What I Want You to See

by Catherine Linka

“A grad student told me that Professor Krell thinks the Zoich Scholarship should have gone to someone else.” I hold my breath and wait for Mrs. Mednikov’s reaction.

  Her eyes narrow, and she mutters a string of Russian words, none of which I understand. Her lips purse and she switches back to English. “This is not the first time I have heard such talk about him. Learn what you can from this man—and do your art.”

  I nod so she’ll know I heard her, and dip into the sour cream floating on my soup. If only it was that simple.

  Krell is still in my head as I scour Mrs. Mednikov’s soup pot. How is it that Adam saw what I was trying to say with Appetite, but Krell, who’s supposed to be such a genius, didn’t? I dig the scrubby pad into a black spot of burned-on beet. It makes more sense that Krell did see it, but he’s so pissed the faculty gave me the Zoich, he’s taking his anger out on me. At least I know now what I’m up against.

  The pot’s gleaming and spot-free when I leave it in the drying rack and get ready to start in on my homework. Back in my room, I dig through my messenger bag for my pencil case. I can’t let Krell get to me.

  Down deep in the bottom of my bag, my fingers close around a tube of paint. Crap, I think as I pull it out. Now I have to sneak it back on the display.

  I stare at the silver tube in my palm, but the I need this feeling is gone. Why the hell did I take this? I don’t need it for the assignments I’m working on. The only things due are some pencil drawings and a pastel study.

  But I don’t have time to waste wondering. Tomorrow’s assignment for drawing class is negative space. I’ve done this exercise dozens of times before, so I park myself on the bed below Mom’s dream catcher. We’re supposed to draw the space an object doesn’t occupy, and the dream catcher’s thin wooden loop, spiderweb weave, and dangling feathers, all its odd and irregular shapes, make it a challenge to get right.

  I disappear into my drawing, to a place where nothing and no one exist outside the line, light, and shadows on the paper. When I finally surface, I catch the reflection of an unfinished painting propped up on the dresser. Oh. That’s why.

  Not a painting I’m working on for school, it’s a portrait of a young woman with loose blond hair playing a guitar on an outdoor stage. Her head is tilted, she’s lost in the music, and her gauzy white dress waterfalls to the floor.

  I hold the tube of paint up to the canvas, and it’s just as I thought. It’s not that Phthalo Turquoise Blue is the perfect blue, but it’s perfect for this.

  The singer’s dress is embellished with two large bluebirds over the breasts, but the blue has never been right. Too bold, too harsh for the gentle singer.

  The truth cascades over me. Blue birds. Songbird.

  I pull the still life out of my portfolio case and hold it up. Blue bird. Dead bird.

  You don’t always know why you paint something until after you paint it.

  I collapse on the bed, and my heart squeezes. Appetite isn’t about greed at all.

  My pencil dug into the paper, almost ripping it. I tried, but I couldn’t draw Iona’s face, just her words spinning like a hurricane.

  WHERES YOUR MOM

  CANT FIND MY BOOTS

  BOYS NOT PACKED

  LIMO DUE IN 1 HOUR

  WHERES YOUR MOM

  CANT FIND MY BOOTS

  BOYS NOT PACKED

  LIMO DUE 1 HOUR

  The words flew apart, and the letters shattered into fragments like broken bones.

  WHERE

  WHE RE

  WH E R

  MOM

  M O

  M

  O

  M

  I rarely look at this page and usually skip past it. Even though it’s nearly blank, today when my sketchbook opens to it, I drown in memories.

  How Iona’s first text interrupted me when I was paying for her boots at the shoe repair. WHERE’S YOUR MOM. BOYS NOT PACKED.

  How I texted back NOT SURE and tossed the bag with the boots behind the driver’s seat.

  How my phone buzzed nonstop, but I refused to indulge Iona by answering as I drove back up Olympic to the elite dry cleaner.

  How the owner handed me the dress Iona wore to the Golden Globes and because he’d known Mom forever, shooed me out the door.

  How I was so late for Hayley by then I took the box with Iona’s beloved Valentino swaddled in layers of acid-free tissue and threw it in my trunk.

