shakes his head, stepping back first, then taking more steps toward me, trying to frame a shot. He grabs the camera from the tripod and carries it toward me, standing just a few feet in front of me. He looks through the viewfinder, making more adjustments. He peeks up at me and reaches his hand out, stopping just before he touches my shoulder. “May I?” he asks.
“May you what?”
“Just pull it down, over your shoulder... just a little.”
“Oh, sure.” I adjust my sweater for him, moving my bra strap down, too.
“Angle your body that way, but keep your head looking at me, just over your shoulder. No,” he says, shaking his head. “Don’t smile in this one. No, if you want to drive him really crazy,” he suggests, “just open your mouth just a tad, tilt your head down. Make your eyes a little wider. That’s perfect, Livvy. Hold that pose.”
He takes about ten pictures, then pulls the camera down, staring at me. My face heats up once more as he moves toward me. “Beautiful, Livvy.” He touches my chin briefly with his thumb, then pulls my sweater sleeve back up onto my shoulder. “See, that was quick, right?”
“How do you know you got the shot you want?”
“I’m really good at this, Livvy,” he says.
“Can we see them?”
“Are you asking to go to the dark room with me?”
“Well,” I tell him, realizing I don’t really want to do that, “I don’t think I’d be of any assistance in there. I’m sure I’d get in the way.”
“You’d be bored,” he adds. “But I’ll work on this tonight after dinner, and I’ll have the perfect portrait to give to–what’s his name?”
“Jon,” I tell him.
“Okay, Jon. He’ll love it, I promise.”
“Awesome. Thank you!”
“It’s my pleasure. So, you’re not a photographer. They said you’re a painter, right?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s go to some of the galleries, then. I think you’ll be inspired.” I hope he’s right.
After dinner, my parents go up to our hotel room while I linger in the lobby so I can have some privacy. I’d had a great day and really like the campus, but I don’t think Yale can top seeing Jon every day at Columbia. I temper my enthusiasm to call him. After four rings, he answers.
“Hey.” His voice is strained.
“You okay?” I ask him.
He doesn’t answer immediately, but when he does, his response doesn’t sound genuine. “Yeah, great.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s been a bad night, Liv.”
“What happened?”
&n
bsp; He takes a deep breath and sighs heavily. “I can’t talk about it right now. I don’t really know what to think about it all anyway.”
“You’re sure? Should I be worried?”
“No, baby,” he says, and I can hear his assurance. “We’re fine. It’s family stuff, that’s all. If you could come over tomorrow night, though, maybe you can help me make sense of some things.”
“Is everyone okay?”
“Everyone’s safe.”
“Well, sure, yeah. I’ll come. I have time to talk tonight, if you want.”
“I don’t have the energy,” he admits. “Was your day okay?”
“Yeah,” I tell him simply, hoping not to let on that I liked Yale–that I had a good day when his was so bad. “I’ll tell you all about it later.”
“Okay. Olivia, I’m gonna try to get some sleep, if that’s even possible. I’ve got two tests tomorrow.”
“Well, good luck. I love you, and I can’t wait to see you.”
“I love you, too.”
I’m quiet when I get to the suite. When my parents ask me what’s wrong, I don’t tell them anything.
My nose has been buried in Yale materials for the past thirty minutes, and I have to take a break to avoid being carsick. Staring out the window on the drive back home, I consider going to Yale for the first time. The campus is beautiful and vibrant and inspiring, and all of the people I met–most studying some sort of fine art–were friendly, talented and ambitious. I felt like I would fit in and be surrounded by people who were a lot like me. A few of the current students gave me their contact information, and told me I could call them with questions. It felt like I had already made some friends.
Seeing the galleries did get my imagination going, too, and I started to see new paintings developing in my mind. A part of me couldn’t wait to get home and sketch my ideas. Sketching is one thing, but I know I still have to face her painting before I can move on. I can’t simply move past her, as if she doesn’t deserve my time or attention. After all that she gave me over the years, she deserves every ounce of energy, sweat and tears that it will take to finish her portrait.