I smiled back at him.
After we finished our coffee I went inside, put Franklin on his leash, and brought him out to meet Lee. I was happy that Franklin didn’t embarrass me with any awkward jumping or crotch sniffing. Then I was even happier to see Lee kneel down, look Franklin in the eyes, scratch his head, and say hello to him.
We did two slow laps around the block. As we got closer to my house, Lee noticed me yawning.
“How are you?”
“Better. I think I just needed a minute for the excitement to wear off.” It had worn off quickly and suddenly my body was aware of how late it was. I yawned again. “I was so wired. Now it’s a crapshoot to see if I’m even going to have the energy to brush my teeth.”
He laughed and pulled me into another warm hug. “I can stay as long as you want.”
I wrapped my arms around him a little tighter. “I’m ok now. Thank you.”
We lingered in that hug for what must have been a couple minutes. My eyes started to feel heavy and dreamy. When I finally loosened my arms around Lee, he let his hands slip down to my waist. Then he leaned down and gave me a soft kiss on the cheek. Then another soft kiss on my lips.
8.
“Is this it?” Micah leaned over the picnic table in my back yard where I had set out my sculptures.
“Well…”
“I mean, I like them, but you need twenty, right?”
“These are the best of my newer sculptures,” I said. “I have some paintings and collages too. Then I thought I could fill it out with a few pieces from undergrad.”
“Oh! Make sure you get the Koi in there,” Micah said. “That thing is badass.”
She was talking about my 6-foot tall mixed media painting of colorful, swirling fish with long, flowing fins. I had used oil paints and natural fibers to give it lots of texture.
“Yeah thanks, that’ll definitely go in there. I already have a nice slide of it.”
She had borrowed the art department’s professional-grade digital camera to help me get slides ready for my portfolio. The plan was to photograph my sculptures in the “golden hour” sunset light. I had hung a canvas cloth over my fence and draped it over the picnic table to make a plain backdrop for the sculptures.
Micah squinted into the sunset. “Almost perfect,” she said. “Let’s get started with these.”
I was resisting the urge to ask Micah if she thought these sculptures were any good—if they belonged in a grad student portfolio. I knew she would be brutally honest and I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear anything negative.
Besides, I already knew my collection needed work. It wasn’t an embarrassment, but I would surely be in competition against stronger portfolios. My only hope was that lots of the other applicants would be straight out of their bachelor’s degree. They might not have quite the same range as me.
Micah adjusted my wire and fiber sculpture, touching it only with her fingertips as if it were wet or dirty.
“Uh. That’s not the front,” I said. “You have it sideways.”
“Oh. I thought it’s more interesting like this.”
I didn’t say anything else. I had to trust her, even if her tone was kind of insulting. The art professors always loved Micah’s work and she’d even won a couple awards, but I never got it. Her stuff was too obscure and edgy for my taste.
While Micah was photographing my sculptures, my phone rang. It was Sophie.
“Hey, I’m sorry but Princess is having another meltdown,” she said.
“Oh great, what now?”
“There was a problem with the order for the bridesmaid’s dresses so they had to pick out different ones. The new dresses don’t go with the jewelry. We have to start from scratch. She called me crying—again,” Sophie said. “I’m headed to her house right now. Can you meet me there?”
“Right now?” I asked. “Micah’s here and we’re taking pictures of my sculptures for my portfolio.”
“Please, Morgan. I really need you at this meeting. I know you’ll figure out a way to make this work. Plus, just seeing her designer there will make Hannah happy.”
“What to you mean ‘her designer?’” My voice got a little louder. “Despite what you guys think, that little nitwit doesn’t own me and neither do you.”
Micah stopped adjusting the sculptures and turned to look at me with her eyes wide, the camera dangling from her hand by its thick strap.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Sophie said, her voice snapping with irritation.
“This whole thing with Hannah is absolutely ridiculous. She’s just one customer. Why are you so obsessed with powdering her butt?”
