Sitting for the class was difficult. My body had become unaccustomed to staying still for long periods of time. After several two-minute poses, I chose to lie down for the remaining hour. It was a pose that had me falling in and out of sleep, hoping none of the students would notice. After the class, between tying my robe and going to the bathroom to put my clothes on, a man stopped me. Now, usually I do not like to talk to people after a class. The only interaction I have is taking photos of their work for posterity. He said, “How did you get into this?” But it sounded like he was asking why. I know I am not the most interesting body type to draw, and my face is barely deep enough to cast shadow, but I don’t think anyone should complain. I shrugged. “It was my only option.”
The Frick’s gardens are beautiful but of no use to anyone. Visitors aren’t allowed to go out there. There are two large magnolia trees out front, which I can imagine are lovely in the spring. If ever I am here in the spring, I would like to come look at them. Magnolias aren’t so bad in the summer either. Their leaves are glossy and durable, and they have branches that grow wide, as though readying themselves for an embrace. Gala sat on a stone ledge smoking as I walked up to meet her. She hopped down and said, “Look who it is. Late.” I asked Gala if she was tired, she certainly looked it, and she said she was exhausted. Her roots were growing in, and the colour was an unexpected shade of brown. She was wearing a polka-dot pinafore that we sell at the stall with oxfords and ankle socks. It gave her the appearance of being sweet. I told her other people must not get as tired as we do, and she turned to me. “I mean, some people never get the chance to be anything. Life can be boring when you have nothing to cry about.” I took out the fresh bills I had gotten from modelling and paid for two tickets.
Our capacity for appreciating art is limited to what we find beautiful. It is funny that most people want money for the power. I want money so I can have beautiful things—surround myself with them. Knowing beauty is a natural intuition. Gala and I walked through the Garden Court, West Vestibule to East, while I told her about the Hamptons. “I don’t know, Isa. It’s not your job to entertain them.” It sounded so simple how she said it. “That’s your problem, as much as you try to hide it. You think you really owe them something for letting you be there. You don’t have to perform for them, no matter what. Make ’em pay,” she said. “Bottom line, you’re always going to be an earnest baby looking for a buck, and that’s a confl ict of interest. Who cares?”
In the North Hall, between two landscapes and two urns, sat my favourite painting in the place. You can easily miss her because she’s on the way to three different rooms—a threshold. The lady in blue with a red ribbon in her hair, her fingers gently placed on her chin and back turned to a mirror. She somehow seems less real than the other portraits. She has no hard angles or corners; everything about her is round. Her blue satin dress softly creases around her body. Though she sits still, the creases imply movement. The reflection of her back, slightly off and inaccurate, makes the figure in the mirror a rogue imposter—a secret self. I love her because she looks as though she is forever in consideration. She’s been placed too high up to really consider who views her, looking past the small Degas, through the French windows and into the Garden Court. Gala said, “Of course you’d like her. She’s in a hallway.”
Gala is a fan of the Bouchers and Fragonards. She said she liked them because they could never be anywhere else. The way they were installed as wall panels is a sign they are home. “And, you know, I love eighteenth-century style! Gold edges!” She loves a pastoral scene, too. That is not totally at odds with her personality. While we walked around the West Gallery, quickly passing Turners and a Rembrandt, she yawned, saying this was the earliest she’d woken up in a week. Mae had been staying out each night until six or so the next morning. Gala’s only choice was to stay out with her or stay in the apartment all night because Mae said she simply “couldn’t” make a copy of her key. “There’s something off about her I can’t put my finger on.” Gala faced a painting of serious biblical themes, Jesus being taken down from the cross. She started laughing. “This one’s really Noel.” She held out her hand, and I took it.
I stood in the entrance hall waiting for Gala as she perused the wares in the gift shop. She came out holding a flat paper bag and gestured towards me. “It’s for you.” I slid the contents out halfway. A pair of blue eyes peered over the top of the bag, a postcard of the lady with the red ribbon. “Read the quote on the back!” I pulled out the card and on the back was a quote from the subject, Comtesse d’Haussonville. “I was destined to beguile, to attract, to seduce, and, in the final reckoning, to cause suffering in all those who sought their happiness in me.” Gala thought it was very humorous. She said, “So you!”
