“Pass up the opportunity to show this off to a roomful of artists and tastemakers? I’d be a fool to do that.”
I carry the dress out to my car and lay it gently on the seat. It’s late, but knowing Iona, there’s a good chance Tara’s still up, doing what assistants do. So I text her.
About a second later, she calls me. “I assume this is about your repayment plan.”
I’m tempted to be snarky right back, but I force myself not to. I need Tara to sell Iona on my idea. “I have a proposal.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“The dress is gone, which is my fault, and there’s no way I can give it back. But…what I can give Iona is a little of how it felt to wear it.”
“And how do you propose to do that?”
“What if I paint a life-size portrait of Iona in the dress? I could base it on photos of her on the red carpet. She can hang it on that big wall in the living room, and every time she walks in there, she can see how amazing she looked that night.”
Tara says, “Interesting,” and I can hear her amusement, as if she knows what it’s costing me to offer this. “This would be a realistic portrait?”
“I’ll even match her lipstick.”
“I’ll share this with Iona and get back to you. But not tonight.” Click.
Okay, then.
As I drive back to Mrs. Mednikov’s I think about Iona wanting to be seen. I’ve spent weeks thinking about how people judge Julie instead of seeing her, and how people would label me if they knew I’d lived in my car, but I’ve never once thought about why Iona is so desperate to have the cameras on her.
Mom always seemed to make excuses for Iona’s behavior, but now I wonder if she saw what was underneath it. I remember her telling me that if I looked past my feelings, I’d see people more clearly.
I park my car but don’t get out. Maybe it’s because I’m so tired that I can finally take in how the reason I’m probably in the messes I’m in with Krell and Adam and Iona is because I couldn’t look past my anger and fear and hurt. My feelings blinded me, and only now am I starting to see clearly.
On Friday, I deliver Seen/Not Seen to CALINVA for the First-Year Exhibition, and as I carry my canvas up the entrance ramp I feel like it’s weighed down with the irony that this could be my first and last exhibit.
Yesterday, Romy helped me mount Seen/Not Seen. The portrait of Julie as I see her is stretched taut over wood supports, while the black-and-white one hangs down from it like a discarded snakeskin tacked to the wood frame.
I’m glad I took a risk and played with dimension like Krell encouraged me to. The painting says everything I want it to say.
The white gallery walls are empty for now. The staff has leaned several canvases against the blank spaces, testing how to arrange the show.
Damn, I missed Kevin, I realize, spying Unresolved. Things have been so crazed this week, I’ve barely seen him.
Bernadette’s painting isn’t here yet, but I’m sure it will grab the choicest spot: the middle of the long back wall where a piece can be seen from every corner of the room.
Not surprisingly, three staffers are clustered around Bryian’s painting. Everyone’s talking about the enormous Asian baby biting the head off a toy North Korean soldier while other soldiers wait their turn. The official title is Our Benevolent Leader, but Kevin calls it Totzilla, and the rumor, which some of us think came from Bryian himself, is that Kim Jong-un has threatened “a merciless attack that will silence Bryian, the American imperialist warmonger.”
A bow-tied staffer dashes over to help as I carry my painting through the double glass doors. “Interesting,” he says as he takes it from me. “Name?” His red gingham shirt and the cresting wave in his gelled hair make me think of the Lollipop Guild from The Wizard of Oz.
“My name or the painting’s?” I answer.
He chuckles and takes the canvas from me. “Yours.”
“Sabine Reyes.”
“We have Reyes!” he calls out, and another staffer checks me off a list as bow-tie guy walks Seen/Not Seen deep into the room before setting it down.
Then he steps back and studies it, looking back and forth between Seen/Not Seen and the other paintings they’ve set in place. I can’t tell if he likes it, if he’s impressed, or if he sees hanging it as just another task he has to get done.
“Do you care where it hangs?” He lowers his voice and his eyes glitter behind thick black glasses. “Usually people want to be hung near a friend or away from a piece they…well, you know…”
Loathe?
