She had always preferred pens to pencils.  She wasn't entirely sure why.  Pencils were definitely a lot easier. Add a little more pressure, and the lead would give.  Apply less, and the lines would soften.  And then there was the matter of mistakes.  A pencil was very forgiving, as long as an art-gum eraser was nearby.  A pen, on the other hand, left permanent marks.  They could not be removed and all mistakes were forces to be reckoned with.  They served as a reminder of what went wrong. You had to work with them.  Incorporate them into the final drawing.  Build on them.  Draw over them.  Regardless of what you did to them, they could not be ignored. 

Maybe that was just it.  Maybe she preferred the challenge of a pen.  Or perhaps it was the way it felt gliding over the page.  Or it could be the contrast of the black ink on a stark white background.  Or maybe it was simply because a pen was always handy and she had just gotten used to it. 

She thought about this as she pulled out an old familiar drawing.  It was one that she began working on almost nine years ago.  The drawing had started out great.  She smiled as she reminisced about its beginning, and how excited and enthusiastic she was as she first pushed her stylus around on this particular piece of drawing paper.  She remembered the stark contrast of the fresh strokes on the fresh surface.   Everything was so new and the possibilities seemed endless and exciting.  This drawing could have gone anywhere.  The lines could have taken her anywhere.  And she had visions of where they were going to lead and that thrilled her as she pushed onward. 

But recently things had changed.  Someone had drawn a thick, dense line over all her efforts.  A line so strong and bold that no matter what she did, she couldn't hide it.  She couldn't make it work and at first she was angry at him.  He ruined it.  He ruined everything.  Nine years she had spent trying to make this drawing work.  And in one moment, nine years of work had been altered beyond repair.

This evening, she took a step back as she focused on her drawing.   Slowly her eyes widened at what she saw.  She hadn’t really noticed it before.  Perhaps she had been too close to the canvas to ever really see it.  The edges of her paper had become dingy and were starting to warp and curl inward.  She let out a stifled nervous laugh when she thought about those worn edges enclosing in on her face.  But it wasn’t the paper she was worried about.  No, what she noticed was that she no longer recognized the face that was in front of her.  The layers upon layers of lines made circles around her eyes and the cross-hatching along her lips no longer resembled the smile that she had so excitedly began with.  The years upon years of work spent on this portraiture had turned a face that was bright and clear and hopeful into one that was dark and drab and dismayed.

Before the tears welled up in her eyes and distorted her vision, she shifted her focus and began contemplating that line that changed everything.  The line by itself was beautiful.  Simple.  But very beautiful.  It moved in soft waves that were drawn along the edge of her face and hugged the curves of her jaw line.  As she followed the form with her eyes from top to bottom, her left hand unconsciously mimicked the line across her cheek.  It gave her a light chill down her spine.  Never had one move evoked such a response from her. 

It was then that it became clear that it was not the mark of a man who was careless and un-thoughtful that had effortlessly ruined her drawing.   It was years of denial and hard labor in an effort to force something to work that was never working to begin with that did her in.  And the truth was, it was her own hand that had guided those lines. 

With the back of her wrist, she wiped away the overflowing pool of tears that were building up below her eyes, causing new streams to run down her cheek.  In an effort to make things right, she had lost focus and lost the essence of what she started with.  She was no longer angry at him.  She shook her head as she realized that he wasn’t trying to destroy her.  He was trying to help her. 

Still moved by how something so bold and yet so simple could mean so much, she decided to do something that for her was the bravest move she could bear to do at that moment.  Something she perhaps should have done three years ago, if not earlier.  She retired her old self-portrait, pulled out a new blank piece of paper and decided to start fresh. 

 

 

 

 -

Begin.

Start.

New. 

Where to start?  She questioned herself as she stared at an untouched piece of paper.  She was the only person there, and yet she felt as though that faceless piece of paper was staring right back at her.  She curiously searched around the room looking for signs of life.  Nope, she was definitely alone this evening.  All that accompanied her was a new tin filled with new charcoal sticks waiting to meet the newly compressed tree pulp. 

 

She tentatively brought her vine charcoal up to her sketch pad.  A sketch pad that was fresh and ready to be filled with everything that her heart desired.  However, tonight she couldn’t seem to quite figure out what exactly it was that her heart wanted.  Her hand dropped before the carbon chunk could even leave a hint of dust on the white slab that lay in front of her.

