Page 57 of The Singing Trees
After her shift, she decided to swing back upstairs to see if she could get a moment with the manager of the Advertising Department. Before she even passed through men’s shoes, Ted Miller came duck-footing from out of nowhere. “What are you doing here?”
She wondered if he was constantly on patrol. “I’m sorry, Mr.Miller. I was on my way home and hoped to speak with Patty.” Annalisa felt like a cat burglar who’d been busted creeping toward a diamond.
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his khaki pants. “What would this be in regards to?”
“I want her to know I’m interested should a job become available.”
“Oh God,” Mr.Miller said, extracting his hands from his pockets. He punched a fist into his palm. “Let’s not start daydreaming. Frankly, I’d prefer you stay in the basement, where you belong.”
Annalisa wanted to snap at him but couldn’t possibly risk losing her job. “Yes, sir, Mr.Miller.” She turned and felt so damn small as she went back down the escalator and out the revolving doors.
Nearly a year after she sat to show her portfolio to Jackie Burton at her gallery, Annalisa found herself sitting across from Sharon Maxwell with the exact same feelings of excitement and fear, as if the keys to the universe hid in the woman’s pocket.
Sharon had asked her to arrive a few minutes early so that she could take a look through Annalisa’s portfolio. They were in Sharon’s studio in the back of the warehouse where the two had first met, both facing a long wooden table covered with Annalisa’s favorite pieces. On the walls and multiple easels were the many works Sharon had in progress, and the aftermath of her work was splattered in a rainbow of colors on the concrete floor. She had enough art supplies in that room to equip a small army of painters, and Annalisa thought she could only dream of such a studio.
Annalisa had included a couple of the pieces that she’d shown Jackie, including the one of Annalisa standing over her mother’s casket, but she’d mostly included works she’d done during her senior year.
Incense burned and the Grateful Dead played in the background, filling the studio with a very easy vibe. Sharon was Annalisa’s first true hippie experience, and Annalisa was intrigued in the way one might follow a butterfly through a field. Sharon was dressed as wildly as she’d been at her show, bright fabric with rings on almost every finger and large, dangly earrings. She’d been so kind in receiving Annalisa a moment ago, her silver eyes incredibly inviting, but now she—and the moment—were about as intimidating as any experience Annalisa had ever known.
Annalisa studied the paintings along with Sharon, all of people dealing with the struggles of the modern day. Never had she worked so hard as this past year, and she was sure she’d gotten better, but Annalisa’s opinion didn’t matter now. Sharon was the critic, and her opinion was gold. The more Annalisa had heard and read about Sharon Maxwell, the more impressed Annalisa was of the woman’s talent, and the more sure Annalisa was that she’d found the right teacher.
As a man with a gruff, bluesy voice sang, “Turn On Your Love Light,” Sharon finally took a step back to formulate her words. “You have an incredible gift.”
Her words hit Annalisa’s ears like the breath of God. By now, enough people had told her that she was good to know it was true, but to hear Sharon tell her that she had a gift was validation she could trust. She was in the big city now, and Sharon was the real thing. All she had to do was agree to let Annalisa show some of her pieces at next April’s art show, and Annalisa would skyrocket to stardom.
Annalisa held her breath as her new teacher meandered down the line of ten paintings, touching the edges, breathing them in. “There’s something missing, though.”
Wham, there it was. Annalisa could already hear the rest, that she was gifted but not quite there yet. Still searching. As much as she’d gotten used to rejection during her job search, her heart sank.
“Now, now, don’t get down,” Sharon said, reading Annalisa’s mind. “You really are good, but I’m not feeling you in these paintings. I’m not seeing a connection between you and your subjects.”
So much for getting into the show in April. Couldn’t it have been that easy? Wasn’t there such a thing as a break? It’s not like she hadn’t worked her tail off to get to this moment. How many paintings had she done since she was two years old? Hundreds, thousands!
Not connecting with her subjects? That had been her main focus in the last year, diving into the feelings of everyone living through these wild times. She looked at her ten pieces: a soldier in the jungle, a protester pumping an antiwar sign in the air, Nixon getting his head shaved, a nude woman looking in the mirror. How could she ever connect if she hadn’t done it by now? How could Sharon see it anyway? Was she some sort of mystic?
Sharon pointed at the one of Annalisa placing her hand on her mother’s casket. “Except for this one. This is you, isn’t it?”
Annalisa remembered Jackie pointing out that painting, saying close to the same thing. “How’d you know?” Annalisa asked.
Sharon jabbed her finger down hard onto the table next to the painting, her bracelets jiggling like musical beads. “Because this painting is incredibly rich with life. I can feel this young girl.” Sharon wiped her eyes. “You’re putting tears in my eyes with your brush. This is who you need to find with the rest of your paintings.”
Annalisa felt so frustrated. “But she’s easy to connect with. She’s me.”
Sharon faced her. “Let me ask you this. Why do you think Sophia Loren is so wonderful on screen?”
A shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Because she becomes her character. That’s all you have to do, Annalisa. Become your subject. Understand exactly what it’s like to bein their skin. Look at this protester. Have you really thought about his life? Sure, he’s angry at the war; that’s easy. What’s he going home to after the protest? Who does he love? Or does he love at all?”
“I hadn’t quite gone that far.”
“You’re eighteen, Annalisa. Don’t beat yourself up.” She paused. “I want you to do something with me.” Sharon stretched her arms out in a star shape and drew in a long breath. The Grateful Dead still played in the background, and they were into a musical jam that Sharon’s movements seemed tuned in to. “Let’s go.”
Annalisa looked at her like she was crazy.
“What’s wrong?” Sharon dropped her hands and put them on her waist.
“I feel silly.”
