We haul an easel out of the garage, one that was left behind by another art student who lived here. I wash off years of dirt until the blond wood shines through.
There are still a few hours left until my shift at the restaurant, so I set up the easel on the porch and place a small canvas board on it. I tape a copy of Julie’s photo to the top and start to sketch in pencil on the white canvas.
But I’ve only just begun when I set down the pencil and rub my arms. It’s cool on the unheated porch, but that’s not the problem. In the unforgiving light of day, my “epiphany” that I need to paint Julie feels like a delusion.
With this next assignment, I have to redeem myself with Krell, but have I learned enough yet from working on Duncan to tackle Julie’s portrait?
It has to be surprising and unconventional to satisfy him, and he came right out and warned us that this assignment is critical, because it will be hung in the First-Year Exhibition in the CALINVA gallery in December. “This will be the first time the entire faculty is exposed to your work,” he said.
Then Taysha only made it worse when she whispered, “I heard the upper-level faculty decide who they want to mentor way before they ever have you in class.”
I pick up my pencil. No pressure, I think, tapping it against my teeth. Just an assignment that determines the rest of my life.
I stare at Julie’s photo and my gut says paint her while my head says bad idea.
Most of the fine art faculty paint abstracts, and the rest don’t even paint—they create conceptual art. The only portrait painter is Krell. And even if I manage to change his mind about me, he’ll never agree to be my adviser.
I toss the pencil in the corner and it bounces back and rolls at my feet like it refuses to be ignored.
The only paintings I’ve turned in to Krell so far have been still lifes and urban landscapes, things that even when I worked on them obsessively, I didn’t love. I can’t do that anymore. I’ve got a little over a month to create the most important painting of my life and I need to trust in my passion.
The sun dips behind a cloud, casting the porch into shade. I blow out a breath and start to sketch.
Today is Mom’s re-birthday, and I’m sitting in the student lounge with a cupcake in front of me I can’t bear to eat. My pencil hovers over my sketch pad, but it refuses to land. I can’t draw myself out of my grief.
I knew today would be hard. Friday, October 23, has been staring back at me from the calendar all month and now it’s here.
And it doesn’t help that I’m way low on sleep. The last four nights, I spent hours painting Duncan, so I haven’t gone to bed before 2 or 3 a.m. But you do what you have to if you want to live your dreams.
I rest my eyes on the blank paper, but I see Mom silhouetted in the kitchen window, touching her wrist as if she’s checking her pulse, her fingertips resting on the word inked on her skin: SERENITY. Her lips move as she silently recites her morning prayer. God grant me the serenity…
Seven months until my birthday, today was her special day. She’d light the candles on the two cupcakes she bought and we’d blow them out together.
Last year she celebrated eighteen years sober. I remember her peeling the paper away from her cake and saying, “Not even born yet, but you made me rewrite my life. You’re the best gift I ever got, baby. Nothing and no one will ever come close.”
I sit very still because if I move even a finger, I may start crying, and in this room full of people I barely know, I couldn’t bear it. People think home is where you live, but it’s not. It’s where you’re loved.
Kevin joins me at the table and he has no idea how grateful I am that it’s him and not someone else. I slide the cupcake over. “Do you want it? Turns out I’m not hungry.”
“You sure?” He waits for me to nod before he peels off the fluted paper. “So how’s it going?”
“I miss my mom,” I say, surprising myself.
“I miss mine, too,” he says. “You should call her.”
My heart skips, because I’m still not ready to share that part of me with anyone other than Mrs. Mednikov. “Yeah, I should.”
He asks me if I’ve thought about what I’m going to paint for the First-Year Exhibition and I feel my whole body relax. We’ve left the dangerous territory of my last year and are back on neutral ground. “A portrait. Of a woman named Julie. I saw her on the street and I can’t get her out of my head.”
“Sounds like you need to paint her,” he says. “Any idea why?”
“Not sure. But maybe that’s what I want to find out. What about you?”