It’s tempting to take over, but Krell warned us that behaving like a diva with the staff could get our work stuck in a dark corner. “Nope, I trust you guys to decide what works best.”
The look that comes over his face tells me not everyone listened to Krell’s warning.
“But there is one thing,” I say. “And I understand if you can’t help with this, but a friend of mine can’t make it to the show, so if you could hang my painting so she could see it through the window, I’d be really grateful.”
He smiles and digs a Post-it out of his shirt pocket. “I’ll see what I can do,” he says as he scribbles a note and slaps it on the painting.
I exit the gallery and head right for the coffee bar. I’ve given Seen/Not Seen all I have, every bit of imagination and conviction I possess, and if that isn’t good enough for Krell and the scholarship committee, then I don’t know. My final conference with him is this afternoon, so I won’t have to wait to hear his judgment.
When I return, half the gallery is hung and the staffers are in a corner. The four of them are mounting Taysha’s Zoetrope Coat, attaching clips and stringing wires to the walls and ceiling so the twelve painted panels on the skirt are visible.
Taysha’s going to be thrilled.
I glance around, and in the middle of the room a canvas that can only be mine hangs from the ceiling so it faces the street.
Did they really do that? I dash around to the front, and yes! Julie will be able to see her portrait from outside. “You guys are amazing! Thank you so much!”
The team looks up and one of them nods at his buddy. “It was Marco’s idea.”
I blow Marco kisses and he gives me a thumbs-up.
Then I pause to appreciate the moment. Six months ago, I was barely surviving, and now I stand here with a painting I know is good and it’s hanging in a real gallery.
“Ms. Reyes.” Krell strides over to me. “Ready for your critique?”
It’s the first time I’ve seen him in days, and my stomach flips. Do the right thing: Tell him the truth.
But confessing won’t help. It will only make things worse.
Krell peers at me. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, yes, everything’s fine.”
“Then let’s begin with your artist statement.”
I know it cold. Seen/Not Seen is about the chasm between perception and reality, the damaging or ennobling nature of assumptions. Who are we if the truth depends on how people see us and everyone sees differently? If assumptions form the lens through which we see someone, can we ever grasp that the lens is faulty?
My delivery is cool and polished, and Krell does not interrupt, but cups his chin in contemplation. When I’m done he says, “You’ve made significant progress, and this painting is evidence of that. If a student paints no differently at the end of the semester than they did at the beginning, they haven’t learned a thing from me.”
Significant progress. My heart flutters. I knew it, but it means so much more hearing Krell say it. “You taught me a lot.” Including things he’ll never ever know.
“You’ve been an especially challenging student to teach.”
My mouth drops open; no one’s ever said that about me. “I have? Why?”
“When the semester started, you were almost defiant in your unwillingness to accept criticism.”
“Oh.” My face heats up, remembering how shocked I was the first time Krell disse
cted my work, taking apart my painting in front of these people I barely knew. “I wasn’t used to being critiqued. I always got praise from my teachers.”
“Hmm.” Krell pauses, weighing what to say next, but I know he’s probably thinking they were wrong not to challenge me.
Now I see how staying at Beverly Hills High with Ms. Pensel instead of going to the visual-arts magnet school didn’t prepare me well for CALINVA.
“Then when you failed to show for our first appointment—”
I interrupt him. “I was late. I messed up the time and was too embarrassed to talk to you about it. I’m sorry, I should have apologized.”
“Yes, you should have,” he says, but not in a mean way. “I assumed your behavior and reluctance to accept criticism were due to arrogance. Students who don’t have your talent…they have to ask difficult creative questions, the kind you were able to avoid before you came here. As your teacher, I felt I had no choice but to attack your unshakable belief in your talent so you could grow artistically.”
I shake my head. So that’s why Krell acted like such a dick—because he thought I was too arrogant to listen. If only I’d talked to him…
“Are you pleased with what you’ve achieved?” he asks.