  How back at the Taylors’, I pulled into my spot beside the garage and before I even got out of the car, Iona charged out of the house. “Where the hell’s your mom? We’re going to miss our flight!”

  “Mom’s not here?” I remember saying. This was so not like her. “She’ll probably be back any second.”

  “Perfect. You’re no help either.” Iona stomped back inside and I texted Mom as I followed Iona in. WHAT’S GOING ON? IONA ON RAMPAGE.

  Iona stood in the living room, waving her hands over an explosion of parkas, ski pants, and four half-filled suitcases.

  I checked my phone. Nothing. “I’m sure there’s a good reason Mom’s not here. How about I finish packing the boys so you can get ready?”

  “Fine,” Iona said, although clearly it wasn’t. She fumed down the hall to her bedroom.

  I stuffed the clothes into the oversize suitcases, wheeled them into the foyer, and checked my phone again. Still no response from Mom.

  “Where are my goddamned boots?” Iona yelled.

  I dashed out to my car and as I fumbled for my keys, dialed Mom’s phone. This was crazy. Mom always answered her texts.

  The phone rang four times before Mom finally answered. “Hello.”

  “Mom, where are you?” I said. “Iona is completely losing it.”

  “Miss Reyes?”

  My heart missed a beat. “Who is this?”

  “This is Denise Acampo, an ER nurse at Cedars-Sinai. Your mother was brought in a few hours ago.”

  A chill swept over my skin. “Is she okay? Can I talk to her?”

  “She’s in surgery, and we’ll know more when she’s out.”

  I jumped in my car and took off.

  There’s no escaping Krell.

  I’m parked in the CALINVA coffee bar going through the course catalog, because once again in studio class, Krell ignored what was on my easel while he counseled his favorites on how to attack specific problems in their work.

  I was set up right next to David Tito for the in-class assignment, so I was forced to listen to every word as Krell and David went back and forth about color choice and perceptual color versus pictorial. Even Kevin, whose technical skills are the weakest in the class, got ten minutes of Krell’s precious time to show him how removing paint in this one area could do more for his painting than adding it.

  The catalog confirms what I already suspected. Krell teaches half the upper-division classes I need for my degree, so the only way to get out of his orbit is to change my concentration.

  I scroll through the list of majors—ceramics, photography, printmaking, sculpture, nontraditional media—hoping for a spark or a revelation. Nothing.

  I’m a painter. I have no interest in or feel for working in clay or textiles, metal or digital media.

  As Mom would say, there’s no around, there’s only through.

  Taysha plunks her rooibos tea down on the table and I casually close my laptop. “Did you ever consider majoring in something else?” I ask.

  She squints at me. “Other than fashion design? Yeah, my other choice was dental hygiene.”

  At first I think she’s joking, but she’s serious, and I feel my cheeks get hot. Sometimes I forget how many other students at CALINVA are holding on by a string.

  “You thinking about changing majors?” Taysha says.

  I shrug.

  “Krell’s really getting to you.” She reaches over and rubs my arm. “I could tell you it’ll get better, but that might be lying.”

  Kevin sets a large white envelope on the table and drops into the chair across from
me. “Mona in the office asked me to give this to you.”

  There’s a big red Zoich logo on the outside, and a thought flashes through my head. What if Krell contacted them? What if he told them my scholarship should go to Bryian?

  Kevin settles into his chair, and Taysha says, “Go on. Open it.”

  I’m being paranoid, I tell myself. Just because Krell hates my work doesn’t mean he’d trash me to the Zoich, right?

  I undo the flap and shake out a letter with a plastic card attached and four passes to the Broad museum. I scan the letter while Taysha examines one of the passes.

  Dear Ms. Reyes, as a Zoich scholar we invite you to visit the Broad collection on a regular basis. Please use the enclosed entry passes…

  “These are VIP passes,” Taysha says. “You get in free—anytime you want, and you don’t have to wait in line.”

  Bernadette, who’s sitting at the next table, wheels around in her seat. “You’re kidding me. I tried to get into the Broad in August, and the wait was three hours!”

