“Can I sit down now?” Priya asks timidly.
“Not just yet,” Luke smiles. “My point in telling you all of this is to say that there are only so many symbols out there, only so many combinations of lines and colors that we can use as artists. It’s the way we interpret the symbols, the way we express the colors, that makes the work unique. So Priya, if you can run the program quickly from my computer, we can do a search of the web for images similar to yours. Let’s see what else is out there.”
“Okay.” Priya bends over the computer at the front of the room and jiggles the mouse. A few quick clicks and the projection on the walls morphs into a split-screen, with Priya’s image on the left, and a slideshow of Internet images on the right. I remember the software program from the open house at Luke’s several weeks ago. Vi had used it to brag that her work was worth more than it was.
“Stop. So here on the right, we have the Taima Mandala. It’s a Japanese mandala that dates back to around 763. And you can see some similarities between Priya’s work and the colors used in this ancient piece of art.”
“So, does that mean, I like, copied it? Accidentally?” Priya’s voice is small.
“Not at all. That’s not what I’m suggesting. What I’m saying is that even thousands of years ago, in a culture totally different from yours, we see some of the same symbols that might carry through in your work today. Those symbols are universal. Your work is connected to so many other artists’ work in that way. But at the same time, your work is unique to you—because you’re you. You bring with you a history and a way of looking at the world that no one else has. How cool is that?”
“Pretty cool,” Priya smiles.
I could stand here and watch Luke teach for hours. He teaches with a kind of ease and confidence that I would kill to have in my classroom.
“Okay, who’s next?” Luke asks the class. “Who’s willing to run their work through the program?”
“What about you?” One of the boys in the back calls out. “Let’s see one of your pieces!”
The class erupts in cheers and whistles, and Luke’s chin drops to his chest. “You guys are ruthless,” he laughs over the noise. “Okay, okay. Quiet down. I’ll run one of my paintings through the thing. But be nice,” he insists. “Priya, if you click on the first folder on my desktop, there’s a painting there called after. Go ahead and bring it up.”
She does, and soon we’re looking at a slide of an enormous abstract painting rich with reds and blacks and blues. The room goes silent. Looking at it draws the breath from my lungs. It’s sad and angry and desperate and beautiful. Or at least that’s what I see. I fix my gaze on Luke. I want to be next to him. I want to hold him.
“So this is something I painted after I lost two family members who were very close to me,” Luke says softly. “I was really pissed off, because losing them wasn’t fair. This painting was the thing that got me through that difficult time.” His voices goes husky, and my eyes start to sting.
On the right side of the split-screen, a painting emerges with a large red circle at the center.
“And this is a painting by an artist named Miró. You can see some similarities—there’s a bold use of color in both. And although I would never compare myself to such an artistic giant, it’s cool to see that we can both use the same shapes or colors and have them mean two entirely different things.”
“Do another one!” Josh Marville calls out. Priya leans over the computer and clicks. And instantly, I’m staring at a larger-than-life image of myself.
A tiny gasp escapes my throat before it closes. It’s the black and white picture Luke took with his pinhole camera. My heart stops in my chest. Oh, my God. The kids can’t see this. They can’t know about us. Dr. Goodwin will kill me.
“Okay, guys. Let’s take it down.” Luke is already weaving through the maze of work tables, trying to get to the front of the room. Giggles and whispers leak into the space, and my whole body goes hot, then cold, then hot again. I can’t believe this is happening.
And then, suddenly, the room goes eerily silent.
My gaze snaps to the front, where even Luke has stopped in his tracks. And he’s staring at a split-screen on the wall: the me he knows on the left. Lounging on his couch, smiling at the camera. And on the right, the old me, the shameful me, the unspeakable me. An image of me with long blonde hair, shielding my face from the paparazzi. Below my image, a headline.
PONZI PRINCESS ELLIOT HALLORAN DESTROYS DADDY