A Long Way From You (21 page)

For a moment, I think about how I’m spending my time swooning when I’m supposed to be figuring out what to do for my portfolio. I wonder if I’m being stupid and young, too.

Then I have a terrific idea. “Do you think for my final project that I could do a photo portfolio on you and the band? I like the idea of it being about New York and making something of yourself here.”

Tad steps back and looks at me as if he’s not sure what to say, so instead he just lights another cigarette. Amber does that, too, when she wants to avoid something.

“Are you that into music?” he asks without looking at me.

“Not really,” I admit. “I just want to tell the story of people trying to make it in New York. I think it’s a really universal narrative.”

Tad sighs. “That’s true, Kitsy,” he says encouragingly. “But we’re a band that covers other bands’ songs. We’re not creating anything new. I saw your face at MoMA and how passionate you were about that place. I don’t see that in your eyes when I sing. Besides, don’t you want the project to be about something more personal to you?”

“Let me just try it. I think I can do a good job,” I argue. “And maybe the band’s just doing covers right now, but you’re writing again. Don’t sell yourself short.”

Tad stubs out his cigarette with the toe of his shoe. “I wouldn’t want to sell you short either. But if that’s what you think your best project would be, then great.”

The door swings open, and Annika and Erik stumble out of the bar.

“Smoking without me?” Annika asks Tad. It almost sounds like she’s flirting, but I think that it’s just an Annika thing.

“Never,” Tad says sarcastically. “Are you all ready for the next place?”

My phone vibrates in my purse.

I check it and notice I have three new texts from Kiki.

Miss you.

Really miss you.

Bedtime story?

Reluctantly, I explain that I should end my night now. I don’t really want to, but I know that I’ll see Tad and Annika again soon, and I want to end the night still feeling like I’m walking on air.

As I hail a taxi, Tad calls, “Careful, Cinderella, your taxi might turn into a pumpkin if you aren’t quick.”

He’s right; pretty soon, all of this will turn into just a memory and I’ll be back in Broken Spoke. But who will I be when I get there?

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Date: Friday July 27

Subject: News!

We kissed! See, determination always gets you want you want! I have the guy and you’re in the Big Apple. We. Are. Awesome.

Winning,

CC

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Date: Friday July 27

Subject: Re: News!

You kissed? Were you cozying up by the campfire? Did it remind you of being back at the field? I have no new kisses to report (obviously)—but I think I have finally figured out my portfolio project. Here’s hoping I can prove that I’m talented at more than blending eye shadows and drawing killer winged eyeliner.

Chapter 11
In Your Own Backyard

I
WAKE UP ON FRIDAY
morning, our last day of pottery, feeling refreshed. Knowing that I’m going to do my portfolio on Hipster Hat Trick answers a big question that had been looming in my head. There are still a few others, too, of course. Luckily, working with clay all day provides a good distraction from everything. It’s as if when I’m doing art, my brain shuts off all of my anxieties, and I can just focus on what I’m doing. My best vase ends up looking pretty professional.

Iona walks up to me after class as I’m finishing up glazing and pushes a folder to my chest. Today, her boots are painted zebra-print and she’s wearing a leopard T-shirt dress. Somehow it works, although I’d never tell her that after the Kitsy-doesn’t-care-about-museums lecture.

“What’s this?” I ask her, taking the folder.

“It’s the scholarship application. I took the liberty of scanning and printing you a copy. If you want, I can tell you what Professor P. said at the meeting.”

I have only thought about the scholarship a thousand times.

Iona looks uncomfortable, something I never thought I’d see.

“Listen, Kitsy, I’m sorry about what I said yesterday,” she says. “I have this problem of getting too nosy and thinking I know what’s best for everyone. It’s your business if you apply for the scholarship, but . . . I wanted you to have the chance to change your mind.”

“You didn’t need to do this, but I really appreciate it,” I say.

It’s strange because I’ve been confronted with a lot of generosity in my life, especially with my New York trip this summer. Why am I always afraid that someone’s going to jump out from behind the barrels and take it away from me? I need to remember that life, and most people, are good. I’m glad that Iona’s reminding me of that.

Without asking, Iona pulls a stool up next to my wheel and gives me the scoop:

“Here’s the deal. The scholarship is judged only on the portfolio, which will be shown at the exhibition in two weeks. Professor P. said that he’d get more into it next week when we start our last unit on photography. But basically you get to choose your medium. Last year, someone did graffiti on clay pots and won. I imagine that’s some sort of political statement, but I can’t wrap my head around it.”

“We need to make a political statement?” I close my eyes and think again that this scholarship is out of my grasp.

“All art makes political statements,” Iona says matter-of-factly.

I thumb through the application. “So do you know what you’re going to do for your portfolio?”

“I’m doing figurative drawing, but I’m not applying for the scholarship,” she answers and stands up. “I’m fourth-generation legacy at Cornell. Most likely, I’ll go there and do premed. I’ll take an art class or two, but just to get a relief from classes like Organic Chemistry. Both my parents are psychiatrists and they have a practice on the Upper East Side. I want to work with them. Not that it’ll surprise you, but there are a ton of people in New York who need therapy. I love to psychoanalyze as much as you like to make art.”

I smile, thinking how that solves a huge puzzle of who Iona is in my head.

“Anyway, I overheard everything that was said at the scholarship meeting while I was working on a sketch. Just so you know, I don’t have a lot of friends. My parents call it social anxiety, but I think it’s because I’m selective. And you’re one of the only people I can stand here, so I noticed when you weren’t there.”

Iona points at my best vase, which doesn’t lean like the Tower of Pisa. In fact, it doesn’t tilt at all. “That looks like a replica of the vase Professor P. made on the first day.”