  “What’s the card for?” Kevin asks.

  I turn it over. “Free parking,” I say, not quite believing it.

  “Oooo. Your scholarship comes with some nice perks,” Taysha says.

  I hear the envy, and I know I’d be jealous if she was the one with free tuition and surprises like this.

  The three of them start checking out the museum guide I didn’t realize was in the envelope. I’ve only known them a few weeks, but I feel like Kevin and Taysha could become solid friends. Bernadette I’m not so sure.

  “Who’s up for a field trip?” I say, holding up the passes.

  They each snatch a pass out of my hand and Bernadette charges right in. “What’s the best day for you?”

  “Sundays, I guess. I don’t work that day.”

  “Great. Sunday.” She looks to Kevin and Taysha, who both nod. “Okay,” she says. “Who wants to drive?”

  I hesitate, hoping someone else will volunteer. Because even though I cleaned out my car, what if there’s something still in it, like a washcloth stuffed into a side pocket or a can opener rattling around the back that the second one of them saw it, they’d guess I’d slept there. They don’t know me, and the only label I want is “artist.”

  Kevin raises a hand. “I’ll drive.”

  The coffee bar echoes with the screechy sound of people pushing their chairs away from the tables, and we start collecting our stuff, realizing it’s almost time for class.

  “Pricks,” Kevin mutters. He stares after two guys who just left a table littered with crumpled napkins and dirty cups. Then he walks over and clears it, separating their garbage into the trash and recycling cans.

  I haul his backpack onto my shoulder and carry it over to him. I like that he cleaned the table, but can’t resist teasing him. “Wouldn’t have guessed you’re a neat freak.”

  Kevin flashes me a self-deprecating grin. “My roommates would argue I’m not. But my dad has this saying: ‘Always leave the campsite cleaner than when you found it.’”

  “Sounds like a neat freak manifesto.”

  “Nope. More like a leave-the-world-a-better-place manifesto.”

  I smile to myself, knowing I chose right handing Kevin that pass, because right now he sounds like Mom.

  The Broad sits on a corner like an off-kilter white cube made out of perforated paper, but when we enter, the lobby swallows us inside undulating slate-gray walls. A narrow escalator disappears into the dark gray ceiling. Now that I see how big it is, I realize I should have pushed our visit back a week. I’ve got a truckload of assignments due tomorrow. But maybe what’s inside will inspire me and be worth the time I’ll lose coming here.

  Bernadette and Taysha go right to the escalator, and Kevin and I hop on a few steps behind them. In the dim tunnel, it’s almost impossible to tell how long the escalator is until we emerge into the light-soaked top floor.

  “Nice,” Kevin says. “Look at how they stretched the white waffle skin over the building so it acts as a translucent net to let in the light.”

  His curls bob around his face like soft brown springs, and it kills me how much they remind me of the Taylors’ Labradoodle, but I’d never tell him that.

  Taysha and Bernadette head over to Koons’s huge shiny tulips while Kevin disappears around a corner. I walk the room and pass a dozen paintings that don’t interest me enough to stop. Contemporary art is about ideas, but there are moments like now when I feel incapable of grasping its genius.

  I can lose myself in a portrait like people lose themselves in a book, wondering about the person it portrays. But this thing I swear is a car hood?

  Maybe Krell can sense my lack of reverence and that’s why he can’t stand me.

  I lean in to read the descriptive panel beside what looks even more like a car hood now that I’m directly in front of it. According to the museum staff, the piece “derives its form and materiality from the automobile.” In other words, it’s supposed to look like a car hood.

  I roll my eyes, because I’ll never understand why this is art, and as I turn away, catch Bernadette watching me. My neck prickles and I’m flooded with the feeling she was watching me the whole time I stood there.

  I can’t get out of the gallery fast enough. Disliking contemporary art is almost a crime at CALINVA, and I can’t help wondering if Bernadette’s so competitive she’d drop a casual comment about my disdain to one of the faculty.

