I’m staring at this blank piece of paper and I hate it. It’s number eight. Numbers one through seven are balled up on the floor behind my chair, and it’s like they’re staring at the back of my head, snickering at me. I’m having no luck at all with the pastels, so I grab one of the beautiful Progresso pencils – black - Jim got me for Christmas and make a few strokes. This might work better, I think, and I can shade with powdered graphite. I’m working from a photograph of his father’s hands and it's the first in a series I think I want to do. His parents’, my parents’, ours, and finally, when Junior makes his appearance, the baby’s hands. The paper is small – 5 X 7 – so every stroke needs to be fairly precise. I wonder why I’m torturing myself with this project right now. I haven’t produced anything of any sort of quality since the end of last semester, and drawing a series of hands is no way to get my confidence back.
~~~
The Monday after I got my grade card, I left work at 3:00 and drove over to school to pick up my final project and talk with Dr. Jennings. Actively seeking feedback about my stuff was something I’d never done before and I was dreading it. At the same time, I knew Jim was right - why else was I going to school? Unfortunately, that morning I was hit with the worst bout of morning sickness I’d had so far and I’d thrown up in a spectacular fashion. I vowed to follow my mother’s advice and keep some Saltines on the nightstand to munch before I got out of bed. Originally, I thought it was kind of revolting to eat Saltines before I even brushed my teeth, but Saltines sounded a hell of a lot better than what happened this morning. So while I waited around for my stomach to settle (puking in your professor’s office – not a good idea) I had time to agonize over what he might say. Sure, B level work is fine. It’s above average, but it wasn’t excellent and I wanted to find out why.
I stood outside Jennings’ door for a second before knocking. The door was open a crack and I could see him sitting and staring out the arched window in the dormer that formed the back wall of his office. I liked Dr. Jennings. He was older, in his sixties, and had a fairly successful career outside of teaching; he’d written a few books on art and teaching art, and had a few one-man shows locally, and one in Philadelphia, years ago. When he’d introduced himself on the first day of class, he referred to himself as a solid minor leaguer. Someone who played for the love of the sport and but for luck and life getting in the way, had never made it to the majors. I liked that he was so humble about his work. I liked that his approach to art was as a journeyman, despite his years of experience, and that he stressed skill rather than talent. “Skill is something you can acquire through practice,” he’d told the class. “Talent is only one part of the equation…there is no excuse for not honing your skills.” I liked that idea because I really didn’t think I had a lot of natural talent, but I did have a willingness to practice, to improve, and to work hard at it.
“Dr. Jennings?” I said, as I knocked.
“Oh! Pam! Come on in. I was just sitting here daydreaming. Nice day for that, eh? All cloudy and gray and ready to start snowing any minute.”
“It is a good day for that,” I agreed. He seemed far away to me, melancholy.
“I suppose you’re here to pick up your final project?”
“Yes, I am. And I wanted to...ask your thoughts on it. I was hoping to get an A in your class and I thought...well, I was a little surprised to see a B on my grade card.”
“A B is a very good grade, Pam. You did very good work in the class.”
“Thank you. I can’t help but think you didn’t like my final project very much, though.”
“Oh, no! I think it was fine work.”
“But not excellent work.”
“Pam, all semester long, your work had so much emotion in it. Even if it wasn’t the most technically sophisticated work, I always felt what you created was fresh and honest and that you'd put a piece of your heart in it.”
“And this last project?”
“Probably your best stuff, technically speaking. Your skills really improved over the course of the class, especially what you did with charcoal.”
“But…?”
“It felt empty to me, Pam. I felt like you were trying hard to show off the skill you had, but you forgot to convey feeling, emotion. I got the feeling you were distracted when you worked on this.”
“Well, I guess maybe I was. I have a lot going on right now. My husband and I were busy with the holidays and family and…I found out we’re expecting our first baby.”
“Wonderful! Congratulations!”
“Thank you! We’re very excited, and I can see what you’re saying about the distraction. I don’t think I was completely focused on this piece. I’m glad you think I improved, though.”
“Very much so.”
He paused and looked out the window again and when he turned back to me, his eyes were sad and his hand moved over his mouth as though he wanted to trap his words there.
“Do you plan on continuing with your classes now that you’re expecting?”
“Yes, I do. I don’t think I’ll do two classes at the same time again, because it was difficult and I think my work in both classes suffered because I was spreading myself too thin.”
“And what do you hope to do with your education?”
“I’m not sure, really. Realistically, I don’t think I’ll be having my own show anywhere! But I want to get better and maybe get a job in graphic design.”
