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 dissected 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.