Empty.

Blank.

Vast. 

This shouldn’t be so hard, she thought.  There were no rules. She could do whatever she wanted.  In theory there was nothing holding her back, and yet she was paralyzed.  Afraid to make a move.  Afraid to start.  It was as if her newfound freedom was actually making her feel more trapped than ever before.  She had no clue what to do or where to begin. 

 

She knew what lay in front of her was opportunity.  The charcoal was waiting and willing to create beauty and space and form and line and breathe life into that paper.  The two wanted to mingle.  They wanted to dance together.  They wanted to make art. 

 

Instead, all she could see was an empty space that seemed to go on forever.  It was almost as if there was too much at once.  So she was waiting.  Waiting for something to tell her what to do, but for some reason, nothing was speaking to her.  Nothing was grabbing her attention.  So, the paper and the charcoal continued to lie there, still and motionless.

 

Doubt.

Fear.

Unknown. 

I can’t do this. The struggle with herself began.  I’m that afraid that I’m not brave enough to create something strong and powerful.  What if I don’t remember how?  What if I screw it up?  What if it turns out all wrong? Her heart ached because she so strongly wanted to start over.  She wanted to start fresh.  It was just the thought of the unknown and the fear of failure that made her uneasy. 

 

And yet, here she was.  There was no turning back at this point. She had retired the old drawings and the old sketchbooks.  While they were not completely gone, they no longer fit in her life.  They were the past and she was determined to move forward with something new.  Something that she hoped would lead to a re-building of her dreams and perhaps a re-building her life.  But suddenly all the responsibility of having all those dreams in her own hands made the task a little daunting and a little frightening.  This time, if things didn’t go right, she could only blame herself.   She was beginning to wonder if she had made the right decision and if she was really cut out for all this. She didn’t want to regret what she had done, but all of this was starting to make her feel incredibly alone.  A feeling she was not entirely sure she was comfortable with.

 

Alone.

Lost.

Unsure. 

Well, looks like nothing is going to happen tonight.  Her head was beginning to ache with all the doubts that were running through her mind, and her eyes stung from staring at the white sheet in front of her.  The whole thing was making her feel exhausted and frustrated and she hadn’t even started yet.  She looked down at her hands.  Without so much as making one line in her sketchbook, she had still managed to get her hands filthy.  They were marred with black soot.    

 

She uncrossed her legs from their Indian-style position and warily got herself up off the floor, being extra careful not to leave traces of her unsuccessful night on the carpet or the white walls of her new apartment.  She slowly made her way back toward her bathroom.  There ws no hurry.  Nothing was giving her the desire to move forward any bit faster than a sauntering pace. 

 

As the water flowed and washed away the charcoal residue on her hands, the cool wetness became enticing.  She bent over her sink and splashed the water in her face.  She repeated the refreshing act a few times until she was satisfied and blindly reached for the hand towel to her left.  Patting her face dry, she examined her reflection in the mirror.  She studied herself closely, watching her eyes re-adjust to the light as her pupils narrowed.  Their color matched the very drawing utensil she had been trying to use that evening.   She was struck by their vast darkness and drawn in by how they seemed to go on forever, leading into the unknown. But what lay beyond them was a wonder.  A curiosity. 

 

She let her gaze expand past her eyes and she looked at the parts of her own image. There was something there.  There was a beauty. There was space.  There was form. There was line.  There was life.

 

Beauty.

Hope.

Possibility. 

She threw down her towel, completely neglecting its usual hook, and briskly returned to her living room.  The sketch pad and the charcoal tin still lay in the middle of her floor like two individuals of a destined couple just waiting to be united.   She collected her things and returned to the bathroom.  Once she had laid down her tin and propped her pad between herself and the edge of the counter, her eyes returned to the mirror.  They would never leave there again until the end of the night.  Where to begin? she questioned.  I’ll start with myself, she answered.  

 

After all, it was her drawing to screw up and not anyone else’s. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She sat there on her stool, waiting. She was semi-aware that her turn was coming up and that she should pay better attention. Maybe she should even participate in the discussions. After all, it was the respectful thing to do. But her mind kept wandering towards the recent events that still haunted her. She had thought that she had forgotten about it. She had hoped that perhaps she had even gotten over the whole disaster. However, her current setting seemed all too familiar, and it would not let her forget. It brought all the fears and self-doubt to the forefront again.