I gaze up at Seen/Not Seen, surprised by how the painting affects me. I see differently, and I paint differently. “Yes. I won’t ever look at my art the same way.”
“Good. Then this semester has been a success. Well, I see Kevin Walker is waiting for his review. I assume you’re attending the opening this evening.”
“Yes, thank you, Professor Krell.”
“Good luck tonight, Ms. Reyes.”
Krell walks up to Kevin and asks for his patience before going over to confer with the gallery staff. A moment later, they switch the placement of two paintings, and for reasons I could never explain, the flow of the paintings on the wall feels better and Kevin’s Unresolved now pops.
Kevin hangs back, waiting for Krell to finish with the guys. His hands are hooked behind his neck, and even though he’s standing upright, he gives off the impression he could collapse any second. He strolls over to me. “You look happy,” he says. “Your critique with Krell must have gone well.”
“I’m so relieved.” I stretch like I’m reaching for the ceiling so I don’t reach for him. “You look fried.”
“Finally got the computer program working about four this morning.”
“Krell’s going to love it.”
“Hope so.”
“I’m ready for you now, Mr. Walker,” Krell says.
“See you tonight?” Kev asks.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I answer.
I linger to watch Kevin’s painting come to life. As the narrow strips of canvas flip, the strokes of color fly up, fall down, and cross. The painting seems to argue with itself, speeding up, slowing down, contemplating, and then exploding in the simultaneous movement of six, eight, or twenty strips.
Before I walk out the door, I take one last look around the gallery. I want this—
…hanging out with Kevin…
…being a part of this creative family…
…and I want it to go on through this year and the next.
I want to do my second-year show and third and fourth.
I want to work like a dog and see the progress in my work that I see in Seen/Not Seen.
My gaze drops on Krell for a moment. As long as people believe that my copy of Duncan is the original, this will be mine.
When I arrive at CALINVA for the show, the gallery is lit. The staff must have rigged a spotlight on Seen/Not Seen, because my painting is perfectly visible from the street. I come up the ramp, hoping I can be with Julie when she sees it, but knowing I might not. I’m nervous she’ll be disappointed or confused by the two portraits.
My classmates are inside the gallery already, and I squeeze through the crowd waiting for the doors to open. The hall vibrates with the excitement of friends and families like the final moments before popcorn kernels explode. Mrs. Mednikov’s catching a ride with Peter and Chelsea, so they’ll be here soon.
Taysha’s surrounded by a group of about twenty people wearing matching tees with her superhero design on the front. Older women who must be aunties and little girls who could be nieces are hugging her and snapping selfies. Even as I grin at the crowd, I feel a pang of envy.
And scattered around them are young women wearing jackets Tay designed, which also makes me smile. Leave it to Taysha to bring out her fans.
The gallery curator unlocks the door to let me in. “Have a good show,” someone calls out.
“Thanks,” I call back. Kevin’s way across the room and I head for him.
I pass Bryian, who’s pacing in front of Totzilla, but honestly, I don’t know what he’s worried about. The painting went viral a few days ago when a Hollywood comedian launched a Kim Jong-un limerick challenge.
Bernadette fusses with a video screen perched on a pedestal, and I brake to a stop. Her backless dress is so sheer, it’s almost transparent. The smoke-colored pleats flow to the floor, shadowing her long bare legs and Doc Martens. Bernadette’s out to be remembered.
David Tito must have seen me staring, because he’s at my side. “What do you think of her painting?”
I look for the thorn man, but Bernadette’s canvas is pure white except for one green apple.
David whispers, “She scraped off the thorns.”
“I don’t get it. I thought the thorns were the whole point?”
“Check out the video. She recorded the construction and deconstruction like it’s performance art.”
We both shudder. “That girl will do anything to win,” David says before he walks away.
I half expected Kevin to wear a suit, so I’m not surprised by his pressed button-down and thin black tie. “Like the tie, Walker,” I say.
