Page 93 of From Now On

EVE

“We’ll wrap up today’s critiques with Eve’s project,” Professor Alday announces. “Jayden, we’ll start with you on Thursday.”

The guy on my left nods as I pick up my canvas and head for the easel at the front of the room.

My steps drag with dread.

Critiques are my least favorite part of art classes. I understand their purpose, that skills have to be assessed to provide feedback and encourage improvement. But it feels very vulnerable, listening to others interpret or analyze your art, and Professor Alday is famous for his candor with students. It’s why this course—the most difficult painting class Holt offers—only has seven students enrolled.

Professor Alday is already frowning as he appraises the painting I finished late last night. It’s the same one I was working on right before break—a little girl and her father.

The prompt for this assignment was a place that you used to visit in the past, but can no longer go. Most of my peers painted landscapes of previous hometowns, which I would argue wasa loose interpretation of the assignment. Those are places theycouldgo back to, they justhaven’t.

Whether or not I answer my father’s call later, I’ll never get to be the little girl with a dad.

“You should work with watercolors more often, Eve. Excellent technique.”

I smile, pleasantly surprised by the praise. But my smile fades as he continues talking.

“But I don’t quite see how you captured the prompt. The happiness of a father and child is hardly the bittersweet sentimentality I was looking for.”

“How do you know they’re happy?” I ask.

“Because that is the viewpoint you’ve created here. The way the father is looking at the child, keeping a careful eye on her. The background, a house that is messy and lived-in. You are crafting clues for the viewer, and none of them evoke the wistfulness I was looking for in this project. I’d like you to redo it, please.”

I blink at him, momentarily stunned. I’veneverbeen asked to redo a project before. This was some of Professor Alday’s milder feedback, but even his harsh criticism has ended with a grade for the original work I handed in.

“What’s morewistfulthan time?” I argue. “This is supposed to be a memory from the past. You can remember memories, but you can’t return to them. The moment is gone forever.”

“Art isn’t supposed to require an explanation, Eve. You have to tell us how to feel without saying a word. Perhaps you were conflicted, and that came through in the piece. Give some more thought to what you’re wanting to say before you tackle this assignment again. You have two weeks to turn in another interpretation of the prompt.” Professor Alday glances at the clock. “That’s all for today. Enjoy your afternoons, everyone.”

Not likely, I think, as I retrieve my canvas and trudge down the hallway to my private studio. I stash the watercolor painting as far back as it’ll fit, then grab my backpack from the corner and relock the room.

Mae Wilkins, whose room is two doors down from mine, is locking her studio space at the same time. She glances up as I approach, shooting me a sympathetic smile. “Seems like Alday had a shitty break.”

I huff a laugh. “Yeah.”

“For what it’s worth, I thought yours was really great.”

“Thanks. Yours too. I’ll see you Thursday.”

“See you, Eve,” she calls after me.

Rather than head home, I decide to go to the library to work on an essay for my Poetics of Narrative class. I’ve been putting it off because the prompt makes no sense, but it’s due next week. And I’ll be more productive in the library than in my bed.

I decide to get a coffee on the way. A treat, for having to redo a project I already spent many hours on.

A small, small part of me acknowledges that Professor Alday was right about one thing. I didn’t know what I wanted that painting to say. Iwasconflicted about it, same as I am about my current relationship with my dad.

Fifteen feet from the student center, I regret the choice to stop for a coffee.

Ben’s leaning against one of the brick pillars, watching me approach. He smiles when he sees me.

My smile back is tentative.

I don’t believe this is a coincidence. He’s met me here after my Advanced Painting class before.

I never responded to any of the texts he sent over break. And I knew, as soon as I was back on campus, that there was a chance of seeing him. But right now, I’mreallynot in the mood.

---