 

Her eyes stared at her classmates’ work, but she had stopped seeing them fifteen minutes ago. Voices flooded the room as they spoke of the merits of the artwork that was displayed around them, but she couldn’t hear them anymore. While she had started off listening to them talk about subject matter, themes, and meanings, the words had slowly faded to a hum as she thought about the last time she was in this position.

 

She recalled being excited when she first saw the gentleman that one night, but she had decided to stay towards the back and remain unnoticed, not wanting to influence his reaction to what she had done. She thought he was just an observer, a fan or maybe even a patron. Turned out, he was a critic. His pointed words stabbed at her stomach, making it literally ache as she felt a plethora of negative emotions: hurt, anger, fear and embarrassment. Embarrassment was what caused her to avoid him and all other visitors for the rest of the evening. She’s been a women of few words ever since.

 

Suddenly, she felt her arm being shoved and there were fingers snapping and waving in front of her face. She broke from her trance. Talk about embarrassment, she had completely spaced-out and now it was her turn to be critiqued. With a voice soft and weary, she identified each watercolor based on the subject that was depicted: “A Vase with Flowers” (not to be confused with her other vase and flowers painting), “Three Apples” and a “Self-Portrait”. Gosh, she thought to herself, there was no reason to wake me up for this. It’s pretty obvious what my paintings are; they probably could have carried on without me. Her brow furrowed as she briefly contemplated what that could possibly imply. She wasn’t too sure that it was a good thing. Regardless, she was beginning to feel the knots tightening in her stomach again, causing that numb pain from the other night to return. Slowly her mind started to meander between the past events and her critique that was going on in front of her. She closed her eyes, attempting to force her attention to the present, but she knew she was failing miserably.

 

What did he mean courage and honesty? It’s the question she has been asking herself ever since her last showing.

Her ears picked up on some of the comments made by her classmates. Good. My work looks realistic. They know what they are talking about, right? I mean, I shouldn’t need any more than that. Yet she wasn’t quite feeling vindicated. She tried to build her self-confidence off of her classmates’ statements, but the past just kept preventing it from fully developing.

Did he even know what he was talking about? Does he paint? Still, questioning the gentleman’s credibility did nothing to quell her uneasiness.

I’m glad they appreciate the details. It took me a lot of time to get that right. And the compliments from her peers seemed to keep coming. Great, they understand the difficulty of water color.

Does he know how difficult watercolors can be? She didn’t even take a moment to ponder an answer to that question, because for some reason it didn’t matter. Instead she tried to push it all out of her mind. Forget what he said. He’s not worth it. But her own words seemed hollow and unconvincing.

Although she was having a hard time focusing, she could sense that her critique was starting to wrap up. She usually welcomed the end of her critique, as the uncomfortable focus would then move on to someone else. But today, she was unsettled. Wait a second? What about subject matter? They only talked about how well I managed to render an object. Don’t they have anything else to say?

She wasn’t sure if she was just getting exhausted and cranky or if it was her irritation with what the gentleman had said in the past that was influencing her reaction to her fellow students’ comments. Why do his words still sting? Why do they have such an effect on me? None the less, she noticed a common thread between the past and the present and the two moments were starting to merge into one.

Then she thought she heard someone saying something about her “Vase with Flowers” being pretty. Oh come on! There’s got to be more to my art than that! What about form and themes? All the other students had critiques that talked about meaning? Suddenly, simple validation wasn’t enough.

Maybe he did know what he was talking about. Maybe he was on to something. Now that she had a taste of something that was a little hard to swallow, she wasn’t quite sure she was ready to spit it out. She wanted to chew on it a little more.

Are they moving on to the next person? Already? But they haven’t offered me one bit of advice. Nothing they said has helped me at all. Why are they coddling me?

“Do I lack courage and honesty?”

 

Those last words were no longer stuck within the confines of her own mind. She wasn’t really surprised by her sudden vocalization. She had longed to ask that question for a long time, but didn’t know who to ask. And so now, she was waiting again. She was waiting for a response, but nothing came. What did come was a sinking feeling that maybe she had actually fallen asleep in the middle of class and that everyone had left and gone home while she remained alone, in the center of an empty studio.