Kevin pulls out a diagram and sets it on the table along with a tiny black box that turns out to be a motor. He walks me through his idea for a painting that will move and change, and his face becomes as animated as the tiny flipper things he’s acting out with his hands.
When he’s done explaining the piece, he says, “I have a theory for why the art world disrespects kinetic art.”
This time I don’t argue. “Tell me.”
“Because it’s art that follows the rules instead of breaking them.”
It takes me a moment, but then I get it. “No breaking the rules of physics,” I say, and Kev grins.
I see the same clarity in Kevin’s work as I do in Krell’s, the same conviction that his choices might not be popular, but they’re his. Krell chooses to paint portraits, even though the stratospheric money and fame usually go to artists who do abstracts or conceptual pieces.
I envy Kevin’s clarity. Deep in my gut, I feel I’m on the right path, painting Julie, but the path feels tangled and confused. What am I trying to say with this painting? When Krell asks for my artistic statement, what do I tell him?
Every night I spend studying Duncan, I feel the tiniest bit closer to the answer. Unlike Kevin, the only way I’ll get clarity is to break the rules.
I shiver on the sidewalk in front of Mrs. Mednikov’s at dawn, waiting for Taysha. I pull the hood up on my sweatshirt and tug the sleeves over my fingers, wishing I hadn’t agreed to help out at the flea market.
It was hard enough to leave my painting of Julie to go waitress yesterday, because even though the work had started to gel, it still felt off. And sure, it’s Sunday and I can work on it later today, but I’m bummed about losing hours of sunlight.
I check the time on my phone and there’s a missed text from Adam. GROUP HEADING TO LATE NIGHT GALLERY—WANT TO COME?
Damn, I can’t believe I missed his text. But he sent it during my shift at La Petite Tomate so I couldn’t have gone anyway. It’s too early to text him back, so I put the phone away, thinking Later.
When Taysha pulls up, I crawl into the front seat of her van. She’s in full makeup, with a cat’s-eye sweep of liner I couldn’t pull off at 6 a.m.
“Nice place,” she says. “I’m in a converted garage.”
“Yeah, I lucked out,” I answer, remembering the sketchy rentals I checked out last summer—flimsy doors with eight locks, half of them broken, and bars on the windows.
“Thanks for getting up.”
“Hey, I said I would.”
“Good to see you’re someone who keeps their word.”
Five minutes later we’re at the Rose Bowl, where Taysha flashes her vendor’s badge and the guard waves us into the stadium’s massive parking lot.
People are already setting up their booths, but Taysha smiles as she pulls into an empty space. “Getting up this early is painful, but it pays off.” She points out how we’re right by the entrance gate. “All the hipsters, stylists, and stars scoping out vintage have to pass right by us.”
The first thing we haul out of the van is a shade tent. “It’ll be an oven out here by ten,” Taysha warns as we snap the legs into place.
Plastic folding tables and pop-up racks are next. Taysha pulls out tubs of clothing and handmade jewelry and puts me to work hanging up clothes.
The jackets and skirts look like they come from designer boutiques. Houndstooth jackets with
snakeskin lapels. Plaid skirts with a galaxy of mismatched buttons that stretch from a hip to the opposite thigh. A coat with a corset sewn around the waist.
I hold up a black jacket with scarlet gores. A dramatic cut that bows to the past but feels now. “Where do you find this stuff?”
“Mainly at garage sales and thrift shops. I look for pieces that are well made, then I take them apart, recut them, dye them. The jacket you’re holding used to be peach.”
I shudder, imagining it, and note the price tag. “If you had a boutique on Melrose, you could charge five times what you’re charging.”
“True, but my dreams are way bigger than that. Designer to the stars with my own brand. All I need is the right A-list clients to get me started. You sure you won’t introduce me to Iona Taylor?”
“I would not be doing you a favor introducing you to Iona.”
Taysha laughs and whips out her phone. “Smile.” I hold up a jacket as she snaps pics of the booth. She taps her screen. “There, now my fans know where to find me.”