I asked, my voice still loud. “Micah and I have been waiting for the right light and now we have it. I’m not leaving.”
“Ok. That’s just great. I’ll handle it and when you’re done playing art snob and you need to eat or pay your mortgage, you just let me know.”
“I’d rather be an art snob than a shameless suck-up,” I said, shouting now.
I touched the “end call” button with a trembling finger and took a deep, shuddering breath.
“Uh. Everything ok?” Micah asked with a nervous laugh. I laughed too, but it was more of a bitter snort.
“I thought being an entrepreneur would mean not being anybody’s bitch,” I said. “But I have Sophie telling me what to do, batshit crazy clients telling me what to do. I want out.”
Micah shook her head. “Kissing up and getting told what to do is just life,” she said. “I have to write grant proposals begging for money, then schmooze patrons and beg them for money. I mean, when I have someone who wants to buy a painting that will pay my rent for two months and they have questions—there’s some butt smooching involved there too.”
“Damn. That’s not what I wanted to hear,” I said. “But still, what you create is all up to you. You’re not trying to capitalize on trends and make your ideas work with what’s already happening in the industry, right?”
Micah kneeled and snapped another photo. “Depends on who you ask. There are trends in fine arts, too. They’re just, I don’t know, a little more insidious.”
She showed me a photo on the camera’s screen. “I like this one.”
It was striking. My sculpture practically glowed in the sunlight.
“For me,” Micah said, “it’s all about the flow—that creative slipstream when you’re working on something and you’re totally absorbed and the outside world just melts away. Hours and hours pass by and you don’t even notice.”
I knew what she was talking about. I get that way with my jewelry. I was never bored, never annoyed, when I was drawing sketches and making prototypes for Candy Blue. Sometimes that happened when I worked on my art, too. But I was often so insecure about my abilities that making art was stressful. I second-guessed myself too much of the time.
“That makes it all worth it? You don’t mind the schmoozing because it lets you make art?” I asked.
Micah smiled broadly. “Exactly. When you’re doing it right.”
***
This is how Clint always gets me: It’s like he has some special douchey sense that tells him when I’m hurting or lonely, and that’s when he shows up. So of course, later in the evening, after my little blowup with Sophie and when I was halfway through a bottle (ok, box) of wine, the messenger program on my laptop chimed.
“Sorry about the mess with the jewelry. Are you ok?” Clint had written. Of course I had to laugh because his name popped up as “The Douche” on my computer.
I knew I needed to keep the boundaries firm this time, to keep some distance. I replied, “Yeah, we’ll get it taken care of. Minor setback :)”
I should have closed my computer and walked away. But I was kind of lonely. I didn’t know when Sophie and I would talk again. And my evening with Micah had left me with new, gnawing doubts about pursuing art as a full-time career. Under the emotional distortion of the wine, those two factors made me feel like my life was in complete shamble
s.
I rationalized—drunkenly—that responding politely to Clint is not the same thing as falling into his trap. So I wrote, “How is Hannah holding up?” Keeping the conversation on the topic of the fiancée would show him that, even though we were speaking, the boundaries would definitely stay intact.
“To be honest, she’s a basket case. She’s not like you, always cool under pressure.”
Here we go. Classic Clint.
I tried to shut out our past. I tried to forget about how our relationship—as messed up as it was—was my longest and most serious relationship. Clint always knew how to nourish (falsely, of course) my fragile ego in a way that made me cling to him—almost like I was addicted.
I had a lurking sensation telling me that I was roaming farther and farther from safe territory. I shut it up with another gulp of wine.
I wrote, “Flattery? Really?”
“Stop. You know what I mean.”
Then there was silence. I went back to stalking my competition on Etsy.
After a few minutes another message popped up. “Are you all set for your MFA? Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help you. I always loved your artwork… Proud of you.”