 

She slowly opened her eyes. She was not alone. In fact, there were twelve art students and a professor there, each with their confused eyes laid upon her. Unwavering, she asked again, “Do I lack courage and honesty?” The words came out slow and deliberate, because she wanted to stress how important this was to her. She made eye-contact with each individual as her gaze took a turn about the room. She was determined to get an answer.

 

And answers she got. Once her classmates adjusted to what had happened, her critique shifted and she went from being a passive by-stander to an active participant. She asked questions and they gave her more than just answers. They gave her feedback and constructive criticism. They did more than talk, they discussed. They discussed what she was trying to accomplish in her work and they exchanged ideas about how she could achieve her objectives.

 

She felt herself becoming braver as she learned that the attention was not something to fear, that it could, indeed, be helpful. With that knowledge, she continued to face her fears and became more and more honest about what she did and didn’t like in her own work. Instead of ignoring the problems and trying to convince herself that she could handle them on her own, she addressed them with her peers.

 

She learned a lot in those next few minutes. She discovered that she was still making that old familiar mistake that she had made in the past. She was still falling back on old habits. Perhaps she hadn’t grown and developed her skills as much as she had thought she had. But while she was making those mistakes again, she learned that it wasn’t something to be embarrassed about. Her mistakes were something to build off of. They were hers, and she needed to take ownership of them. They weren’t something that should be pushed away and forgotten forever.

 

Then she turned to her self-portrait. When she began to feel that nervous sensation returning, she pressed on. “I don’t know” she hesitated. “It’s been giving me problems. It looks washed out and I just can’t seem to get it right no matter what I try”. As she says this, she begins to wonder why all of a sudden this feels more personal. “I’m starting to think it’s a lost cause.” Her own words startle her, because no matter how brave you are, letting go of something can still be hard.

 

“Have you considered the negative space?” One student spoke up. “Sometimes what isn’t there is just as important as what is.”

 

She looked right at him, completely still, except for the occasional blink of her eyes. His words were resonating within her and she was letting them sink in. She knew what he was saying was important.

 

Misinterpreting her blank stare for confusion he continued. “I’m sorry, it just seems that you’re focusing so much on what is physically there, that you’re completely neglecting what isn’t, thereby giving it a lack of depth. If you were to think more about the negative space and work with that, you might get more of the result you’re looking for.” He was starting to look bewildered and she could tell that he was beginning to regret what he had said. The look on his face implying that she was fragile and he needed to prevent her from getting hurt by his words.

 

“No, I understand” she assured him. “I completely understand.” And a calm and sturdy smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. She understood that she needed to take a completely new approach and she was finally prepared to do so.

 

 

---

 

 

 

It was late and her feet ached, but she couldn’t fight the desire. The desire had turned into a need.

 

As she walked in, she passed up the pens, the pencils, the charcoal, the watercolors and everything that was familiar and comfortable and headed straight for an old cluttered oak desk drawer. Once reaching her destination, she became tentative, remembering what was inside. The drawer was haphazardly filled with tubes of barely touched oil paints and long handled brushes. They were once required for a class she had taken, but the frustration of working with such a medium overcame her and she tossed them into her drawer never wanting to lay eyes on them ever again. She had given up. But that was several months ago and tonight was different. She was different.

 

She slowly began to slide the drawer out and away from its home, but it wasn’t budging. The heat and the humidity of the night was making the oak swell and stick. It was as if it was mocking her, asking her if she was sure that this was indeed what she wanted. But, tonight she wanted . . . . . No, she needed something that was bold and thick and colorful. Tonight she wanted to work with something that would allow her to instantly express what she needed to say; something that didn’t require her to plan things out or think too much; something that would help her explain all the feelings that seemed to vibrate within the depths of her belly. She needed something immediate and nothing else would do.

 

A wild mix of impatience and eagerness took over and she gave the handle a strong and forceful yank. Finally, the drawer gave in and released itself with such a powerful burst that it caused her to lose her balance and fall flat on her ass. She caught herself grinning at that moment, unsure if it was because of the comedy of the situation or because of her small victory. Either way, she didn’t care.

