I didn’t want to come off like a total newbie in front of the entire class, but when we got to the corner of 82nd Street and Museum Mile, I practically melted into the sidewalk.
The Metropolitan Museum of Art was a big mass of awesome. I literally had to resist bolting up the steps that stretched up and into the museum. In fact, the only thing that kept me from doing that was all of the activity outside the museum: There were artists selling their sketches, vendors serving hot dogs, and people from all corners of the earth speaking different languages as they, too, took in the scene.
“Pretty cool, huh?” Gabriella said, clearly seeing the stars in my eyes.
“Yeah, it’s nice,” I said, trying to play down my excitement.
“Wait until you see what’s inside,” she said as we made it up the stairs. “I overheard Ms. Roberts saying that if we have time, we might get to see the Temple of Dendur. It’s bananas!”
“Please,” Paulette chimed as she walked lazily past Gabriella and me. “It’s okay and all, but after you see it for, like, the billionth time, it’s not all that deep. Now, the Frick museum? That’s the place to be.”
Gabriella looked at me and rolled her eyes. I looked straight ahead and kept my mouth closed. I’d promised myself I’d stay out of Paulette’s mini-drama, and I meant to stick to that. Besides, I was too excited to get inside the Met. We didn’t have anything like this back home, and after a while, you can only look at the County Historical Museum so many times before it’s a total snore. I was hoping, too, that I’d be able to sneak around and learn a bit about Georgia O’Keeffe, Claude Monet, and some of the other artists Ms. Roberts had been talking about back in class earlier that morning.
“Okay, everyone, right this way,” Ms. Roberts called out to the group as we made our way through the doors. “So, as I explained, we’re here for a guided tour of the new Picasso exhibit, and we’re going to check out a few of the museum’s staples in the Impressionist wing. We’ll also stop in to see the Temple of Dendur if we have time. But before we leave, I want you all to pick your favorite Picasso portrait, and then sketch it as if it’s your own self-portrait. Time is limited, so let’s hurry. Be sure to stick with me and the museum guides at all times, and when in doubt, look for the red camp T-shirts; this will help all of us get back to SoHo safely.”
The grand hallway was like something out of a movie. We followed a businesslike museum guide up a sweeping flight of stairs into a quiet, large, looping hall where dozens of Picassos hung like bold splashes of color across the walls. A couple of us students—me included—squealed at the sight. Truth was, I’d never imagined that I’d see a Picasso up close.
“So, friends, you already know that Picasso was an incredible Spanish painter and sculptor who was one of the most prominent artists of the twentieth century…” the guide began.
“Oh, good grief—who wants to stand here and listen to a lecture? Blah blah blah—I want to see the paintings already,” Paulette said not so quietly. She grabbed Mariska’s hand and slunk off to the other side of the room, boldly walking past Ms. Roberts. A few more of the campers followed behind them, leaving only a handful of us standing there, politely listening to the guide. She was boring. But really, was that any excuse to be rude?
“Well, it looks like we’re losing a few of the class members,” the guide said, after droning on for a little while longer. “How about we go ahead and take a look at some of the pieces and talk as we walk along?”
“Good idea,” Gabriella whispered.
We inched along the walls, admiring a collection of paintings from Picasso’s Blue Period, and through another room that showed a bunch of paintings that looked like they’d been painted, cut into tiny squares, and then glued back together again.
“These are my favorites!” Paulette announced loudly, bullying her way through a crowd of gray-haired ladies wearing identical blue shirts to stand directly in front of one of the larger paintings. Following her lead, the guide called all of us over.
“So, who can tell me what period these paintings fall into for Picasso? Anyone?” the guide asked. Her eyes pored over the sea of red T-shirts standing before her and landed on…me. “What’s your name, young lady?”
I looked behind me. Nope, no one there. “Uh, me?” I asked, pointing at my own chest.
“Yes,” she said. “Your name?”
I heard a few giggles to the left and right of me. “I’m Mina.”
“Okay,” she said. “Picasso was known for changing his style, and through the years he had several different periods of works. We just came out of the collection from his Blue Period, and we started with the Rose Period. Which is this?”
I froze. The guide stood there staring at me, like I was some Picasso expert who walked around spitting out Picasso facts. I had no clue what the answer was. Someone—I think maybe Paulette—started humming the theme to the game show Jeopardy—a ditty that made practically the entire room fall into hysterics. I think even one of the little old ladies was giggling.
“Um, the beige period?” I mumbled. Hey, a couple of the pictures had a lot of beige in them, and seeing as the other two periods were named after colors, I figured I’d give it a shot.
Paulette led the laugh parade. “Did she just say ‘the beige period’?” she asked, clutching her stomach for added effect. “Wow. Just…wow.”