I start to thank her, since that had been the idea—to see if I could match his, but then I realize that it wasn’t meant as a compliment.

Iona leans in. “Hey, Kitsy,” she says. “I’ve taken a class with Professor P. before. If I had to analyze him, I’d say he’s hard on people he thinks have talent. He’s not the type to waste his time.”

I pause and try to absorb what she’s saying. “I hope you’re right,” I whisper back.

“Just be yourself.”

And with that, Iona leaves. I hear her combat boots stomping down the hall. She definitely is someone to run down the river with, even if she doesn’t quite get how hard it is to be yourself away from everything that makes you you.

Professor Picasso walks into the room from the kiln and I see the way he’s looking at my vase, and I’m just waiting for his tirade. I try to keep Iona’s advice in my mind.

“Is yours ready, Kitsy?” he says, approaching me. “It always scares me putting students’ work in the kiln. We always have a few blowups, but that’s okay. The second try is usually better. They relax and it’s more genuine.”

“Yes, sir,” I answer, picking my vase up gently.

“Texas, right?” he asks me.

“All you hear is accent?” I ask, thinking back to Annika.

“Well, the accent, the ‘sir,’ and the fact that I taught art restoration for a semester at University of Texas in Austin. Love that city. And I’m also on the admissions committee here, and I remember your application, Kitsy.”

“My sketch of the oak tree?” I ask, feeling my cheeks get red. After seeing art here from around the world, my sketch seems silly and insignificant.

“I remember how much passion it had.”

“How can you see that in a sketch?” I ask.

“You can’t see it,” Professor Picasso says, surprising me. “You feel it.”

He takes my vase and moves toward the kiln.

“Why do you focus so much on technique in class then?” I call out. “Why are you so concerned with that?”

Professor Picasso stops walking and turns around. “I’m a teacher,” he says, looking across the room at me. “My job is to teach the basics of the discipline, but what I look for in art on the street, in a museum, or anywhere, is the feeling of the artist. Nothing else makes me look twice.”

“How do you purposefully put passion into your work?” I ask.

“If I knew that,” Professor Picasso says with a smirk, “I wouldn’t be teaching this class because my work would be hanging in museums. I know you have it because I’ve felt it from your work. You just need to find it again.”

On Saturday, I’m walking around the city when I feel my phone vibrate. It’s Hands. After our first mini-fight, I have tried to be better about talking to him more often. But it’s like we’re having the same conversation over and over again. I get the feeling he doesn’t want to hear about my art any more than I want to hear the latest football scrimmage recap. Back in the Spoke, we have everything in common. But here it feels like we’re two totally different people.

I almost answer the phone, but then I pause. The people on the street are just making their way. Nobody else seems to be talking to a long-distance boyfriend. I’ll be home soon enough to talk, so I silence it.

For homework, Professor Picasso instructed us to visit a museum, so I figure it’s about time I go to MoMA again. After all, I’m a member. Switching directions, I head for the subway. I’ll be with Hands all year, but my time here is slipping away.

I first head to
The Starry Night
to get a photograph to send Kiki. You can take pictures here as long as you don’t use a flash, which is perfect since my flip phone definitely doesn’t have one.

I edge closer to the painting and read the description plate next to it.

It says, which I already knew, that Van Gogh painted the night scene from memory during the day.

I try to imagine drawing a scene only from memory. I could draw Broken Spoke, but that’s the only place. And who would want a picture of our football field?

I feel a tap on my shoulder. An Asian man points first to the painting and then to me.

I raise my shoulders in confusion just as I realize he’s offering to take a photograph of the painting and me.

How cool. People in New York are definitely friendlier than anyone gives them credit for. I beam, thinking how Kiki will love this.

Posing in front of my favorite painting of all time, I give my best smile. This will totally be my Facebook profile picture.

Then I drift into another room, and I’m flabbergasted when I see one of Claude Monet’s
Water Lilies
paintings. I never realized it could take up nearly an entire wall. It’s almost the size of a real-life pond.

Just as I’m standing and gazing at it, as if I were Monet on a bridge looking at my subject, a little girl about seven years old with auburn pigtails and pink denim overalls comes and stands beside me. Seeing her makes me miss Kiki.

“Hi!” she says cheerfully while I look around for her parents. I spot them watching her from the bench.

“Hi!” I say back, thinking how lucky she is to get to visit this museum at her age.

“Why are there so many water lilies?” she asks, pointing at the picture. “It’s
boring
.”

“Monet, the artist, is famous for water lilies,” I explain. “He did over two hundred and fifty paintings of them.”

“But why water lilies?
Bo-ring!
They’re just weeds,” the young girl says. “Why not a castle or a dragon? That’d be way more exciting!”

“That’s a great question,” I say, wondering why Monet, with all of his talent, kept painting the same subject: his own garden.

“Some of
my
pictures are better than these,” the girl says confidently. “I do great unicorn drawings. Maybe they’ll hang them here someday. They’d be way more interesting than water lilies.”

“That’s great,” I say, admiring her confidence. At what age do we start to doubt ourselves?

“I think I know why Monet painted water lilies,” I say, putting it together in my head. “Monet painted what was in his backyard because that’s what he knew best. You can see the intimacy in the paintings.”

The little girl shrugs at me and quickly patters off to her parents.

Looking at the water lilies one last time, I think about how when you make art of the familiar, it helps you see it again. There are a thousand ways to see the same view, which reminds me of the Spoke. While my life has had the same backdrop since I was born, with each year, I see it differently. It changes as I change.

I linger awhile longer, wondering what it would be like to paint the same scene for thirty years like Monet. I guess it wouldn’t be all that different from growing up in the same town for seventeen. It probably would get boring, but there’s something comforting in the familiar.