With or Without You Page 12
“Thank you,” I say almost silently.
Oxana turns her back to regard a small square window on which I’ve painted a replica of Cézanne’s The Abduction. A graduation gift for Erik, who mentioned he admired the work when we saw it at a touring Cézanne exhibit. I faked sick for a week, missing school just so I could have it ready in time for his graduation.
“Your attention to detail is astonishing,” Oxana whispers, wiggling her finger at the painting as though trying to recreate the brush strokes herself. “You’re dangerous. You could be a master forger.”
I don’t know what to do with this, other than file “swindler” away as a fallback career.
My mouth is dry but I manage a small smile and say, “I like to use my powers for good.”
She leans in to examine a picture of State Street at night, done in the style of Georgia O’Keefe. O’Keefe was one of the easiest to grasp. Abstraction adores me. Oxana continues to stare and, again, I’m not sure what to say.
“Will you be showing my work?”
I’ll always maintain that the biggest problem with becoming an adult is our firm adherence to the concept of “no takebacks.” There’s no way I can withdraw the question, a bastard child of stupidity and eagerness. She turns and her face says it all. If I were anyone else—not Erik’s boyfriend, not some dumb kid just out of high school—she would have laughed at me. Instead, she chooses compassion with a small smile.
“You’re very talented, Mr. Weiss. I see a lot of very talented people here. I work with very, very few. What you’ve done is certainly good. But, ultimately, it’s little more than mimicry.”
My fingertips go cold and the edges of my vision go blurry. I shoot a glance at the frame of a nearby picture. She sees this and reads my mind.
“Yes, your medium is unique. Interesting. But I’m sure you know there’s more to art than the medium you choose.”
She stands behind me, places her thin fingers on my shoulders, and turns me to face my version of The Abduction. “Every detail,” she breathes into my ear, “exact and perfect. Too exact. Too perfect. If people believe Cézanne did this, where does that put you? You become a nonentity. It’s not your work. Where are you, Mr. Weiss? Where are you?”
I open my mouth to protest. Am I allowed to protest genius? Yes, I copied Cézanne, but what about the others? The subjects were of my choosing, from my perspective. And if I used someone else’s methods to convey that, doesn’t that also reflect on the artist? How am I missing from my own work? I don’t say any of this. I’m humiliated.
She guides me to my picture of a pawnshop on State Street, reminiscent of Picasso’s The Old Guitarist, featuring a guitar bathed in the pale blue light of a display window, sans guitarist. “Were you sad when you painted this?” she asks.
I hesitate. “No. It was a great day.”
“I suspected as much,” she admits. She reaches out, her fingers gliding just above the thin lines in the painting, careful not to touch. “Do you know about Picasso’s blue period? He painted while in a state of depression. He chose varying shades of blues and blue-greens to show his feelings. You chose these colors because they resembled Picasso’s. Inform your pieces with your life, your thoughts, your perceptions. Just as Picasso and Degas and all who came before. Let your colors be your emotions and combine them with your technique to give us your message.”
These are all things I thought I knew. I was wrong. I think of Mr. Benton, calling my colors my vocabulary. Here I’ve been using the right language but the wrong words. I stare at this piece that I created, labored over, and suddenly I don’t recognize it anymore. I see it as she sees it: lifeless, wan. “I only study artists’ techniques. I don’t know anything about Picasso’s life.”
A chill of shame runs across my shoulders as I hear her tsk. “To appreciate a work of art does not require intimate knowledge of an artist’s background. Anyone can survey and react to art. But to create, it is often wise to understand where an artist has come from. What inspired them? What in their life prompted them to speak out through their art? Everyone is influenced somehow.”
She opens a desk drawer and removes a weathered book. The dust jacket is missing but as she pages through it, I catch the title on the spine: Keith Haring—Journals. She licks her fingertips, flips through the pages, then passes the book to me, pointing out an underlined passage on the jaundiced page:
Matisse had a pure vision and painted beautiful pictures. Nobody ever has or ever will paint like him again. His was an individual statement. No artists are parts of a movement. Unless they are followers. And then they are unnecessary and doing unnecessary art.