The word “loved” seemed to pop out from the rest of the text. I looked at Franklin. “He’s proud of me? Pfftt. I’m not his to be proud of!” Franklin raised his head to look at me, then gently laid his cheek back down on the floor. “And what could he possibly do to help me? He’s a realtor. He knows zilch about art.” I slammed my mug onto the table, sloshing wine over the side.
I had a sinking feeling about my MFA application. Getting rejected or waitlisted were real possibilities. I needed to hedge.
“Getting things in order,” I wrote to Clint. “But sometimes having second thoughts about grad school vs. Candy Blue. Not sure I’ll have time for both.”
“Yeah. Candy Blue seems like a big deal. You have to follow your passions though.”
Then Clint wrote, “I know I already said this, but I really am sorry Morgan. Sorry I didn’t tell you about Hannah sooner.”
“You don’t need to apologize to me, but maybe you should apologize to her? Does she even know we talk?”
“It’s just talking. Not a big deal.”
“Ok. It’s your life. I think if I found out my fiancé was messaging his ex at 11p.m., I would be kind of uncomfortable.”
“We’re friends first. Exes second,” he wrote.
“Ok,” I wrote. “Friends.”
Then I said a very platonic goodnight. I closed my computer, took Franklin out one last time, and went to bed, satisfied that I had avoided any emotional traps.
***
I had three of the four letters of recommendation that I needed for my application. Dr. Hurley and Professor Arnett both replied to my emails with gracious, but standard notes saying they would submit their letters to the graduate office within the week. I couldn’t tell from either of their emails whether they actually remembered me.
Mark’s email was more familiar. He also said he would provide a recommendation, but he added that he had always liked my work and he asked me to stop by his office and say hi the next time I was on campus.
So when I was on my way to Micah’s studio to look over the new slides of my sculptures, I made sure to plan my visit during Mark’s posted office hours. I hoped it wouldn’t turn out like the time I ran into my second grade teacher in the grocery store. The sight of her and the sound of her voice caused me to somehow regress to age seven. I giggled as I answered her questions and even told her “Me and Sophie are still best friends.”
Ugh, I rolled my eyes at the memory as I climbed the stairs to the faculty offices of the Mason Center. My familiar companion, social anxiety, was showing itself in the form of sweaty hands and sweaty feet that slid around inside my flats. I kept thinking: be cool.
But when I stood in his doorway and could see Mark’s profile as he worked on his computer, I got a shaky feeling from my knees to my fingertips.
I knocked gently on the doorframe and felt a sincere grin burst onto my face.
“Hey! Morgan!” Mark’s eyes lit up. He stood to hug me.
Oh my god. He was hugging me. I prayed my nervous back sweat had not soaked all the way through my shirt. He offered me a seat and he sat down facing me.
“So, what’s going on? How’s our very own famous artisan doing?” he asked me.
Famous artisan? Was he joking?
“What?” If my face hadn’t already been glowing bright red, it was now.
“Your jewelry business! Everyone here is so excited about how well you’re doing. I was going to get in touch with you about maybe coming in for a guest lecture for the freshman—you know, give them some inspiration.”
“Oh,” my mouth felt like it was coated in tissue paper. “I didn’t realize you even knew about that.”
“Yeah we were all so excited when the alumni magazine did that spread on you and your business partner,” Mark said. “Your pieces are stunning.”
Stunning? What? Now I remembered doing that interview with the magazine about a year ago. Sophie had set it up, of course.
“Um, thanks,” I said. “It’s not really, you know, art. Like, real art.”
Mark chuckled and looked a little confused. “Why not?”
“It’s just jewelry. Not even fine jewelry—costume jewelry.”
“Morgan, you have to know that is art,” he said. He looked me in the eyes. His expression was tender. “Just because it’s something people wear and it’s not hanging in a gallery somewhere doesn’t make it any less of a creative expression. And best of all you have so many people who enjoy it. My wife is a huge fan.”
