Designing Morgan

by Lucey Phillips

  I put the jump drive in Mark’s laptop and he began scrolling through the images of my work. He only spent a few seconds on each image.

  He gave me a broad smile when the image of the koi painting appeared. “I remember that one. I’ve always liked it,” he said.

  But the remainder of the time his face was still, his brow furrowed. It started to feel very quiet in his office. The longer he looked, the quieter it seemed to become.

  “Ok,” he finally said. His voice seemed to hold some forced optimism. “You came to me for the truth, and I have to tell you, this portfolio could be stronger.”

  I nodded. That was tough to hear but I knew he was right. I hadn’t taken my craft seriously during the past few years, so of course that’s what my portfolio showed.

  “Listen, it’s not a question of talent, at all,” he said as he made eye contact that was so sincere that I could feel myself blushing. “I know what you’re capable of, I just don’t think this collection of slides represents that talent.”

  “But it’s…” I looked down and swallowed. “It’s pretty much all I have.”

  There were fifteen items in the portfolio. It was supposed to have twenty. I took out my phone and showed him pictures I’d taken of the pieces I salvaged from the rubble.

  “This is all that’s left from what I’ve done recently. Micah’s going to take better photos later this week, so I’m going to add that to the portfolio.”

  “Those are good,” Mark said. “And I think they show a progression for you.”

  “I’ll still need three more things, though. I don’t think there’s time to make anything new. Anyway, I’m kind of out of ideas at the moment.”

  Mark made a dismissive hand gesture. “Yeah, you don’t want to do that anyway. When people throw something together just to pad their portfolio, it really shows. It brings the quality of everything down.”

  He went back to the slides and began scrolling through them again. “They’re really serious about having twenty pieces,” he said. “There’s so many applicants they look for any reason to eliminate people—narrow down the group. And, unfortunately, personal hardship like what happened to your house isn’t a reason to grant exceptions. They would just tell you to try and apply next year.”

  He clicked through the items faster, as though he’d given up searching for whatever he’d hoped to find. Then Mark asked, “What about the jewelry?”

  I wrinkled my nose. “You mean, make slides of my Candy Blue designs and put it in the portfolio?”

  “Why not?” Mark asked. “Warhol’s shoe sketches are hanging in his museum.”

  “Uh yeah, but he’s, you know, Warhol,” I said with a bitter laugh.

  “It might be your only option,” Mark said. “And if you pick the right pieces, it could work. I’ve seen pottery, textiles, one guy even had a flag he’d designed in his portfolio.”

  “Mm. I don’t know.”

  “It’s not ideal, but it’s better than being disqualified for not having enough items in your portfolio.”

  “Ok,” I said. “I’ll find a couple things.”

  I left Mark’s office and walked toward the student union where Micah was going to meet me for lunch. It was a cold, rainy day on campus and for once I wasn’t envious of the student lifestyle. Now they had about five months of trudging through crappy weather to look forward to.

  Micah wasn’t at our usual booth. I checked my phone. She hadn’t texted. I decided to go ahead and get in line for a personal pizza. Maybe she would be a no-show. That would be ok with me, really. I wasn’t sure I was ready to see her after the way she’d reacted to my porch collapse situation.

  I hadn’t called her until a couple days after it had happened. I thought, because she’s an artist, she would have some appreciation for what I was going through.

  “Oh my god,” Micah had said when I told her my artwork was all gone. “Well, thank god I took those pictures. You would really be screwed without those slides.”

  Then she proceeded to talk about her latest achievement—being featured on the cover of the university magazine.

  I ate my pizza while I looked between the door for Micah and my phone for texts from her. When it was thirty minutes past our meeting time, I left. For a minute I considered stopping by her studio—she’d probably just forgotten about our plans. But I decided against it. I wouldn’t want to interrupt a super important creative flow.

  ***

  Sophie moved her gaze from Hannah’s disheveled, but uneaten, salad, to me, and back again with concerned eyes. Motherly isn’t a look I’d seen too often in Sophie. And that Hannah inspired nurturing in her surprised me a little. We’d met at a brick oven pizza place to give her the jewelry we’d made and go over the final mockups of the bridal party’s hair accessories.