 

She swung the legs around to the side of her and grabbed the edge of the drawer, using it as leverage to pull herself up onto her knees. Her eyes widened as they peered over, re-discovering a long lost treasure. Also within the drawer lay a palette, a palette knife, old rags, a jar of turpentine and a pre-mixed concoction of turpentine and linseed oil. She wrapped all the supplies up in her arms and clumsily scrambled to get back on her feet without the ability to use her hands. She dumped them on top of the desk next to an old radio. She flipped the switch and let the music echo off the bare walls of her room and encapsulate her. While she placed her brushes into the jar of turpentine, she gave herself a quick reminder to hang something up on those walls, deciding that they had been empty and plain for far too long. They needed to be brought to life. But this was not the time to give it much thought. The walls would have to wait just a moment longer.

 

Next, she made her way over to her closet where she stored an old left-over stretched canvas. Her excitement and anticipation was putting an extra bounce in her step and she gleefully pushed the closet door aside. She pulled at the canvas’s frame and slid it along the floor. Once out in full light, she examined it briefly with her eyes. It was bigger than she remembered. There was a lot of space to fill. Still, it would have to do. She grabbed both edges and hoisted it into a more manageable carrying position and made her way back and propped it up on the easel that sat waiting.

 

Her mind obviously on a mission to get to the task at hand, she quickly began undressing herself without even remembering to pull down the shade over her window. She started by kicking off her Keds in transit to her closet. Trapped pebbles of sand escaped from the heels of her feet, leaving a trail back home to her easel, making sure she would remember how to find her way. Then off came her pants and were quickly replaced by an old pair of well-worn jeans. Her painting jeans. They always felt right and felt comfortable the moment she put them on. She let out a soft laugh as she remembered someone telling her “Dress for the job you want, not the job you have. You can use your clothing to send a message about your ambitions by wearing clothes that reflect what you aspire to be.”

 

Next, off went her hoodie, tank top and bikini. She didn’t bother to put on a bra as she reached in and snatched an old blue button down work shirt that once belonged to her father. She loosely rolled up the sleeves while she thought that there was no need for socks or shoes and decided that she would just paint barefoot. She was ready.

 

She walked over to where she had everything set up and immediately started squeezing the paints in giant gobs onto different spots along the edge of her palette. She didn’t think much about which colors she was choosing. She just grabbed and squeezed, grabbed and squeezed. Then she took her palette knife and quickly began mixing blues with whites, browns with reds and yellows, and greens with oranges. Meanwhile, she squeezed a little of the linseed oil concoction into each new color combination and blended it in, creating a smooth and malleable medium that glistened. She repeated and continued this process urgently over and over until she created a palette full of possibilities.

 

When she was finished mixing the last color combination of three parts titanium white, two parts cadmium yellow medium and one part vermillion hue to create a glowing light of soft orange, she thought for a fleeting second as she quickly glanced over to her brushes and then returned the glance back over to her canvas. With her knife still in her right hand she, she tilted her head to the side and blinked with curiosity. The paint brushes were definitely the more traditional method for applying paint, but something was taking over her and telling her to just do it. Let go, and do it.

 

Unafraid of the blank white screen in front of her this time, she impulsively scooped up her new hue creation onto her palette knife and brought it over to the canvas. The sound of the knife scraping across the surface accompanied her as she let out a gasp of exhilaration. This felt unlike anything she ever felt before. It was liberating. She was no longer bound by unsaid rules and regulations. And she held all the tools she needed in her right hand.

 

 

All of these new feelings began to overwhelm and cause her to give pause. It was almost too much and it frightened her a little. She was afraid of losing control.

 

Then there was silence on the radio. Instinctively, she reached over and turned up the volume dial; as if she knew that someone was about to say something important to her. And then a single voice filled the room.

 

“Birds flying high, you know how I feel”

 

The women’s voice was rich, velvety, soothing and commanded her attention all at the same time.

 

“Sun in the sky you know how I feel”

It was powerful and yet full of emotion, just like she felt.

“Reeds driftin' on by you know how I feel”

 

And yet the voice was controlled and guided as it was released into the lyrics of the song. There was no doubt that this woman was unafraid and was in charge.

 

“It's a new dawn
It's a new day
It's a new life, yeah”

She felt her own nerves calm and she regained control. She returned to her color palette.

 

“It's a new dawn
It's a new day
It's a new life
For me
And I'm feeling good”

The horns in the song began to chime in, assisting the woman in her song, but never taking over. It was still hers and nothing was clearer than that.