Then she took two dramatic steps back from the display and jabbed her finger up toward the top of the wall. My eyes followed the tip of her finger to a sign that said in bright, bold red letters: PICASSO AND THE CUBIST MOVEMENT.
“It’s called Cubism,” Paulette snarled.
I felt my cheeks burn. Embarrassing.
“Yes, very good. It’s called Cubism,” the guide continued without missing a beat.
“Don’t even sweat it,” Toby whispered in my ear.
“For real,” Gabriella whispered. “What counts is what you’re going to do on your sketch pad. Did you see something you liked? I’m all over that one over there—the one where the lady has two eyes on the wrong side of her nose. I think I’ll name it ‘Paulette.’”
I was in no laughing mood. “Maybe I’ll just stick to this one,” I managed.
“Well, you know, if you’re into it, make it happen,” Gabriella said. “Easy breezy.”
Determined to put Paulette out of my head, I flipped to a clean piece of paper in my sketch pad and reached into my purse for my pencil. Then I looked up at Picasso’s painting again. It really was beautiful; it was a stack of squares in different sizes, arranged to look like a woman. Some of the squares were beige and different shades of brown; some were gray and some were even black, with a little green in them. The more I leaned into the picture and looked at the details more closely, the cooler it became. In fact, I thought it looked more like a collage.
Inspired again, I found a seat on a bench opposite the painting and stared at it some more. No, a pencil wasn’t going to do. I needed glue. I tore into my purse and fumbled past my raspberry lemonade smoothie lip balm, a half-eaten pack of grape Now and Laters, a hair tie I use to keep my locs tied back while I paint, my wallet, and a pack of fine-tipped Sharpies (minus the forest green one, which I still think my little sister stole, seeing as it’s her favorite color and it was the color of the word Mommy she’d written in bubble letters on the homemade birthday card she’d made for my mom. She’s such a little thief!). Ah, there it was: a glue stick.
I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the map and flyers the guide gave us before we started our tour, and slowly started ripping them to pieces. Once I had a sufficient pile, I picked up my pencil, studied the painting again, and, in my mind, imagined the woman with chocolate brown skin and flowing locs, and a hot-pink dress instead of a beige one. Yeah, I could make her real cute, I decided.
Just as I picked up my pencil to draw the outlines of what would be my version of Picasso’s painting, Paulette plopped down next to me on the bench. She, too, flipped to a clean page and then waved her pencil in the air like it was a wand and she was about to do a magic trick. I tried not to look in her direction, but she wasn’t having it.
“Funny,” she said, leaning close enough for me to smell the sour lemonade lip gloss she’d slathered on her lips after sketching a portrait across the hall. “I didn’t think you’d pick this one, seeing as you didn’t even know what it was.”
My tongue was tied into too many knots to come up with a snappy comeback. So I just kept working, trying my best to act like I wasn’t paying her any mind. But that just made her lean in closer.
Paulette looked around to see who was watching, and then she asked in a low voice, “No offense, but why are you here, anyway?”
I snuck a quick look at her and then buried my eyes back onto my sketch pad. “It’s a camp trip,” I mumbled. “The whole class is here.”
“No, I mean why are you here—in New York, at this camp?” Paulette said, this time turning her body toward mine.
“I mean, maybe it’s just me, but you don’t seem to really know all that much about art, so…it seems kinda weird that you’re going to an art camp,” Paulette continued as she scratched her pencil across her sketch pad.
More silence.
“Don’t get me wrong: It’s cute and all that you do the little glue-and-paper thing,” she said, nodding her head toward me as I nervously glued a piece of torn museum map to the squares I’d drawn on the paper. “But really, outside of, like, a third grade art class, are we calling that art these days?”
This time, a lump in my throat, and the beginnings of tears.
Maybe she was right.
“I’m just saying…” Paulette was about to continue, but Ms. Roberts cut her off.
“Wow, look at you two!” she said, completely oblivious to the torture Paulette was laying on me. “This is pretty good stuff. See how art works? Here you are, Paulette, taking a classical approach, and Mina! You’re taking it up a notch with the collage. You know, contemporary artists like Bearden studied Picasso and picked up a thing or two from his Cubist work. Very perceptive. But Mina, I don’t want you to get stuck in this Romare rut. I appreciate that you love to collage, but you have to be able to stretch a bit more,” she said, swiping my work with her eyes.
“Thank you, Ms. Roberts!” Paulette said enthusiastically as if she wasn’t just cutting me with that same tongue two seconds ago. “This was a great trip—better than last year, even.”
Somehow, I managed a half smile, but I didn’t look up.
With my head bent down, neither Paulette nor Ms. Roberts could see the tear sliding down my cheek.