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“So, this one isn’t crap?” I drawl.
She narrows her dark eyes suspiciously. “Stop fishing for compliments, Em. It isn’t a good look. You know it’s amazing.”
I smile at her, not because I think this painting is great, but because she’s such a loyal friend to me. She’ll call me out as fast as she will compliment my work. I always know it’s a genuine assessment from her either way. I lucked out when we got paired up as roommates at the beginning of freshman year. I feel like I’ve known Suki for years rather than just a few months.
I take two steps back and tilt my head to observe the picture from a different angle. Suki might be the biggest fan of my work while I remain my biggest critic. I drive her crazy when I’m not satisfied with the way a painting is coming along and I scratch it altogether to start over. What can I say? I’m a dramatic artist. I have to be happy with my work before I put it out for public consumption. Not that anyone is clamoring for my paintings. I’m still a work in progress and virtually unknown in the art world.
I just discovered my love for painting in high school. I took an elective class and fell hard for it. My parents are practical and never encouraged us to pursue anything in the arts. They don’t think I can make a living this way. But I found it anyway—or it found me—and once I did, I was hooked. I haven’t put down the paintbrush since.
“By the way,” Suki adds as she makes her way back to her station, “you have paint on your cheek. Again.”
“It’ll just make me more colorful.” I smirk. “And pot … meet kettle.”
Suki is a sculptor, so she’s usually covered in clay. And I end up with just as much color on my skin and in my hair as I do on the canvas most days. But that’s when I know something I’m working on is becoming something great. Because I lose myself in it. I love the entire process. The smell of the paint and the texture of it on the canvas. The blending of the colors. Creating something from nothing.
Esme—the course professor who wears long, flowing dresses and insists that we call her by her first name rather than her last—stops by to add her two cents of my work. Her hippie vibe follows her throughout the classroom, giving the space an open, creative feel. She critiques a few areas and compliments others, but she’s constructive. I file away her comments for tomorrow, when I’m here to work on the piece again.
It’s the end of the semester, so everyone is focused on our final projects. I’m more concerned with personal gratification from the artwork than my final grade. But Esme has proven to always be fair. This is my second class with her since starting at Sinclair, and I’ve already signed up to take another one with her next semester.
I clean my palette and store my canvas in the designated space while Suki does the same with her materials. I’m packing my backpack when my name is called. I glance to the front of the studio at Esme.
“I need a word before you run off,” the art teacher says.
Suki touches my shoulder after slinging her canvas tote across her body. “I’ll wait for you outside.”
“Okay.” I nod.
The classroom clears as I make my way over to Esme. Sunlight streams through the large windowpanes, painting the area in natural light. The gray strands in Esme’s dark hair look nearly white in the light, giving her an ethereal glow.
“Your final project is amazing,” she begins, creating a warm feeling in the center of my chest.
The compliment feels good, especially coming from a fellow artist who’s been working in the field for years. It means even more because my parents have been less than encouraging, basically ignoring my passion.
The few times I confessed how much I loved my art classes in high school, I received a condescending pat on the head, like I was a child presenting a fingerpainting to hang on the fridge rather than a young woman pursuing a newfound love. They were worse than discouraging. They were patronizing. They made me feel foolish, like the pursuit was a waste of time.
But how can something you love be futile? Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do when we’re young … try different things to discover what we enjoy and what we’re good at and try to make money while doing it? I guess not if your name is Emerson Evans.
But it isn’t just me. My parents are equally disparaging of anything Eve does. The difference is, she doesn’t care. My sister has never let our parents get under her skin the way I do. Or if she does, she hides it better than I do. Plus, I don’t think Eve has ever searched for her passion. She declared her major as business because her classes were filled with mostly guys.
“Your work just keeps getting better and better,” Esme continues. “I’m really impressed with your progress this year.”
“Thank you.” I’m genuinely touched.
Her natural, makeup-free face is warm as she speaks. “I was approached by a local business recently. They have a wall downtown. It’s large and brick and plain, and they want a mural of campus painted on it. I showed them some of your work, and they think you’d be the perfect student to create it.”
The relaxed smile falls from my face as my mouth drops open. “What?”
She nods. “They love your landscapes. They were particularly blown away by the sunsets you’d painted this year.”
“Wow … I don’t know what to say.”
The local businesses are very supportive of the students and the university. They participate in homecoming events every year, allowing the sororities and fraternities to paint their storefront windows in competition. And every one of them supports sporting events, especially hockey. Most of the locals are shoulder to shoulder with the students in the arena each year, cheering on the team.
“Will you be around this summer?” she asks.
“I wasn’t planning to be,” I admit, “but I could arrange it.”
My mind is spinning a mile a minute as I try to process everything she’s saying and think about staying here rather than going home. The way my parents and I haven’t been getting along lately, avoiding a summer at home sounds even more appealing.