 

The staccato of the instruments gave her a rhythm that would last her through the night. She continued to work feverishly but steady throughout the late evening and into the early hours of the morning. New colors were mixed and discovered and then applied to the canvas. She never forgot the things that she had learned and allowed imperfections and errors lay. She forgave herself for the mistakes that she made and pushed forward never faltering again. Her focus stayed constant and she never lost site of the real underlying goal.

 

After several hours, the painting was nearly finished, but something was missing. It just needed something and it was starting to irritate her that she couldn’t figure it out. She stepped away from the canvas for the first time since she began this journey. Exhausted and sore she leaned her back against the wall and slowly began to slide it downward as she bent her knees in front of her. When her rear end hit the floor, she hugged her knees, but her eyes never left the canvas. She silently examined the painting and how its vibrant hues, bold lines and colorful spaces created a form in front of her. A form that was warm and inviting and new. Bright yellows and oranges gave way to light shown on a face. Dark reds and blues and brown presented wild hair and shadows.

 

As she continued to exam her image, the back of her left hand unconsciously moved down along the edge of her face and hugged the curves of her jaw line while her index finger trailed and stroked across her cheek. A familiar light chill went down her spine.

 

Once again everything became clear and she knew what was missing. She slowly pushed herself off the floor and off the wall and stepped back to her canvas. She began confidently singing the song that calmed her nerves several hours ago as she mixed together a new shade of paint.

“Dragonfly out in the sun you know what I mean, don't you know
Butterflies all havin' fun you know what I mean
Sleep in peace when day is done
That's what I mean”

She pulled out a paint brush from her now cloudy jar full of used turpentine and utensils. After wiping the brush dry on the well used rag, she pushed it into a light blue swatch of paint and then coolly and calmly brought it to the canvas. With full concentration and in one seamless but determined stroke, she re-created the line that she once thought had destroyed her life.

 

“And this old world is a new world
And a bold world
For me”

After stepping back for the second time, she felt herself let out a sigh that sounded like she had just gotten the wind knocked out of her. There were no words created by man to express everything she was feeling, but now there was a painting.

“And I’m feeling Good”

 

 

 

She examined the face in front of her. The lighting wasn’t the best, but her eyes were bright and her cheeks were rosy. She smiled as she applied some color to her lips. “There” she thought as she let out a nervous sigh, “Perfect”. Her concentration then was welcomingly interrupted by the sound of a ring. She reached for the cordless phone she left on the counter beside her.

 

“Hello?”

“Oh, Hi Mom”

“Yeah, seven-thirty to ten.”

“No – That’s okay, mom”

“Seriously, I’m just glad you are going to be there.”

“Take your time and drive safely, okay”

“Yeah, see you soon. I love you.”

 

As she turned off her phone and laid it back on the counter, she returned her gaze to her reflection in the mirror. Still satisfied with what she saw, she began to put away her makeup.

 

“Hey” a voice was coming from outside the bathroom and down the hall. “Who was that?”

 

“My mom” she called back, but kept her focus on packing up her supplies. “She just wanted to let me know that she was running a bit late.”

 

She lifted her head when she heard his footsteps slow and then come to a complete stop in front of the door. Both of his hands rested on the top of the frame as he leaned in casually. Then suddenly, he straightened himself while an expression of awe crept across his face.

 

“Wow” he breathed his smile bright and sincere. “Pam, you look . . .” She smiled, blushed and averted her eyes away. It always surprised her that he could make her feel that way; like a school girl. “Wonderful” he finished.

 

“Oh, I don’t know . . . .” she started to reply, maintaining her shy and innocent appearance. He stepped in behind her and slipped his hands around her waist lowering his head to kiss the bare crook that connected her neck to her shoulders. She stopped short of what she was saying, because he also always had the knack of making her feel ‘wonderful’. A feeling that had ways of making her forget any of the self-doubts that my have loomed inside her head.

 

He murmured, “But, I know” into her shoulder, creating a subtle vibration that rippled all the way through her body. It almost madder her forget about the evening as well. Almost. When his lips lifted from her skin, he stood up straight once again, his hands never leaving her sides. Now they both were staring at the image in the mirror. “A work of art” he whispered encouragingly into her ear, his eyes pierced the bodies opposite them.

 

She let out little giggles that seemed to lighten the air around them. Her eyes lifted towards his face in the reflection. While she knew he was still talking about her, she was amazed at how much it seemed like he was reading her mind. She loved what she saw before them. She loved Jim. And she loved Pam. And she loved just being . . . . here.