  Today Hannah was dressed in an oversized sweater and skinny jeans—very skinny jeans. She was a thin, petite girl, but today even her cheeks and hands looked bony. She pushed her salad around in its bowl, but she never seemed to take an actual bite.

  Finally, Sophie gave me a stern, wide-eyed look that said, “Do something.” It’s an unspoken reality between us that she handles the money and business interactions while I am supposed to take care of any emotional matters. That was demonstrated when the ladies from the cancer support group visited us at the craft fair and Sophie was speechless. Perfectionism gets in her way sometimes, paralyzes her.

  So I tried to rise to the occasion. I tried to find a sympathetic, but not pitying, voice and facial expression when I asked Hannah, “So, you’re not doing some crazy bridal boot camp or crash diet, are you? Because that’s the last thing you need.”

  Sophie nodded a little too enthusiastically, “Yeah, you look perfect. You wanna be healthy on your wedding day, not, you know, a skeleton.”

  I gave Sophie a glance that said, “that’s not helping.” Body image is a complicated matter and we didn’t need to go there with Hannah.

  Hannah shook her head. “I’m not trying to diet and you don’t have to tell me I’m too skinny. My mom already lectured me about that. Actually, at my fitting there were a couple places that were too loose, but I told them not to take the dress in. I want to gain a little for, you know, the boobs.”

  She nodded her chin toward her barely A-cup chest.

  “Well you’re not eating. And you look a little, um, peaked?” Now I wasn’t much help either.

  “I’m just stressed out,” Hannah said. “Wedding stress. Clint’s acting weird.”

  I saw a slightly panicked look on Sophie’s face and felt my own face drain of color. I wondered what could be going on with Clint, but I sure didn’t want to pry into their personal lives.

  “I think he’s just stressed out,” Hannah said with a shrug. “We just bought the house. Then there’s the wedding. Lots of stuff.”

  Hannah was avoiding eye contact and I knew it was time to change the subject. “Well, I know what will cheer you up,” I said, reaching for my bag.

  I took out the white box that held Hannah’s tiara and set it in front of her. Her eyes started to sparkle as she opened the lid. I had placed the tiara in a black velvet, satin-lined, drawstring bag. Hannah’s hands revealed a subtle tremble when she took the tiara out of the bag.

  For a moment, she said nothing. It was understated—if a tiara can be understated. My stomach lurched. She was so, so picky. If this wasn’t acceptable though, I wasn’t sure what I would do. I wasn’t exactly bursting with tiara inspiration. I was lucky I figured out how to put this together.

  I thought it was the perfect complement to the bride’s necklace and earrings. It was Austrian crystal set in silver. The pattern was abstract, but I had attempted to make it vaguely resemble snowflakes, for the December wedding. It wasn’t very tall and it probably wouldn’t work with a big, poofy hairdo.

  Hannah looked at Sophie and then at me. “I love it,” she said. Then she started to cry.

  Normally Hannah’s tears sent me into an eye-rolling f
it of annoyance, but now they actually made me feel… something. I looked at Sophie. She wasn’t crying or anything, but she had the same mushy expression on her face that I imagined I had on mine.

  “Here,” I said to Hannah, who had managed to dial back her crying to some minor chin trembling and not so subtle eye dabbing with her napkin. I reached for the tiara, swept her hair back, and placed it on her head.

  Sophie and I looked at Hannah and then smiled at each other. It really was perfect. Hannah looked from Sophie to me expectantly.

  I took Hannah’s picture and then showed it to her. She grinned.

  “Wow,” she said in a whisper. “Thank you.”

  And then the crying resumed. This time it was the annoying type of crying. Sophie patted Hannah’s hand and I offered her my napkin.

  “Excuse me,” Hannah said. “I just need to powder my nose.” She took her purse, which was black with the designer’s initials all over it in gold glitter, and headed to the restroom.