Even Haring thinks I’m crap. A follower. Unnecessary.
“Think about what I said, Mr. Weiss.” She fixes me with a look that’s two parts empathy, one part pity. “You’ve done your homework. Your technique is impeccable. Now it’s time to figure out what you have to contribute.”
She gives my shoulder a short squeeze, then hands me a thin ivory card from a sleek silver box on the desktop. Her name, the gallery, and her private phone number are embossed in lusterless copper.
“Erik says you’re thinking about art school. I know the deans of many fine institutions. San Francisco, New York, London, Florence … Most will have closed their fall admissions by now, but if you find a school where you’d like to study and need a reference, give them my number.” A tiny smile crosses her pert lips. “You’re almost there, you know. Almost.”
I go to hand the book back but she shakes her head. “Let it be your first lesson on the life of an artist. Get it back to me when you’re done.”
I slip the card into my shirt pocket and guess that I must look undead because she broadens her smile, hoping to resurrect me. “I’ll be very interested to see where you are in a few years. I suspect I’ll see great things from you. Maybe then we can talk about a showing.”
She glances at the tiny clock dangling from a chain at her waist, excuses herself, and leaves the room. Numb, I begin to pack my work back into Erik’s makeshift traveling cases.
All this time, I thought I was good. I thought I was a painter. Turns out I’m just a huge copycat.
I load the last window onto the cart and as I’m about to leave, I notice a silk screen on the wall opposite Oxana’s desk. It’s an original Keith Haring, one I’ve only seen in books. It’s square with a black background. In the middle of it all is a huge pink triangle. Superimposed over all this is a jigsaw of many silver human figures with the thick, rounded outlines that made Haring famous.
The figures are shown only from the waist up, each overlapping another, alternating positions—some have round hands covering their mouths, others cover their ears, the rest, the eyes. See/Speak/Hear no evil. Very few of Haring’s works have titles but I know this one: Silence = Death.
I’m drawn in, marveling at the simplicity. Here it is, cartoonlike and yet brilliant. Haring carved a name for himself. It didn’t look like anything anyone else had done. I’m sure he didn’t waste his high school years replicating Cézanne and Van Gogh and da Vinci. He had vision. He is there, in the painting, staring back at me. When I look at my work, I’m not staring back.
I don’t know how long I stand, gaping at the silk screen, before I realize Oxana is standing shoulder to shoulder with me.
“It was one of Haring’s many responses to the AIDS crisis of the Eighties.” Her whisper echoes the reverence I feel. “Part of the exhibit. I’m putting it in the gallery on Monday. I just wanted it in here for a few days so I can pretend it’s mine.”
“My next painting was going to be … you know …” I feel sick so I don’t finish this sentence. Right now, I never want to paint again.
Oxana’s tiny fingers grip my shoulder. “So do it. Paint your own Haring. Do your own Radiant Baby. Get it out of your system. Let it stand as a testament that it’s time to move on and find out what Evan Weiss has to say. You’ve spent too long delivering someone else’s message.”
S
he escorts me and the dolly to the third floor where Erik is waiting. He smiles at me but I make a point of looking away. The gallery is a massive white box, almost the size of a football field. And it’s just the three of us.
“Here’s the Haring exhibit.” She beams proudly.
Along the left wall, flat-screen TVs run a loop of Haring’s video art. Most are videos of him painting or doing performance art. The right wall sports an assortment of silk-screen paintings.
“Take your time; look around,” Oxana says. “I have another appointment so you’ll excuse me.”
Erik and Oxana exchange hugs; I shake her hand and thank her for her time. A moment later, Erik and I are alone. He slips his hand into mine and we walk the gallery.
“So, how did it go?” From the DictionErik: cracked, high-pitched voice—Evan, you’re upset; I can tell. That makes me nervous.