I looked down. My stomach seemed to be getting angrier and angrier. For the first time, I noticed a silver wedding band on his left ring finger. It had some nicks and scratches.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m, well, I’m surprised you like it so much.”
“The faculty is really proud of you.”
I took a deep breath. “Well. I was kind of interested in getting back into fine art. I have some sculptures and some collages that I’ve worked on since I graduated. So anyway, I just wanted to thank you for the reference. I really, really appreciate it.”
Mark smiled warmly. “So what is your concentration going to be? I assume folk art? I mean, your jewelry doesn’t really seem folksy, but that’s what category it would fall into.”
“No. I’m ready to move on from the jewelry. I wanted to focus on sculpture and mixed media paintings. And I love making collages with found items, but I’m not sure if that’s really what the graduate faculty wants to see.”
Mark leaned back in his chair and nodded his head. He gazed out the window for a moment.
“I think you’ll do well at whatever you decide,” he said. Then he looked me in the eye again. “Even though you’re one of our most high-profile graduates in recent years, I want to just give you a heads up that it’s going to be really competitive this year. We already have forty applicants and could get another forty or fifty before the deadline. And that’s for just twenty spots.”
I nodded.
“Also,” he took a short bracing breath. “Also the waiting list already has ten people.”
My eyes started to sting. “So really, there’s ten spots?”
Mark looked down. “Maybe, but some of the people on the waiting list may have gotten into other programs.”
“Oh.” I thought about Sophie and Hannah and Clint. I just wanted to get away from all of that.
This was not the time for pouting, especially in front of Mark. “I know my portfolio could be stronger, but I still want to give it a try. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. Gotta take the plunge, you know? If it doesn’t work out, well, I’m not quitting my day job.” I smiled and prayed it was even slightly convincing.
Mark looked concerned. “Oh absolutely,” he said, his voice a little too loud, “I didn’t say that to discourage you at a
ll. Just wanted to give you a little insider information. I’ll be pulling for you.”
I thanked him and we said goodbye, I headed to Micah’s studio, taking the long way through the bookstore and the coffee shop. It would be October soon. Afternoons were still hot but mornings and evenings had become chilly. I looked at the LHU hoodies and touched their soft, thick fabric. I was tempted to buy one, but I reconsidered when I thought about my MFA application. If I didn’t get in I might feel bitter every time I looked at it. I didn’t need any relics of my failure.
When I got to Micah’s studio I had sunk into a dreary mood that I couldn’t summon the energy to hide. Micah didn’t seem to notice.
She hurriedly showed me what she deemed to be the four best slides. I’d had six sculptures but, according to Micah, photos of those sculptures “didn’t turn out.” I had to guess that was her way of telling me those sculptures probably didn’t belong in a portfolio.
“Thank you so much for doing this.”
Micah shrugged. “Sure. Things aren’t as busy for me now as they will be when it gets closer to November, so it’s cool.”
I decided then that I’d be working with a professional for my other slides. I just had to decide which of my artworks were acceptable—or least objectionable—for a collection that was supposed to be my “best work.”
9.
It had been three days. It was the longest I’d gone without speaking to Sophie in probably twenty years. We’d had disagreements before—plenty of them. But the bitterness had never lingered like this.
We didn’t usually apologize to each other or even try to resolve our problems. Instead, someone would just show up, acting like everything was normal. And soon it would be. Sometimes I was the first to come back, sometimes Sophie was the one who would bring coffee and start a little small talk, pretending things were ok until suddenly they were.
Maybe now it was my turn to call or text first. I knew she must be feeling abandoned; like I’d tossed her to the monogrammed-cashmere-wearing wolves. But I felt shoved aside, too.
When it came to my attempt to go back to school, Sophie had nothing helpful to say. All she seemed to care about was her own future. And so what if Candy Blue slowed down while I was busy with something else? Sophie could always get a regular marketing job. All the work she’d done with Candy Blue would give her the coolest resume ever.
Designing Morgan Page 6