“Pam, let me tell you something. If you’re serious about a career in graphic design, know that it can be very demanding and you’d be competing against younger college grads, fresh out of school. Kids who are hungry and ambitious and willing to put in long hours. How are you going to manage that when your family is just starting?”
“Well, I…”
“Pam, when my career was just starting to take off, my wife was pregnant with our third child and I was miserable. I was constantly torn between my responsibilities to my family and the demands of my career. I couldn’t be happy in either place because I was feeling guilty about not being in the other. In the end, my career suffered because of it and ultimately, my marriage did, too, because I was bitter about the opportunities I’d lost.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Jennings. But my husband says…”
“I’m sure he’s very supportive and I don’t mean to dissuade you at all! I just think you should be honest with yourself about what you can reasonably achieve, given the demands you have elsewhere in your life.”
“Yes. Okay. I’ll think about what you’ve said, Dr. Jennings. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Pam. Could you close the door, please?”
I nearly stumbled out into the hallway. I felt dizzy and I knew I’d gone too long without eating, and I felt hot and…angry. And disillusioned. I felt like a failure.
I took the elevator down to the first floor and hurried to the cafeteria. I bought a yogurt and a banana and sat at a small table by the window. Had I just been told that I was too old to have a career in art? Or was I going nowhere fast because I was having a baby? Was he just a bitter old man without a family or a career? Probably, but I reflected on how I’d felt last semester, working full-time, taking care of the house, trying to squeeze at least an hour out of each day to work on my projects. I hadn't been miserable, but I had felt guilty occasionally. Sometimes, because I felt like I'd been ignoring Jim, or because I worked on art projects at work when I should have been doing Dunder Mifflin stuff, or when I spent half of a Saturday just zoning out in front of the TV because I was exhausted. And now there was a baby coming. How in the world was this going to work?
Jim was a huge help, I couldn’t ask for anything more from him. He wanted me to finish my education as much as I did, maybe more. How could I be a good wife, a good mother, a good employee and a good student all at the same time? I already felt a little overwhelmed; there just weren’t enough hours in the day. I knew my hormones were raging and having a field day in my body, so I tried to take a deep breath, but still, a few tears escaped and I wiped them away with my napkin. I envisioned myself running from one thing to the next with a baby on my hip and mountains of laundry piled up everywhere and Jim looking sad because he never saw me anymore. Jim and I were at our best when we had time to spend together, and when our schedules pulled us apart, we bickered more over stupid things and talked to each other less. I didn’t want that to happen. We needed our time together.
My dizziness had faded and I got up to leave the cafeteria. I just wanted to be home. I wanted to go home and curl up into a ball in bed and make the world go away. Maybe Jennings was just a bitter old man, disappointed with his life and his career. But there had been some truth in his words and I couldn’t deny that. I couldn’t help thinking about the ten years I now felt that I’d wasted with Roy. Ten years I would never get back.
Just like that, I felt a little of my optimism for the future draining away. I tried to stop it, I tried to turn off the thoughts in my head. We were having a baby and I should be feeling excited and full of good thoughts for the future, but all of a sudden, the future seemed murky and I was losing that direct path through the fog. The only thing I could think of was...taking a break. On the way home in the car, as the sky turned white and huge flakes of snow fell all around, I decided not to take any classes in the spring. I just needed a break.
~~~
Numbers eight, nine, and ten have joined their friends on the floor around my chair and I’ve given up. I straighten the table up, returning my pencils to the old coffee mug and the charcoal to its wicker basket and I close the door to the "art room." The late afternoon light is fading and I think that February's dusk is the loneliest light of all. It’s that bleak time of the year when I’ve had all the cold and snow and darkness I can take, when I’ve almost forgotten about spring and daylight savings time and crocuses and bare arms and legs. I know that by the time the summer reaches its peak in August, I will be hugely pregnant, and I think we could have planned that a little better. Maybe next time, I think, rubbing my hands in circles over my belly.
He’ll be home soon, hair soaked with sweat, cheeks flushed from the game and the cold air. He’ll be a little keyed up and talking too loud and he’ll grab a beer from the fridge and kiss me. Then he’ll kiss my belly and say something completely silly and totally random directly into my belly button, like it's a megaphone into my uterus. And every day, he's got some new, ridiculous name for the baby. Yesterday, it was "Meet me on the hill at midnight, Miss Flanders" and the day before it was "I'll take my pipe and slippers now, Roberto."
I light candles in the living room, turn on music in the kitchen and start dinner, humming to myself and thinking...this is my sweet life.