I stare into the first flat-screen—a video of Haring drawing a design on the floor until he’s literally painted himself into a corner. The irony is not lost on me.
“It was … great,” I mutter.
Erik grins. “Isn’t she amazing? I love Oxana. She’s so smart, really knows her stuff.”
“Yeah.” I nod, my eyes never leaving the flat-screen. “Yeah. She pretty much told me I was a hack.”
I try to stroll ahead to the next TV, but Erik hasn’t budged and, still tethered at the hand, I yo-yo back. He tries a smile. “I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”
I want to focus on the compliments, but it’s the criticisms that thunder in my head. Maybe it’s because this is the first time anyone has viewed my work critically. Or maybe I suspect she said the nice things because I’m Erik’s boyfriend. But even if the praise was sincere, it doesn’t change that I’m unnecessary.
“She said I’m a decent painter,” I concede, “but I won’t be any good until I find my own style.”
For a long time, Erik says nothing. Then he says, “Okay, then. What are you going to do about that?”
I unlace my fingers and retract my hand. “What do you mean?”
He points to the nearby dolly with my art. “Gauguin said, ‘Art is either plagiarism or revolution.’ You’ve got the first part down. What are you going to do about the second?”
Something electric sets the hair on my arms on end, clenches my jaw. Something I’ve never genuinely felt toward Erik until now: anger.
“Erik, did you know what she was going to say to me?”
In that instant, our roles reverse and I see him employ my own evasion tactics. A laugh to lower defenses. A smile to throw me off guard. Doesn’t he know I invented these maneuvers?
“What I know is that I have a supertalented boyfriend who is going to go all shock and awe on the art world some day—”
“Did you know what she’d say?”
His face falls. “Evan, I want to see you grow as an artist. You’re sitting on a powder keg of potential—”
“I don’t believe this!” My shout comes back tinny as it ricochets off the gallery walls. “How could you put me through that? Why parade me in front of someone of Oxana Fedorov’s stature so she can tear me down? If you thought I was a copycat, why couldn’t you be a man and tell me yourself?”
The unthinkable, unfathomable, indefensible happens. My anger finds the chink in Erik’s armor of infinite patience. Every pass he’s given me—his tolerance and understanding—disappears. Now everything he’s held back finally finds its voice.
“Why bring you here?” he asks, bitterness cracking his thunderous tone. “Why couldn’t I tell you myself? If you really need to ask me, then you haven’t been paying attention for the last year. I’ve been pushing you and pushing you because I think you’ve got talent, but there’s nothing I can say or do to get you to go to the next level.”
“You should have said something, instead of subjecting me to—”
“It wouldn’t have done any good, Evan!”
We’re shouting. I can’t believe we’re shouting.
Veins pop out of his forearms as he clenches his fists. “You’re scared. I have no idea what you’re scared of, but you’re terrified. Maybe it has to do with keeping me out of that part of your life that involves your friends or anything else remotely personal. Did you think we could get this close and I wouldn’t see the fear?
“Well, I see it.” He reaches out suddenly, grabbing my hand and pressing it tight to his chest. “I can feel it every time we touch. I can hear it when I mention Davis and you change the subject. I put you through this today because you’re never gonna get anywhere and be your own person unless somebody shoves you in the right direction. So, tell me, Evan, why are you putting me through this? Is it because you’re scared Oxana’s right?”
I’m used to fights with Shan where we go to last man standing. Those battles were a cornerstone of growing up. But none of that prepared me for this. I wasn’t prepared to wound Erik by questioning him. To be the reason he loses his temper. To see him look away, his wild eyes yielding to pain. The anger continues to course through my body but the urge to fight drains from me when he turns his back.
On the drive over, I pictured our return to Nolan and Anna’s. I pictured lying out on their deck, eating burgers off the grill, and cuddling with Erik under a blanket as fireworks lit the sky over Lake Michigan. I got different fireworks than I bargained for. I know I won’t enjoy any of that, the way I’m feeling now. Angry. Betrayed. Sickened.