 

“So, I didn’t realize that this was such a formal affair” he explained while he reached across the front of her waist, grabbed her hand and spun her around one and a half times catching one last glance at her ensemble before resting his eyes on hers. She smiled the entire time.

 

“Oh, no . . . umm. . .” She began as she started to remember why she had put herself together this way. The reminder brought butterflies to her stomach. “It’s just the five of us . . .” She fumbled for words, “doing this” as she gestured her hands up and down indicating what she was wearing. “You should be fine dressed like that”. She smiled because she couldn’t help it. She loved the way he looked.

 

“Oooh, what time is it!” She snapped out of the trance she apparently was in and glanced down at her watch. “I wanted to get there early, help set up and make sure everything is in order.”

 

“Well, you better get going, then” he replied.

 

“Yeah. Good. So, I’ll meet you there?”

 

“Yep, I’ll be there” he assured her with not only his words, but his eyes as well.

 

“Good” she grinned, lifting herself onto her toes to give him a kiss. “Oops, lipstick.” She lifted her hand and tenderly removed the pink smudge from his lips with her thumb. “There, better.”

 

“Go” he said forcefully, giving her a quick embrace and then nudging her along. He knew she was stalling. “You’re going to be late.”

 

She was heading out the main door when she heard him call her name.

 

“Pam”

 

“Yeah” she turned around to see him hanging on to the door frame.

 

“You’re going to be great.”

 

“Thanks, Jim.” And that was all she seemed to need as she stepped outside and headed on her way.

 

 

There apparently wasn’t a lot of setting up to do when she got there, so she took the extra time before the show started to relax and get used to the situation. She decided to wander around the gallery and take in the sights before the people started to trickle in. As she walked from space to space she began to think about all the differences between this show and her last.

 

This time, there was a nice spread of cheese, crackers and carefully selected bottles of wine to greet the guests.

 

This time, instead of monochromatic fliers taped to cabinets the day before, there were glossy postcard-invitations mailed out a month in advance.

This time, instead of a little studio filled with students that she never quite related to, it was a gallery and five new friends who had provided her with the type of criticism, support and encouragement that she needed.

This time, instead of a single wall with six watercolors attached by pushpins, there was a entire room dedicated to pieces that she actually managed to have matted and framed and were properly lit by the spotlights above.

This time, instead of uninspired and flat pieces of work that lacked “courage and honesty” (oh how those words still stung), there were strong pieces that had depth and came from the bottom of her soul.

This time, she was different.

 

As she approached the lobby, she saw another big difference walking through the entrance door. “Hi” he greeted her.

 

“Hey” she didn’t hesitate to embrace him, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

 

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else” he chuckled and bent down to give her a kiss. “So, here’s what I’m going to do.” He said, putting his hands on her shoulders, sliding them done her arms and gripping the tips of her hands as he continued. “I’m going to walk around the gallery and check out everyone else’s work first.” He glanced up for a moment scoping out the place and then lowered his eyes back to hers “And then, you know, save the best for last” He finished with a smile.

 

“That sounds excellent, they’ll be so happy to see you” she beamed, “And while you’re at it, there’s wine and cheese and crackers on that table over there. You can help yourself.”

 

“Oooh, swanky.”

 

“Yeah, really high-class,” she rolled her eyes at him. “But really, it’s a pretty good spread.”

 

“Okay, I’ll see you in a little bit” he said before letting go of her hands and not resisting the urge to give her one more peck.

 

Just having Jim there helped her relax more and the night started to go smoothly. After the first few guests arrived she felt her nerves completely dissipate and she began to feel like she was in her element. She schmoozed. She talked about compositions and colors and line and form. She talked about negative space and themes and metaphors and inspirations. She talked to familiar faces and new ones. And above all, she spoke with confidence. It didn’t take her long for her to realize that she was right where she belonged.

 

“Wow, everyone’s here Pam!” Jim exclaimed as he sauntered into her area of the gallery nearly an hour after she last saw him.

 

“Yeah” she said, as she thought about it for a moment. Nearly everyone from work had made it in. Toby even brought Sasha, explaining that he wanted to make sure to introduce her into cultural things. And Pam didn’t mind that Kelly seemed more interested in being there to introduce her new handsome boyfriend than to actually look at the artwork. She also had friends and family as well as other classmates and professors there. Not to mention tons of people she didn’t recognize that were observing her work. “Not a bad turnout, eh” she grinned with personal, but well deserved pride.