Kevin punches my arm like a middle schooler. “Not too shabby yourself, Reyes,” he says, taking in the leather dress Taysha created.
He hooks his thumbs into his jeans, suddenly shy, and I silently thank Taysha.
“How’s Unresolved?” I say.
“Working. I think. Next couple of hours could prove me wrong.” Kevin flips a switch and his painting starts to evolve.
I’m about to ask if he’s doing anything after the show, when the curator claps his hands.
“Attention, everyone. The doors will open in two minutes, so please take your place by your painting. And artists, remember: Enjoy the show!”
All thirty of us clap, and I dash over to Seen/Not Seen. This is it. My first gallery show. I run my tongue over my teeth and recite my artistic statement in my head.
Krell’s the first one in the glass doors, and he ushers the crowd through the entrance.
As people flood in, I pick out faculty members, including ones I haven’t studied with yet. Taysha made me memorize the names and faces of the painting faculty so I’d pay them extra attention when they came over to see Seen/Not Seen.
Please please please let them love Seen/Not Seen so they vote for me to keep my scholarship.
I stand beside my painting, but no one approaches my side of the gallery. A crowd swells around Bryian’s Totzilla, and another gathers around Bernadette. A group wearing tees printed with math formulas or the Caltech logo stands transfixed in front of Kevin. His engineering friends, I guess.
His hands are raised, and he’s miming how the flaps swivel, and I get caught up, first in watching him, and then in the girl gazing at him rapturously.
That’s her. The girl who brings him bagels late at night.
Damn. I’d hoped she wasn’t pretty, but she is. Her long hair shimmers in the studio lights, and her features are delicate, and of course her skin is perfect. I’d like to think that’s makeup, but probably not.
I’m so absorbed I don’t notice the man with cropped silver hair until he’s right in front of my painting. I smile and he nods hello, and settles in front of Seen/Not Seen.
Ex
pensive sport coat, designer jeans, manicured nails? He can’t be a working artist.
I steal glances at him, sure I’ve seen him before. His dark brown eyes have a quiet intensity as if he sees through the layers of pigment into the heart of my painting. I don’t know whether to speak or stay silent. He could be a critic or a dealer, someone who could change the trajectory of my life with a few words, or he could be nobody at all.
Then he asks about Seen/Not Seen and I recite my artistic statement, conscious of how his gaze goes back and forth between me and Seen/Not Seen as if he’s trying to make the connection.
“How representative of your work would you say this painting is?” he asks.
I’m so surprised I blurt, “I don’t know.”
He stifles a smile, so I fumble for a better answer. “When I arrived at CALINVA, I painted what I saw. Now I try to paint what I want to express.”
He nods and the smile that graces his face is respectful. “It will be interesting to see where you are as an artist a year from now.”
He walks away, and for a moment, I feel a champagne shiver bubble through me. He walks over to Krell, who’s chatting with his dealer, Barry Ankarian, and slaps Krell on the shoulder. That’s when I finally realize why he looks familiar. He’s the art dealer Gaereth Wattleberg—a sensation in the global art world.
Gaereth Wattleberg liked my painting.
I hold my breath as they talk, hoping that Gaereth Wattleberg, the Gaereth Wattleberg is telling Krell how impressed he is with Seen/Not Seen. How he’s interested in seeing how I grow as an artist. If they’d only look my way, I’d know they’re talking about me.
But instead, Krell points out Bryian and Bernadette, and walks Wattleberg and Ankarian over to Totzilla.
My hand balls into a fist and my first thought is: It doesn’t matter how hard I’ve worked or how far I’ve come, Krell still worships Bryian and Bernadette. But then I tell myself it’s okay. Krell will support me when it comes to keeping the Zoich, and that’s what I really need from him right now.
I don’t notice Florence, the woman who runs the shelter, until she says hello. Among all these people determined to appear hip and dramatic and cutting-edge, Florence is normal and real. “Thanks for coming,” I say, and I mean it.
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