“Can you take me to the bus station?” I ask, when I know I can speak without trembling. “You should stay with Nolan and Anna. But I think … I think I need to go home. Process all this.”
Even now, there’s a small part of me that wants him to say, No, I’m sorry, you’re right, I’m wrong, let’s stay and work this out. That little part reels to hear him acquiesce in a very different way.
“I’m not putting you on a bus. I’ll take you home. I don’t feel much like being in Milwaukee anymore.”
Silently, we leave the gallery, load up the paintings, and begin the trek back to Madison. Erik gets on his cell to let Nolan and Anna know we’ve had a change of plans.
“It’s not gonna work out,” he says soberly into the phone. He means our visit. Not the relationship.
I repeat that all the way back to Madison: He means our visit. … He means our visit. …
stonewall
An hour and a half later, when Erik turns onto my street, I ask to be let out two blocks from home.
“Oh, right,” he mutters, his first words since we left Milwaukee. “Wouldn’t want to stop being a secret, would I?”
When we stop at the curb, I grab my bag and look at Erik. He didn’t even look at me the entire drive back. His hands remain on the wheel, gripping it with white-knuckled ferocity. I’m angry but I won’t leave it like this, so I lean over and kiss him on the cheek. I hear the breath he’s been holding exit his lungs posthaste. He finally looks at me, eyes shiny in the dusk, and says, “Do you see why I thought you needed time to think about San Diego? Welcome to our first fight.”
I promise I’ll call, and he drives off. I go to my room. The paintings on the wall only remind me what a loser I am. I take each one down and shove them under my bed. When there’s no room left beneath the box spring, I take the tackle box where I keep my paints and shove it in the back of my closet. My brushes, too. Even though Oxana told me to, I don’t want to paint my Haring. Not anymore.
For the first time in a very, very long time, I cry myself to sleep.
Two weeks pass as Erik and I dance around each other. Work dominates Erik’s life, so we can’t talk about the fight in Milwaukee. We trade text messages, mimic real conversation in brief phone calls. Sometimes it feels like we’ve forgotten everything it took us a year to build.
This is foreign territory for us and I’m not sure how to proceed. But time dulls my rage and I’m left wondering if I overreacted. Maybe this fight is nothing. I need some sort of Richter scale to tell me how bad things were. Are. Will be.
Davis finally deigns to make a guest appearance in my life. I should be angry, give him the silent treatment for ignoring me as long as he has. But when he shows up with a bag of leftover Szechuan chicken and wontons, I grab at comfort while I can get it and we head up to my room.
For one glorious hour, I get something good back in my life. It’s like when Erik and I drove to Milwaukee; we compete to see who can talk the fastest and listen the hardest. We just want to talk and get caught up as quickly as possible.
It’s just as I’m polishing off the last of the fried wontons when he drops:
“What if I said I don’t want to go to Chicago?”
Davis’s voice is scratchy; I can only guess this comes from hours of smoking weed with Sable. I shove the wonton deep into my mouth to stop the first spurious comment from reaching my lips. Half the conversation has been Sable this, Sable that, Sable can walk on fucking water. Now, apparently, Davis has found something better than Chicago. And I hate knowing I wouldn’t react this way if I knew that San Diego with Erik was still a sure thing. One possibility I’d never considered: losing them both.
“Dude,” I say instead, mouth brimming with gooey wonton, “you’ve already sent in a deposit.” I go for where he’s vulnerable. Now that he’s supporting himself, Davis can’t afford to throw money away. Seeing how he reacts to the reminder that he’s locked money into a dorm room and tuition will help me gauge how serious he is.
Davis rolls his eyes. “If. I said if. It’s just something I’m thinking about. Besides, deposits are refundable.”
Orange alert. He’s already made sure he can get a refund. I chew more wonton. “What would you do otherwise? You hate Madison.”
He leans back against my bed. “I hated the way people in Madison made me feel. I guess I’m just not feeling that way anymore. Without the trogs around, I almost feel human. And I’m not even saying I’d stay in Madison.”