Beneath The Skin(88)

What do these pics even mean?

What did I see when I took them? “What do you see in this?” I can hear Nell asking me. “You don’t ever just take a photo.”

I turn to the next photo.

My throat constricts as I gaze on the side of Nell’s face in black and white, her hand up by her cheek, caught in the process of drawing hair behind her ear. I stare at that photo for so long, I feel it burn into my retinas.

Then I’m reminded of a deep chasm in my chest. It was carved there the night Nell got in that car and took off. Here I am, trying to fill it with hours in front of this computer, convincing myself that any of these photos are worth shit. I tried filling it with Dmitri and Clayton’s words of encouragement. I tried filling it with assurance that I’d check my phone one of these times and find a message from Nell.

Nothing will repair the chasm but her.

After I’ve successfully completed nothing, I gather my things, throw my camera over my neck, and stalk out of the lab. It’s then that I notice the posting at the main intersection of the hallways. They’ve selected the End Of Year Showcase exhibits. There were twenty-two art pieces chosen.

Number twenty, right near the end of the list, I see my name.





NELL



The canvas is blank.

White, white, white.

Nothing.

Inspiration-deprived. Void of idea.

Zero clarity.

No burn or fire or thrill.

The spirits are silent. The world is quiet. The rage is dead.

And the canvas is blank.

“Maybe I was wrong,” I mumble into the phone, leaning sullenly against the windowpane and staring out at the courtyard outside the classroom.

“About what?” Minnie returns through a mouthful of whatever it is she’s eating on the other line.

I pick at my nails. My fingers are so … clean. Where’s the grit? Where are all the black smudges and charcoal stains and marks? Where is all the evidence of my torment and anguish and artistry?

“Listen,” Minnie starts, not waiting for my answer, “you either need to use him or lose him. Because this weird in-between shit isn’t cutting it. When I said you hadn’t produced any work for a while, I didn’t mean for you to go and half-dump his ass.”

“I didn’t do it for you, Minnie. Lord, self-centered much?”

She sighs into the phone. “You’re the closest thing I have to a sister and I don’t want you to discredit how much I adore you and your work. I miss your work. You used to be … visceral. You used to gut me with every single thing you did. Where’s the darkness, Nell?”

Here. There. Everywhere. “It’s high noon, Minnie. Sun’s blaring in a cloudless sky. No darkness anywhere.”

“You’re wrong. Has it occurred to you,” she goes on, “that shadows can only exist when there’s light? I remember coming over to your loft and finding you knee-deep in paint, in clay, in oils and inks and chalk. You’d be positively buried in joy.”

I close my eyes and let that imagery return to me. My freshman and sophomore years, ripe and toiling with art, with design, with ideas. I mourn those years like a best friend that has passed away.

“You do realize,” she says, “that you can carry your darkness … with a smile on your face, don’t you?”

With my eyes still closed, I smile, still leaning against the cold windowpane. I hear you, I’d say to her, but I wish I could believe you.

“Is all of this about the Showcase?”

I flip my eyes open at her words. “No,” I answer too quickly, my throat tight.

“You were simply outvoted,” she explains, as if telling a child why they can’t have all the candy they want in the store. “You had my vote. You know that, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Did you … Ugh, I hate to even ask this, knowing the answer … Did you submit to any of the other student showcases in town? Please don’t tell me you put all your eggs in one basket. Or, more accurately, your one egg in this one basket …?”

I keep my lips sealed tight and cross my legs, finding my eyes once again resting on the blank canvas before me.

“Alright,” mumbles Minnie. “I have a list of other venues you can show your piece at. I’m forwarding it to you right now. Check your email and get on the ball. Or keep out of the spotlight for the semester and just try to get into things in the spring, I don’t know. I’m tired of trying to pull teeth for you, Nell. I really don’t know what else to—”

“You don’t have to pull anything. I never asked you to.”

“Don’t get bitchy with me, Nell. I’m the one who’s trying to figure out how the hell to get you out there in the industry and seen by the people who matter.”