Taysha deserves a lot of credit. She knows what she wants and is out to get it. I’m glad she’s concentrating in fashion, so we’re not in competition.
We set the earring displays out front. Mixed with her origami cranes are dozens more styles carrying quotes about love or inspiration.
“Wow. You made all these?”
“Earrings pay the rent. I can sell thirty or forty pairs in a day easy. But necklaces, that’s harder. Like this one.” She unwraps a necklace and arranges it on a black velvet stand. Black-and-white rectangles that look like they’re cut out of a graphic novel dangle from two silver chains.
“This is so film noir,” I say. “It’s like a crime story with a bunch of pages torn out.”
“The earrings sold out two months ago, but the necklace is two hundred. If it doesn’t sell today, I have to take it apart and make it into earrings.”
“But it’s perfect.”
“Perfect doesn’t matter if it doesn’t sell.”
I vow silently to find a buyer. The necklace is meant to be experienced the way Taysha created it. Taking it apart would destroy the magic.
The air smells of kettle corn by the time the gates open at nine. People flood in and Taysha’s booth is soon packed with customers trying on her retro jackets. I’m in constant motion, pairing vintage sunglasses with jackets and showing guys how to knot ties that Taysha refurbished.
Earrings fly off the displays, and by noon we’re low on shopping bags. During a lull, Taysha runs to the bathroom, and I message Adam. BUMMED I MISSED YOU LAST NIGHT—WORKING
Adam’s helping shoot a sweet sixteen, so I’m surprised he messages right back.
ARTSY?
NOPE WAITRESSING
TOO BAD. FRIENDS WANTED TO MEET YOU
I smile to myself. Sounds like things with the ex are finally resolved. NEXT TIME.
Taysha returns with a bag of kettle corn and I pocket my phone. I’m dying to know what I missed last night, but scrolling for pics of the Late Night Gallery could prompt her to ask questions.
We’re crunching away when she nudges me. Look.
My mouth falls open. “Oh my God, it’s Krell.”
Collin Krell’s coming our way, but he’s not alone. Floppy baby legs dangle from a pouch strapped to his chest, and his wife strolls beside him looking like a Spanish movie star with her long black hair, big sunglasses, and full breasts. It’s unsettling how normal he looks.
“His wife’s name is Rachel,” Taysha says. “She’s a contracts lawyer and they met through his art dealer.”
“And the baby?” I say, half joking.
“Bennett. But they call him Benny.”
“How do you even know that?”
Taysha shrugs. “I pay attention.”
I get busy tidying the booth. Krell’s the last person I expected to see here today. He steers to the vendor across the aisle and hovers over boxes of Mexican tiles. Meanwhile his wife zeroes in on Taysha’s earrings.
Taysha makes eyes at me as Rachel leans over the display. Her lips are a little thin and her teeth aren’t perfectly straight, but other than that, Krell’s spouse is gorgeous.
Why is she even with him? With her looks, she could probably get any guy she wanted.
Taysha shows her several pairs of earrings, but Rachel waves them away. Still, she seems eager to find something. She reaches for the display in the corner and I make out a spider tattoo on her inner arm.
Rachel could be a match for Taysha’s necklace. I set the black velvet display stand in front of her. “Did you see this?”
She takes off her sunglasses and lifts the necklace off the display. “Okay if I try it on?”
“Go ahead.” I angle the standing mirror so she can see herself.
The necklace flutters down on her chest, and Rachel plays with the panels, arranging them. “What’s this made of?”
“Paper over aluminum, but the chain is silver.”
“I’d like to show my husband. He’s right over there,” she says, pointing to Krell.
“Absolutely.”
Taysha and I pretend we’re not watching her show off the necklace to Krell. I nudge Taysha. “I swear she’s going to buy it.”
“That would make my day.”
Rachel points to the booth. “Good. They’re coming over,” Taysha says.
I duck into the clothing racks and start straightening, because as nice as his wife is, I don’t want to have to deal with Krell. But I’m close enough to overhear Rachel tell him she plans to pair the necklace with the dress she bought for opening night at Art Basel Miami.
