There he was, standing, staring at it. The last portfolio piece if I wanted to get into the Blackwell Art Institute—the most prestigious art college in South Africa—was a self-portrait. It was supposed to represent me as an artist and in some moment of insanity, I’d taken a photo of myself in front of the mirror, without a top on. I’d turned sideways to the mirror, taking the photo over my shoulder; the side of my face and back took up most of the shot, there was no boob, thankfully. But what you did see were all the various folds and flaps and other things that began with an F. Back fat, jean bulging fat, side boob fat. And the worst thing about all of this was that he was looking at the photo that I’d blown up, printed out, and stuck up on the wall. I’d only managed to paint my face so far, meticulously converting the photographic details into brushstrokes. The rest of me, my body, was unfinished. Because it was just too confronting to paint.
“It’s . . . it’s . . .” I stuttered, unable to finish the sentence because I had no idea what the sentence was. What did I say to this? To him looking at a half-naked picture of me.
Silence. A silence so strangely loud, almost as if something buzzed inside it. The molecules in the air seemed to vibrate, and they filled the room with this kind of expanding energy. As if there was a giant balloon in the room that was being blown up. Bigger, bigger, bigger . . . it felt like the balloon was about to pop. The sound would be deafening. And then he turned and looked at me, something strange etched into his face. I paused, waiting for the hammer of judgment to fall. Only it didn’t.
“You are so good.” He dragged the words out, placing emphasis on each one individually. He pointed at the canvas, and I glanced at it. Wet, red curls, falling over my shoulders, freckles like millions of stars splattered across my cheeks and nose and shoulders, and that small white scar on my forehead from the time I’d fallen off my bike as a child, all laid out for him to see in crisp high definition.
“You’re an artist.” He was looking straight at me now, and I took a step forward. All I wanted to do was reach out and rip that photo down. I’d never been that naked in front of anyone before. Even myself. The day I’d taken that photo was one of the only days that I’d looked at myself like that, and I’d only been able to do it for a moment.
“It looks exactly like you.” And then much to my horror, he walked right up to the canvas and leaned in. “How do you do that? Make it look exactly like the photo?”
“I practice.”
Jake shot me a look over his shoulder. “I could practice every day for years and wouldn’t be able to do this. You’ve got a gift.”
I looked back at my canvas. It was painted in my usual, hyperrealistic style. A true-life depiction right down to the minutest detail. I’ve always been good at seeing the details in things. Always been good at spotting the smallest things that others don’t seem to see. The way light falls on objects, the way shadows darken and obscure them.
“It’s insanely good.”
“It’s okay, I guess,” I whispered under my breath. Compliments always made me feel uneasy and off center.
“What’s it for?”
“It’s a final portfolio piece, I’m trying to get into this art school. They only accept twenty people each year.”
“You’ll definitely get in.” He said it with such confidence. As if it was a fact. Irrefutable, like the earth going around the sun or the grass being green or his eyes having turned a deep, cobalt blue in this darker light.
I looked up at the ceiling and then quickly back down at my feet. Looking everywhere in the room except at him.
“When will you finish it?” he asked. My throat tightened.
“Don’t know. Don’t know if I want to.” Which was the truth. Despite thinking that I could, I just didn’t know if I could go through with it, whether I could actually face the truth of myself long enough, and in so much crystal-clear detail, to be able to paint it.
“You should definitely finish it.”
“We should get back down to Zac and Lisa, and also, it’s a bit late, my brother needs to eat at a certain time and—”
“Sure, of course. Routine is important.” He moved toward the door, away from the photo, and relief washed over me in waves that almost made me cry.
We walked out the door and this time, I quickly turned the key in the lock. Locking the door behind me, locking away a secret I didn’t want anyone to see. But I knew that he’d seen it, and I didn’t know how I was ever going to look him in the eye again.