We walked south through the park. Neither of us had been to the park since we’d arrived in New York. It seems like the opposite of what other people do. There was a different speed up here, slower. There was a moneyed quality to the way people walked around. It reminded me of films set fifteen years ago, where people hung sweaters in colours ranging from beige to cream over their shoulders. The men would wear watches with thick bands, and women, a delicate gold chain link. A walk in the park, to them, was its own event.
The popsicles in Central Park are overpriced. Gala and I both got the strawberry-shortcake kind. I liked the graham cracker–crumb coating. It gave the popsicle heft, more sustenance in comparison to its watery counterparts. The cream started to drip down our fingers, and we stopped on the edge of the park to finish eating them over a garbage can so as to not dirty our clothes. We threw out the popsicle sticks and ran our hands under a nearby water fountain. Gala grabbed my arm. “Let’s go to the Plaza!” How funny it looked, sitting there across the street from the mouth of the park.
Large arrangements of purple lilies in silver urns sat on a marble table in the middle of the lobby. The smell of the flowers overpowered the room, and I imagined the dusty pollen fell off the petals like loose powder. Perhaps there was years of pollen set into the carpet, shaped like a ring around the table. It made my nose itch. We walked through the lobby like we knew where we were going, which of course we didn’t. I love hotels because they never ask you what you’re doing there, as that would be inhospitable. We walked through the Palm Court, with its stained-glass ceiling and namesake trees. Because it was late afternoon, there were still a couple of people having tea. Tourists dressed in khaki shorts and T-shirts spread brochures over their tables, glasses of ice water sweating. A couple of businessmen were at the trellised bar, their eyes lifting when we passed. Gala gave me a look as we made our way back into the hallway and followed the signs to the basement. The washrooms were warm and yellow with gold fixtures that would not be out of place at the Frick. There was a powder room just before the toilets. Gala proclaimed there were never enough public washrooms downtown. “What are you gonna do? Buy something at a café each time? Ridiculous. That’s why I never drink water on the go.” Frankly, it’s a costly natural urge. It adds up. We sat on the sofa in the powder room and took turns charging our phones using the only available outlet.
On my turn to charge, Gala perched on the counter of the sink to put on some makeup. She looked at me through the mirror and said, “Happy belated birthday to your mama by the way.” She caught me off guard. I could feel my eyes start to water involuntarily. I looked away from her and in anticipation used my index fingers as dams. A spare tear came down my cheek, and just like that it was over. My eyes had absorbed it all back in. I sat there quietly scrolling through my phone. Gala took the cap off of her lipstick, a shade called Capricious, somewhere between a pink and a plum, and delicately lined her mouth. I crossed my legs and felt the gold-and-white-striped upholstery of the sofa. “Do you ever think I made a mistake?” Gala shrugged, patting her lips to spread the colour evenly. “No one knows what you felt. No one experienced the same thing. You did what you had to do.” She paused. “Give yourself a break. Let yourself be sad for a few days. It’s only been a couple of years she’s been gone.” I laid back into the sofa with a sigh. “Well, that feels like forever when you have to go through life alone!” Gala shook her head and took her mascara out of her bag. “You’re so dramatic. If you feel alone, it’s because you choose to feel that way. You’re always around people.” She turned to look at my clothes. I’d finally picked up my luggage from Lucian. I was wearing a short-sleeved barong, a cream sheer shirt made from pineapple silk with lace appliqués in the shapes of vines and flowers down the front. I’ve had it for as long as I can remember. Traditionally you’re supposed to wear it with an undershirt, but I have never owned an undershirt. The least offensive option was a light-pink bra that you could only see a hint of in the daylight. I wore the barong untucked over my camel-coloured linen shorts. They were the ones Noel had ripped in the seam of my left pocket. I had not yet fixed them, as Gala was the only one handy with a needle. She threw her lipstick at me. “This’ll make your outfit go from day to night!” She took off her ankle socks and folded them into a ball before stowing them into her purse. She readjusted her pinafore. “This’ll have to do.” We headed back out to the bar to catch some eyes. She looked back at me. “Now, are you hungry?”