  “I didn’t know people even said ‘powder my nose’ any more,” Sophie said.

  “Really. Are we in a black and white movie or what?” I said. “That girl is a damn mess.”

  Sophie shrugged. “I think brides are supposed to be kind of neurotic like that though, right?”

  “I guess,” I said. “My cousin Sheila wasn’t, though. And then there was Eve. Remember? She was calm.”

  “I think she was drunk,” Sophie said of our mutual friend who got married during our senior year of college. She looked toward the bathroom and then began scrolling through her phone. Sophie rarely takes her phone out at the dinner table. Maybe she was nervous.

  “Do you think they’re ok? Hannah and Clint?” I asked. “What if something happens and they call it off?”

  “I hope they don’t. But if that happens, we can just photograph the jewelry on models and put it up for sale on our web site. It won’t have the same impact as appearing on Sophie’s blog though.”

  She added. “You put so much work into that stuff, I’d feel terrible if it didn’t work out.”

  “I’d feel terrible if Hannah and Clint don’t get married. I need Clint out of my hair. And Hannah… I don’t know. For some reason she’s grown on me.”

  Sophie smiled. “Aw looky there. Morgan grew a heart,” she said. “So I guess Clint is still texting you?”

  “I haven’t heard from him since the time he texted me while I was at Lee’s house.”

  “Oohh! Does Lee know? What happened?”

  I explained to Sophie how Lee and I had a moment of tension but ultimately seemed to grow closer.

  While I was finishing my story, Sophie looked in the direction of the restrooms and then made a small fake cough. I stopped talking before Hannah got to the table.

  “You guys,” she said, reaching her hands up toward the tiara on her head. “Can you believe I forgot to take this off? I wore it into the bathroom!”

  I held out the velvet bag and Hannah slipped the tiara inside it.

  “Um. Yeah, I can believe it,” I said.

  “You’re terrible, Morgan,” Hannah said, pretending to swat at my arm. Then she hugged me. “You guys are coming to the wedding right? I never got your RSVP.”

  Sophie glanced at me.

  “We’ll be there,” I said.

  19.

  No one smiled. No one even spoke as me and some other MFA applicants waited around outside of room 315 in the Fine Arts Center at LHU. I sat in a stiff plastic chair in the hallway. I was wearing a skirt suit that also felt like stiff plastic. With my back against the wall, I awkwardly faced another MFA applicant directly across the hallway. After a nod and mumbled hello, I didn’t want to make more eye contact, but we both kept getting busted sneaking glances at each other—measuring up the competition.

  It was graduate candidate preliminary interview day, when all candidates were brought in for a brief, fifteen minute interview. Mark had explained that the department started doing pre-interviews a couple years ago when it turned out that more than half of the candidates who looked so promising on paper were sorely missing some basic skills of professionalism including proper dress, the ability to make eye contact, and some essential social skills that should have been mastered in elementary school.

  “Yeah?” I’d said to Mark. “I don’t see the big deal, I mean, artists are kind of eccentric. Everyone knows that.”

  He had shrugged. “Maybe only the quality of the art should matter, but it doesn’t work like that. The university wants graduate students who are going to go out into the world and represent LHU with some, you know, poise and professionalism.”

  I tried to block out those words as I waited for my turn to be interviewed. I’d never thought of myself as poised or professional. That was Sophie’s department. I’d always reveled in being the eccentric one.

  Behind me, there was the low scratching noise of wooden chairs being scooted on the linoleum floor of the classroom. I glanced down at my hands, which felt hot and puffy, splayed out over the leather legal-pad folder that I’d borrowed from Sophie. I wasn’t really required to bring any paperwork to the interview today, but I decided to carry that because I needed something to do with my hands. Plus, Sophie had convinced me that having a pen and paper for note taking was essential for any interview.

  A woman with red hair, spiky on top, shaved on the sides, left the room. She looked like she was a few years older than me and wore a navy blue blazer over denim overalls with black shiny wingtip shoes. I saw relief wash across her face as she exited the classroom. The tension left her eyes and the corners of her mouth. It was easy to see that, for her, whether she’d performed well or poorly during the interview didn’t matter in that moment. All that mattered was that it was over.