  I keep going until I reach a gallery on the other side of the floor that’s dominated by a giant dining room table. Everyone in the room is caught up in the Alice in Wonderland effect of walking underneath Therrien’s oversize table and chairs, but I stand to the side. Seriously?

  It’s a giant table and chairs. What’s the big deal? I startle as Kevin plops his arm over my shoulder, and his slim, muscular body touches mine. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to surprise you,” he says.

  His arm is draped over me as lazily as a dog flopped on a couch. “It’s okay,” I say, relaxing.

  He tips his head so it almost rests on mine and whispers, “You really hate contemporary art, don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t,” I insist.

  “Bull. Your eyes pass right over this stuff. No connection whatsoever.”

  I scan the room, making absolutely sure Bernadette isn’t nearby.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to out you,” Kevin says. He’s smiling and I can’t resist smiling back.

  Kevin’s not the type who plays mind games, so I decide to trust him on this one. “Okay, if I’m being honest, I feel like a lot of contemporary art is bull, but if you tell anyone, and I do mean anyone—”

  “My lips are sealed. I promise.” He slides his arm off my shoulder. “I bet you can find at least one piece in this place that you like—or feel is worth looking at for more than five seconds.”

  “Sure. You’re on. Winner gets what?”

  “A taco from the truck out front.”

  “Oh, big stakes.”

  We roam the third floor past the blanket woven of red metal strips and the Warhol silkscreen of the electric chair. Kevin seems to be watching me for the slightest flicker, and when we get to Koons’s Balloon Dog, he takes my hand and makes me stop and look a moment longer. I gaze at our distorted reflections in the shiny blue steel dog that stands taller than us.

  “Anything?” Kevin says.

  “Nope.”

  “Is it because you don’t like dogs—an emblem of loyalty and companionship?”

  “It’s a balloon dog,” I toss back. “An emblem of circuses and scary birthday-party clowns.”

  “But Koons has transformed the humble balloon dog, and by enlarging it and giving it permanence has made us reconsider what we believe about it.”

  I double-check the gallery for Bernadette and she’s nowhere in sight. “Koons,” I hiss, “did not transform the humble balloon dog. That job went to the one hundred poorly paid assistants who slaved away in his SoHo studio manufacturing this blue
dog—not to mention the four identical ones in orange, yellow, red, and pink.”

  “You believe that blue is the only true color for the balloon dog.”

  I’m shaking my head and trying not to laugh, because despite the ridiculous turn this argument has taken, I want to get my point across. “No, I’m saying that for me, the artist has to do more than have an idea and let someone else make it.”

  “You want to see the artist’s hand in the work?”

  “I want to feel like it meant something to them. It’s hard for me to relate when a piece is essentially about an idea. I want to feel an emotional connection.”

  “So we can cross Koons off the list?”

  “Yep.”

  Kevin lets go of my hand. “Come on,” he says, and his knuckles brush mine. “Let’s find an artist you can connect with.”

  Two rooms away, I find myself staring into a Basquiat. The faces of two horn players shine out of the dark. Scribbled words repeat on the black background, and a skull hangs between the men. I soak into the painting as Kevin explains that the words are song titles and a child’s name. And in the dark, disjointed work, I see the echoes of the jazz the men play and the artist’s personal rhythm.

  “Am I wrong or do I perceive an emotional connection?” Kevin says.

  “You are not wrong,” I answer. We stand side by side taking a last look. “Damn,” I say. “I owe you a taco.”

  It’s after two when Kevin and I come out of the Broad, but Taysha and Bernadette are waiting to view Kusama’s Infinity Mirror Rooms. The sidewalk is still packed with people trying to get into the museum, and the line for the El Gato truck out front stretches almost to the corner. But Kevin doesn’t care how long he has to wait. “El Gato’s tacos are legendary. We’re not leaving.”

  “So, what about you? What did you like in there?”

  “In the Broad? Nothing much. I’m not a big fan of contemporary art.”

  I smack his arm. “Are you kidding me?”

  Kevin laughs and falls out of line. “Stop, stop,” he says, holding up his hands in surrender.

  We shuffle forward, and the smell of grilling onions, chilis, and meat makes my mouth water.