Page 4 of The Singing Trees
Annalisa raised her tote, completely focused on making this woman love her. Not allowing any shake to be heard in her voice, she said, “I am a big fan of yours, Mrs.Burton. Of your eye and your gallery, and I wanted to see if you might be interested in taking a look at my work.”
“Oh, you’re a painter,” she said enthusiastically, taking away some of Annalisa’s fear. “Yes, I’d love to see what you’re up to. Call me Jackie. What’s your name?”
“I’m Annalisa.” She felt a bright light of excitement. Could it be this easy?
“Why don’t you come sit down with me, Annalisa? We’ll take a look.”
Annalisa thanked her and tried to temper her nerves with a deep breath as she took a seat next to Jackie in one of the stiff fuchsia chairs. All Jackie had to do was say she’d love to bring in her work, and the doors leading to Annalisa’s future would open wide. She wouldn’t have to worry about the fact that she couldn’t afford college. She wouldn’t have to worry about what she’d do to support herself for the rest of her life. All she’d have to do was capture the world with her brushes.
Like she’d done it a million times before (maybe she had), Jackie took the tote, unbuttoned the clasp, and reached inside. Annalisa had chosen ten of her favorite paintings from the past year of her work; some she’d done in art class, and a few at home.
The first piece was a scene of workers crossing the bridge over the Linden River to the textile mill in Payton Mills where her father had worked before he’d left for college in Bangor. Annalisa had waded through a tremendous amount of suffering in the days it had taken to finish this painting. When her father was her age, a brilliant young athlete with big dreams, he’d hurt his back in a forklift accident in the mill’s warehouse, which had led to his drifting to the bottle to kill the pain, and then to ultimately driving himself and Annalisa’s mother into a ravine—albeit unintentionally.
“Okay,” Jackie said, holding the piece out in front of her. “I wasn’t expecting this. You’re quite good. What exceptional detail.”
Annalisa muttered a barely audible “thanks.” Was “quite good” enough to get a few paintings onto these walls?
Flipping to the next piece, Jackie scrutinized the scene of her parents’ funeral. It was a bird’s-eye view of their friends and enormous family standing around the bodies that would soon be lowered into the ground. It was the first time Annalisa had ever inserted herself into a painting, and she stood there with her hand on her mother’s casket.
“You’re a realist, aren’t you?” Jackie asked, turning to Annalisa and ripping her from the memory. “Not afraid to paint the truth. These are quite...almost dreary. Is this you?”
Annalisa fidgeted with her hands before finally locking them down in a clasp on her lap. “I lost my parents two years ago.”
Jackie put her hand on the armrest of Annalisa’s chair and apologized.
“It’s been a long time. I don’t think about it much anymore,” Annalisa lied, seeing her grandmother standing outside of her school in Bangor that day, waiting to break the news.
After a reverent pause, Jackie flipped to the next painting. “I can’t get over your eye for detail. You’ve obviously been painting a long time.”
“All my life,” Annalisa said, hoping her experience made a difference.
Jackie glanced at her before continuing to the next piece. “You’re like a budding da Vinci. Do you like his work?”
It was the kindest compliment anyone in the history of her life had given her, and she had a sudden urge to wrap her arms around Jackie’s neck with thanks. “I’m Italian. Of course I love da Vinci.”
The curator went back to studying Annalisa’s pieces. Hopefully, she could see that Annalisa had put everything she had into them, the purging that she’d felt as she’d immortalized each subject with her acrylics. Jackie was right; many of them were on the sadder side, but how couldn’t they be? Sunshine was rare in her world.
When Jackie finished, she carefully slipped each one back into the tote. “What to do with you?” she asked herself. As if the answer were on the ceiling, she looked up for a while. More than anything in the entireworld, Annalisa wanted her to say, “I think you are an extraordinary artist, and I’d like to bring your work into my gallery. You belong here.”
“I think you have a talent like I haven’t seen in a long time,” she said, finally lowering her head. “Art must be deep in your genes.”
Was she finally about to get a break for once in her darn life? She could see herself strutting into this gallery a week from today, seeing some of her own pieces mounted in gorgeous frames on the walls next to New England’s greatest. She could see herself collecting her first paycheck, knowing she’d finally made it after working her butt off for so many years.
Jackie bit her bottom lip. “You’re not where you’re supposed to be yet. I think you have what it takes to make it, but there’s something missing, a consistency. I’m not seeing your voice ... maybe that’s what it is. Do you know what I mean?”
Unable to get a word from her constricted throat, Annalisa gathered her brown hair into a ponytail to busy herself. She could remember similar discussions with her mother, who urged her not only to try every medium but to experiment until something felt right. Well, the paintings in the tote in Jackie’s hand right now did feel right to Annalisa. She was not new to art. She’d played with watercolor, oil, charcoal, and even pen and ink. Then, when she’d gotten her hands on acrylics, she’d known it was her medium. She’d started with still lifes like her mother had, then gone on to landscapes, ocean scenes, and animals. It was people she enjoyed most, though, and that was what she’d been doing for at least two years now, as if she was subconsciously trying to understand them.
So why wasn’t Jackie seeing her transformation?
Jackie put her hand on the armrest again, making Annalisa feel slightly invaded. “The one with you at your parents’ funeral; that one hits me hard and shows me you have what it takes. Believe me, your ability with detail is first-rate, and I don’t mind the sort of realist, almost bleak outlook, but I don’t see your voice breaking through. If you lookat works on my wall for even a second, you know exactly who did them. How old are you, anyway?”
Annalisa forced herself to perk up. “Seventeen.”
Jackie leaned in. “Seventeen? No wonder. You can’t have a voice when you’re seventeen. None of my artists did. You need to go to school, find some good teachers, and keep at it. Trust me, you’re going to be great one day. You just need to find exactly what you’re trying to say and then say it loud.” She finally sat back in her own chair, giving Annalisa the space she needed.
“Where are you from?” Jackie asked. “What’s your plan? Surely, you’ll be attending the art school, right? You know Sharon Maxwell teaches there.”
Annalisa straightened. “I wish. I’m from Payton Mills and live with my grandmother. We can’t really afford college, but I’d like to move after I graduate.” Truthfully, she wanted to grab her tote and run.