  But for me, it was just beginning. A woman named Dr. Stanley called my name, introduced herself, shook my hand, and led me into the room. Dr. Stanley was a thin, tall woman. Her frosty-blonde hair was pulled into a tight bun that sat almost directly on top of her head, making her seem even taller.

  We were in a smaller classroom that probably only seated about forty students. The lectern was on in the corner and chairs were arranged around the table at the front of the classroom. An elderly bald man in a black suit sat at the table. I recognized him immediately as Dr. Zurk, the dean of the art department.

  I wasn’t surprised to see zero recognition in his eyes as we introduced ourselves, despite the fact that I’d taken two of his classes. He quickly looked my entire body up and down. Maybe I imagined it, but there seemed to be a hint of approval of my formal attire.

  The beginning of the interview was pretty much the standard stuff I’d expected: Why was I interested in LHU? What were my strengths and weaknesses? I repeated the answers I’d rehearsed in my head and had even once said out loud to Franklin. That, of course, had been done on Sophie’s advice.

  Then Dr. Stanley threw me a curve ball.

  “Let’s talk about your portfolio,” she said. “First, please tell me which of these pieces was the most challenging for you to create.”

  It took all my strength to resist saying “Um” or “Well” as I tried to gather my thoughts. I took a breath. They were all challenging. I alternately despised and loved all of my pieces while I worked on them. As I thought about my portfolio, I realized that many, if not most, of the items were pieces I really didn’t want to make. They were assignments that I’d marched through with varying degrees of difficulty.

  There was a glazed terra cotta sculpture that was particularly joyless to create. It turned out nicely, but every time I saw that slide in my portfolio I felt a pang of guilt. I’d really just gone through the motions on that one. When I answered Dr. Stanley, I told her that was the most challenging piece to sculpt. But I put an interview-worthy spin on it, saying something about how it pushed me out of my comfort zone and the whole experience helped me mature as an artist. It was total B.S., but she and Dr. Zurk gave satisfied nods when I was done delivering my answer.


  When she asked her next interview question, Dr. Stanley surprised me again.

  “Please tell us which item in your portfolio gave you the most joy as you developed it from idea to completed work,” she said.

  That was easy: The tiara was my favorite. But the reason I really did feel joy making it probably wasn’t something Dr. Stanley and Dr. Zurk wanted to hear. I loved making that because I knew Hannah would love wearing it. I felt like I was making a symbol of her very real feminism and, I don’t know, princess-like characteristics.

  Of course, the tiara was never intended to be a part of my portfolio. It was one of a few Candy Blue items I’d photographed and added to the portfolio after almost all of my artworks were destroyed in the roof collapse.

  Dr. Zurk and Dr. Stanley were both looking at me. I hadn’t decided on an answer, but I couldn’t sit there in pained silence any more.

  “That’s a tough one,” I said. “Just the act of creating, of starting with nothing and ending with something, is joyful in itself. But I guess, when I think about the piece that I loved making the most, I have to say, was the tiara. It’s on slide number eighteen.”

  Dr. Stanley’s expression was of poised interest. Dr. Zurk, on the other hand, frowned with a furrowed brow.

  “It was a commissioned work and I just felt like the theme was straightforward and easy to put into physical form.”

  Easy? Why did I say easy? It was true, but that’s not what educators want to hear. I watched Dr. Stanley make a note on her legal pad.

  Dr. Zurk was still frowning.

  “Your portfolio,” Dr. Zurk started and then cleared his throat. “It feels rather, er, scattered. You’ve got mixed media collages, and then there’s oils and then there’s a, what is that wood, sculpture? And a crown?”

  He looked at me with sharpness in his eyes. He hadn’t asked a question, but it was obviously my turn to talk.

  “Um, yes, Doctor,” I said, stalling. “I intentionally included a wide variety of forms and media in my portfolio. I wanted to demonstrate that I’m comfortable exploring new territory.”