Dear Lena,
So I’m two days into the program, and it’s insanely cool/intimidating/fun/inspiring/terrifying. When I say we’re in rural Ireland, this is what you should picture: a small town, and then twenty minutes away from the small town, a road with a pub and a church. And then, surrounded by farmland, the studio where we work. When you get to town, it’s a different story, but I swear, there are more cows and sheep than people in the one-mile radius around my studio.
The program is run by this married couple: Declan and Áine (which I have yet to pronounce correctly—it’s harder than it seems). Declan dresses like the headmaster of the world’s most fashionable prep school—he’s always in a full suit with a jacket and tie, and most of them are patterned. I can’t describe how odd it is to see a man in a polka-dot suit and purple shoes strolling through a field filled with dirty farm equipment and horses too old to ride. It’s like an Alice in Wonderland fever dream. He’s definitely the hard-ass of the program. In two days he’s given us about half a dozen lectures on technique and muscle memory and forgetting anything about your work that you considered to be any good and starting over from the ground up.
Áine (even in my head I know I’m pronouncing it wrong; maybe you can do better than me) is like everyone’s mom here. I’ve never heard her say anything critical of anyone’s work. Like, the worst that she’s said was yesterday, when one of the boys (he’s from California, but I can’t remember his name) was painting a landscape from the window, and the colors were totally off. Áine suggested that he try painting the rest of it without touching white or black paint. And so he really had to focus on the colors of things—that fence isn’t really black, it’s dark blue with green streaks, you know. And it came out so much better! Áine is all about “releasing your inner artist” (she says that all the time). Everyone loves her.
My real mother, on the other hand, has been fine, considering. Still clearly missing my dad and worried about her job, for some reason, even though she said that taking a vacation wouldn’t be an issue at all. I do feel bad. She’s lonely, and she’s been lonely since she and dad got divorced.
I think I told you about the time I came downstairs around eleven P.M. and saw her watching their wedding video. I was behind the couch, so I couldn’t actually see her face, just her reflection in the window. And she was crying. I didn’t know what to do. I guess, now, in retrospect, I should have comforted her, told her that it was for the best, that I love her, and that I’m here for her, but in retrospect everything’s easy. I was embarrassed for her. I snuck back upstairs as quietly as I could and managed to get back into bed without her hearing me.
Is there a long German word that sums up the combination of shame and discomfort when a child sees her parent cry? It’s this terrible combination of wanting to help someone you love but hating the feeling that you have to be the one to comfort your parent. Is this making any sense? I’m sorry I’m rambling. The good news is, she’s leaving in two days, and so I won’t have to worry about this anymore or be distracted from my art.
My art! The art here is really hard, and everyone is really, really good. We sketched this animal skull that Declan placed in the middle of the table. You would have hated it. Just imagine three hours of near silence (just the low background jazz music Declan plays) while we all just drew in a circle. Mine came out fine, a little lopsided, but fine. But almost everyone else’s had . . . something. I don’t know. Being here for two days around real artists, other people who take their art seriously—it makes me nervous.
Maybe I’m not as good as I thought I was. I mean, I’m fine. I can draw, I know I can. But, like, one of the girls, Maeve, draws things that I could pick out as hers anywhere on the planet. She has something special. Maybe that’s the kind of thing you need to make it as an artist. Oh, and Maeve is also Declan and Áine’s actual daughter! She lives here, near Donegal, with the coolest parents in the world, probably making art together all the time. I am almost positive the universe will reach its heat death before I make art with my mother. And of course she’s gorgeous, with thick black hair and bangs like Zooey Deschanel, and she’s skinny in a way that everything she wears looks good on her. And the worst part is I can’t hate her because she’s also insanely nice. People like that are the worst.
I did meet a boy—insert blushing emoji here, ha-ha—named Callum Cassidy, and yes, he is real, and yes, he is as adorably Irish as he sounds. We met at a pub my first night here (ALICE WAS ALSO AT THE PUB. IT WAS AS STRANGE AS IT SOUNDS), and he promised that we’d hang out again soon, even though it’s been a full thirty hours and he hasn’t messaged me yet. I hope Nick is better at texting you. The trip to Six Flags looked fun from your Instagrams.
So, here’s hoping that the next two and a half weeks actually turn me into a good enough artist to get into RISD. Maeve could probably get in with both hands tied behind her back, painting with a brush in her mouth.
Love you, miss you,
hugs and kisses
and all that,
Nora
* * *
“I think it’s cute that you and Lena are writing each other real letters, with pen and paper,” my mom says as she slinks into my room. “I didn’t think any of you kids still did that.”
I’m not sure if she’s trying to be friendly or passive-aggressive. It’s so hard to tell with her sometimes. “Well, Grandpa gave me that beautiful stationery.”
“And it’s nice that you’re putting it to good use.” She sits on the corner of my bed. It’s the same pose she was in on my bed back home when she told me she and my dad were getting a divorce. She must realize it, because she almost immediately stands back up and runs her hand over the comforter to smooth out its wrinkles. “Is everything okay with you and Lena, with her new boyfriend? I know that can be hard sometimes.”
What is this conversation? Why does my mom think that just by coming into my room, we’ll suddenly have a magical Gilmore Girls relationship where we dish and gab about how my best friend just starting dating the boy who took my virginity then stopped talking to me, and how that same best friend still doesn’t know. Because I didn’t tell her. Because I was embarrassed. Because I was heartbroken.
“It’s totally fine,” I say. “We’re fine. Why wouldn’t we be?”
In a completely un-Alice move, my mom ignores the sharpness in my voice.
“How was the first day of your program?” she asks.
|
What I could say: |
Well, to be honest, it was kind of stressful because all the other kids have cool accents and seem so sophisticated. They already have unique artistic voices, and I’m just here trying to go from cartoons to serious art and realizing that everything I’ve been taught just isn’t enough. And what if you were right all along? Being a professional artist is hard, but I was always willing to put the work in. But it’s becoming increasingly obvious that my talents are above average at best, so what if hard work isn’t enough? |
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What I do say: |
It was fine! |
I see by the look on her face that this was the wrong answer. “Fine?” she repeats back. “I come in here asking about your day, about the program that we both traveled halfway around the world to get to, and you give me ‘fine’?”
“I never asked you to come, okay? I’ve made that abundantly clear.”
“Well, I am here, and I asked my daughter how her day went.”
“It was kind of stressful, okay? I’m used to drawing cartoons. I don’t do a lot of this stuff, and a lot of the other students are really good at it.”
She needs to take a moment to process the realization that I actually confided something about my life. “Maybe it’s a good wake-up call, that art makes a better hobby.”
The fury in my chest that I had been letting carefully dim erupts. This is why I didn’t share with her in the first place.
“Mom. I don’t want your advice right now,” I say as calmly as I can. If I start yelling, the argument is lost. “I have a friend who gives me advice.” I gesture to the letter I’m sending to Lena. “And I need to be around people who actually respect what I’m doing and how hard it is.”
My mom opens her mouth, and in that split second I’m not sure if it’s going to be rage or apology, and maybe neither is she, because just then the door opens and Evelyn pops her head through the gap.
“Sorry to interrupt, darlings. Alice, dear, can I get your help downstairs?”
The timing is too perfect. I wonder if Evelyn had been waiting outside the door, hearing our conversation grow more tense, waiting for the best moment to pull my mom away before we exploded like a cigarette and a gas station.
My mom nods and follows Evelyn out.
Two more days. Just two more days and my mother will be on a plane back to Chicago.