 

“Not bad at all” he grinned down at her. “So, everyone from work wants to take you out for a celebratory drink afterwards. What do you think?”

 

“I’d love to.” She answered.

 

“They said that they’d meet us at Poor Richards when you’re done. And to bring your mom with.”

 

“Good.” And she thought for a minute. “You know, I have over an hour left, so if you want you can go ahead with them.”

 

“Oh, you’re not getting rid of me that easily, Beesly. I’m staying here until the end. I don’t want to miss one single person praising you.”

 

“Thank you” she meant it when she said that he could go, but she found relief in his willingness to stay, all the same.

 

“So, I was watching you, you know?”

 

“Oh really?”

 

“Yeah, you definitely know what you’re talking about and I saw you hold yourself up quite well to scrutiny.”

 

“Oh yeah, that guy” Pam grimaced just a little. “He’s the guy from my class I told you about.”

 

“Oh, with unreasonable expectations of how an artist should be and act.”

 

“Yeah, he was criticizing me for not having a synopsis up” she leered in the direction where she had that confrontation early in the night. “I told him my art speaks for itself. And if he wants to discuss the merits about any of the individual pieces, I would be more than happy to do so with him.”

 

“Excellent.”

 

“Yeah, then he just kind of gruffed something inaudibly and left” she shrugged.

 

“Pam, I’m so proud of you.”

 

“Why, because I put some jerk in his place?”

 

“No . . well, yeah” Jim sucked in some air as tried to compose the right words to describe what he saw in her; all that she was and all that she had become. “You really put this together well” was all that he could manage.

 

“And Pam,” he continued, but was struggling to maintain his stifled laughter, “Your Art! . . . Your Art is the prettiest art of all the art.”

 

“Shut up!” She hissed and smacked his arm. She found herself about as successful as he was at keeping her laughter in. “I’m never telling you anything ever again!”

 

“Yes you will, you tell me everything.” He said this knowingly, but nonchalantly, as if he were just stating the obvious. His head turned mid-sentence, distracted by something in his peripheral. “But seriously, Pam, come here” he said as he grabbed her hand and dragged her over to one of her own paintings.

 

She watched him as he talked about each of her pieces. She could see excitement in his eyes and his mouth and his hand gestures. He was so focused on what he was saying and seemed as adamantly passionate about her work as she was. She also noticed how he had been paying attention to what she had told him in the passing months as she would come home from classes, excited and eager to share what she had learned. He too could talk about composition and form and color and design and lines and themes and metaphors. She smiled as she realized that he had listened to her. He had always been listening to her. He had always been her cheerleader and her biggest fan. Struck by the moment she found herself letting out the words she had said one hundred times before, and she meant it each time, but this time was somehow just a little different.

 

“I love you.”

 

He paused and shifted his focus onto her face and eyes. “I love you, too” he smiled. It was so simple and yet so heart-felt. He understood what would drive her to say such a thing so seemingly out of context, but then again, not really.

 

“Now, tell me about this piece. Because I absolutely love it, but I don’t think I’ve seen it before.”

 

“Oh. She blushed. “That one I did about a year ago.” She said as she found herself in front of a self-portrait she had painted during a very significant time in her life. She felt her heart race as she was delighted that he loved it. It was a very important piece to her. “I painted it just before you and I. . . well. . . got together.”

 

“Well, it’s just amazing.” She felt his hand slip into hers as their fingers intertwined and they kind of stood there for a moment silent, staring at the colorful canvas. “I don’t want to sound cheesy, but there’s a lot of emotion in this painting, no? I mean, those are some seriously aggressive strokes. And the colors that you chose . . .” His voice trailed and he seemed stunned in awe for the second time that day because of the beauty that she created.

 

“And this” he finally spoke up again and pulled his hand up and pointed, but never letting go of her hand in the mean time, “this right here”. Both of their hands pointed at a light blue line that trailed down the side of her face. “Is a really bold and beautiful move. It’s not a color I would expect, but it works so well.” He let go over her hand and turned toward her. “It really highlights your face and that beautiful expressive smile.” He paused and looked at her. And lifted his hand and he impulsively ran his finger down the side of her face, along her cheek and down her chin. “Kind of like the one you have on right now.”