Krell asks Taysha if she takes credit cards, then says, “I know you. You’re in my painting class. Taysha Thomas.”
“That’s right, Professor Krell. Sabine! Look who’s here, Professor Krell!”
I could murder you, Taysha. I emerge from the rack of clothes.
“Ah, Sabine Reyes.” Krell turns to his wife, who’s now juggling the baby. “This is the young woman who won the Zoich Scholarship.”
Rachel smiles and her eyes linger on me as if I’ve been the subject of one or more discussions. “Congratulations,” she says, impressed.
“Um. Thank you.”
My head is spinning, because Krell said I won the Zoich as if it was a positive.
“How’s the crowd today?” he says as he signs the credit-card slip. “Good spenders?”
“Yeah, sales have been steady.”
“Well, good luck selling out.”
The Krells walk away and Taysha grabs my wrists. “Rachel Krell’s going to wear my necklace at Art Basel Miami!”
We high-five, then Taysha turns to answer a customer’s question. My eyes follow Krell through the crowd. Who are you? I can’t believe how nice he acted, how he bantered with us like a normal human being.
Krell’s savaged me in class, but the way he introduced me to his wife makes me wonder if Adam heard wrong and Krell actually voted for me, not Bryian, to get the Zoich.
The feeling that I shouldn’t be stealing into his studio, that I’m being unfair to him, wells up. No, I’m not, I tell myself. He’s putting on an act for his wife: the dedicated-instructor-turned-art-world-phenom who still makes an effort to get to know his students. If he gave me even a fraction of the guidance he gives Bryian or Bernadette, then I might feel guilty, but I wouldn’t be learning a thing from him right now if I wasn’t copying his painting.
What does it matter if Krell voted for me to get the Zoich? It doesn’t change how he’s treated me.
My shoulders pull tight, and I start rolling them to loosen them up. The customer Taysha was helping walks away.
“Have you ever been to the Late Night Gallery?” I say.
“No, but I know Birch from painting class parties there.”
The next time Taysha takes a bathroom break, I do a search for pics of last night at the Late Night. The white-walled gallery is lit like the inside of a refrigerator while the parking lot’s
a party where blue and yellow spotlights carve out the figures of a front man, guitarists, and drummer against a warehouse wall. People are dancing, beer bottles dangling from their raised hands, and I scan the blurry pics trying to find Adam and his friends.
I want this—art and music-soaked nights with Adam and his circle of artist and musician friends, and an opening at every gallery in LA courtesy of a CALINVA degree.
Taysha taps me on the shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yeah, sorry. I zoned out there for a second.” Krell isn’t on my side, and if there’s anything I’ve learned this year, it’s that stars like him and Iona are out only for themselves.
Over the next few weeks, our assignments at CALINVA ramp up: essays, readings, art projects, and the infamous Cross Dis, a twenty-page paper comparing an artist and a writer with critical commentary on how their work reflects social issues. I’m buried, trying to keep up with what’s due, put in my shifts at Artsy and La Petite Tomate, and make progress on my portrait of Julie while stealing precious hours most nights to immerse myself in painting Duncan.
There’s only three weeks left before Krell’s now completed Duncan goes on display at a reception at CALINVA, and I lose my intimate access to his artistic genius, so I blow off Kevin’s invitation to celebrate Halloween at Caltech and spend most of the night in Krell’s studio.
I barely see Adam before he rushes upstairs to paint. His landlord hiked his rent, and he’s doing extra gigs with the photographer he works for so he can hold on to his place while completing his painting to show Gavin Brown.
The morning after Halloween I’m parked, bleary-eyed, on a couch in the student lounge, trying to form a coherent thought about Gerhard Richter’s blurred photography paintings while Kevin’s flopped beside me.
Kevin holds his head between his hands. He smells of beer and the faint lines of painted whiskers stain his cheeks. “You missed a great party.”
I nudge his coffee a little closer. “Yeah, I don’t really do parties anymore, but I wish I could have seen you as Goldsinger’s cat.”
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