Page 83 of The Singing Trees
Annalisa hired one of her fellow artists in Sharon’s classes to work at the clock shop so that she could put more time into her painting. In the weeks that followed, as the warmer temperatures crept higher toward estival perfection, she became incredibly prolific. Setting up her easel all over town, she felt like she’d taken the world by its tail. Everywhere she turned, she saw opportunity, new subjects to bring into her artistic world. The more she painted, the easier connecting with them became.
The moment of truth came when she decided to bring some of her latest works in to show Sharon and her fellow classmates. It was the last Tuesday in June, one year after first attending these classes. A month earlier, Sharon had asked one student per week to bring in their portfolio to share. Tonight was Annalisa’s turn, and she was both eager and apprehensive as she carried her orange tote to the front of the class. She felt naked standing there, like the model whom they’d painted a year earlier.
These were artists that she’d come to know well—her circle when she did agree to the occasional social function. They surely wouldn’t boo her off the stage, but would they see something extraordinary in her? More important, would Sharon? Annalisa had certainly found her own satisfaction in what she was doing, and she might be able to accept that as enough, but she did want to be seen as extraordinary, no doubt about it. She wanted to know that her voice mattered.
Unclasping the orange tote, Annalisa drew out the first of five paintings she’d chosen to share with the class. To set the stage, she showed them the painting that had set her on the correct course. She told them how much this image of Nonna reaching up to kiss Walt had impacted her, and she described exactly what her breakthrough had taught her. She even opened up about Thomas and Hawaii. She couldn’t dare leave out how it was her external life that had elevated her art, all thanks to Sharon’s urging.
After answering a few questions on her technique, they gave her a round of applause that filled Annalisa’s cheeks with pride. She worked her way through the others, talking technique and inspiration, but focusing mainly on the stories of her subjects.
As the class ended, Sharon waved goodbye to everyone and asked, “Annalisa, would you mind hanging around for a few minutes?”
“Sure.” She was terrified that Sharon was going to hit her heart with another sledgehammer of brutal honesty.
When the last of the students had disappeared out the exit on the other side of the warehouse, Annalisa, tote in hand, approached Sharon.
Her teacher put on a smile so warm that Annalisa lost her breath. “I love where you’re going,” her teacher told her. “Especially the one of Thomas. It’s my favorite yet.”
Annalisa beamed. “I’m really trying.”
“No,” Sharon said. “You’re not trying. You’re doing. You bring in another ten pieces like this before the end of the year—your absolute best ones—and you’ve got a spot on these walls in April.”
Her words knocked Annalisa sideways. “What?”
“You heard me,” Sharon said, still wielding her smile like a magic wand. “You are one of the most talented and hardworking artists that I’ve ever known. Don’t get me wrong; you’re still young and have your work cut out for you, but what I see in your pieces is an experience and wisdom well beyond your years. I’m not telling you that you’ll be someone one day. You are someone, and I’d be honored to let you join my show. In fact, it wouldn’t be the same without you. What do you think?”
Annalisa barely heard her tote drop to the floor. She couldn’t believe it. The realization of her dream and all the hard work she’d put into it hit her like a tidal wave. She was no longer trying to be an artist. She’d just been shown the door to her destiny. Sharon Maxwell, one of the finest painters on the East Coast, had told her that Annalisa Mancuso had a seat at the table.
“I’d love it more than anything in the world,” Annalisa finally spit out, racing to throw her arms around Sharon. “Thank you.”
“No,” Sharon said, squeezing her, “thank you.”
“I’ll start as soon as I get home,” Annalisa promised her when she let go.
“Just don’t forget what got you here. Keep living and loving. Don’t forget to mix in your soul with your colors on that palette, okay?”
Annalisa nodded, finally knowing exactly what her teacher meant.
Chapter 30
CINNAMONBUNS IN THEOVEN
Under a July sky streaked with white wisps of cirrus clouds sliding by its puffier sisters higher up, Annalisa found Walt polishing his Plymouth. It was the kind of day that begged for you to be outside and get out into it. Even for Annalisa, she knew she needed to step away from her easel and experience life.
Admiring the state of Walt’s car, she said, “If you’d dote on Nonna the way you do on that Belvedere, she’d probably move in with you.”
Walt didn’t take the bait but offered her a charitable smirk.
Annalisa and Walt had made it a Saturday summer morning tradition to take a cruise through town or toward the sea and then stop by the market on the way home. Annalisa took Sharon’s wise words about “living and loving” to heart. Sure, painting as much as possible was the key to getting better, butlivingas much as possible was the secret to making true art.
What better way to live and love than to spend these cherished mornings with Walt, whose declining health showed her how valuable each moment truly was?
On their drive through Cape Elizabeth, Annalisa talked about her latest endeavors. Outside of working for Walt—growing the gallery and training their new hire—all Annalisa did was paint. “It’s the one thing that takes me away from thinking about him,” she admitted, stickingher hand out the window into the warm air. “Or worrying about him, to be more accurate.”
Her worry was very real. Thomas hadn’t responded yet to her last letter, which wasn’t like him. Though Nixon was slowly pulling out troops, two hundred thousand American men were still in Vietnam, so the war was a long way from over.
As evidenced by the splatters of paint on her jeans and shoes today, she typically painted with her coffee all the way until she stepped out the door, and then after work, she’d paint late into the night. No way was she going to return to Sharon with a portfolio of anything other than the best work she’d ever done, and that required working her way through more than a few mediocre pieces to get there. Even Michelangelo had his duds that he burned.
Thomas would be home in December, spending the last few months of his commitment back on American soil. Then April would come and Sharon’s show. What a dream to think that Thomas would be home safely—God willing—and he’d be there for her, supporting her, as she joined the ranks of the best and most innovative artists in New England.
