Page 48 of Is This for Real?
I smile. “Do you know what the hieroglyphics mean?”
“No, but he’s about to talk.”
Ting. Ting. Ting. A spoon strikes a glass, asking for silence, and the conversations die down. Rory’s mom, Ciara, introduces the artist, Rafael; he takes the microphone from her. He’s tall, with his hair in a ponytail. He speaks passionately and explains the meanings behind the symbols: one means giving, another means to reveal the truth, and another means façade.
Rory and I are standing next to each other. It feels weird that he doesn’t have his arm around me or isn’t holding my hand. I shake my head. What is happening to me? It’s like I crave his touch, this closeness, this intimacy.I have to remember it’s fake, but it’s no longer fake for me. I’m pretending it’s real for others and not real for him.Conflicted much? Nope, not me.
Rafael walks to a large, lavender-and-blue painting dominating the far end of the gallery. He explains that he painted this work after he and his girlfriend had a fight. That’s why the stick figures have their backs to each other. And then she came back into his studio and said, “I’m sorry.” He wrote “I’m sorry, too” in the middle of the painting. The paintings are a record of his life.
A chill goes through me. A happy chill, though. An “I get it” kind of chill. The artist looks away from the audience, at the painting. The stick figures are so actively posed that they look like they could jump off the canvas. How can he part with it? And how can he be so open and vulnerable? Doesn’t he worry that he will be exposed and dissected, both positively and negatively, and then lose his creative drive? Or even lose a part of himself as others speak for him as they interpret his work? When I published a piece in college, I took the criticism so personally, and I had to learn to step back and separate myself from my work. It made me think of a carcass picked over by vultures until just the bones were left. Not that that was why Georgia O’Keeffe painted all those bones, but I sometimes wondered.
But if I am not going to write about what I feel and stay skating on the surface, how can I ask anyone to read me? I stare at the “I’m sorry, too.”
Everyone claps. I clap, too, a little bit late.
“Are you okay?” Rory asks.
I nod. “That was so powerful.”
“Wasn’t it?” Ciara, Rory’s mom, says. She hugs me hello. “I’m so glad I’ve found him.”
“He’s so emotionally open,” I say.
“Are you still writing?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Good for you. Stay committed to your dream,” she says.
Behind them, a familiar voice compliments Rory’s mom on the show.
Callie.Rory invited Callie. I wasn’t the one who was supposed to be here with him.My stomach sinks.I should leave.
Except Rory has that little wrinkle in his forehead he gets when he’s trying to puzzle something out. That’s the way he looks at me sometimes—like I’m a mystery he can’t quite figure out.
“Hey, you two!” Callie’s high-pitched voice has a clear note of forced friendliness. “Rory and Penny, together at last.” She lifts her chin as if pondering some great thought.
I hate it when people call me Penny and not Penelope. Penelope is a weaver of stories, someone who managed to outwit many suitors, whereas Penny is a coin that gets dropped to the bottom of the drawer. I’m sure she did it on purpose. I should shorten her name to Cal or Lie. Actually, better stay far away from “lie.”
Ciara looks at me and Rory. She has the same bemused expression Rory makes. We’re standing close to each other, as if united against Callie. Together at last. That could mean something other than dating. Or not.
Callie is still peering down at me. “Rory always said you were just friends.”
Uh-oh.Rory tenses next to me. I don’t think either of us envisioned having to fake date in front of his parents.
I take her arm. “You missed the artist talk. Come on, let me explain the hieroglyphics to you. It’s so cool.” I pull her away from Rory and his mom. She doesn’t want to go, but my grip on her arm is ironclad.
I march her over to one of my favorite paintings, where the stick figures dance across the canvas. “These represent joy.”
Callie’s mouth is set in a tight line. She looks back to find Rory and his mom, but they have been swallowed by the crowd.
I give Callie’s arm a little shake in a not-so-subtle attempt to redirect her attention. “Joy,” I repeated. “Do you know why they represent joy?”
Callie finally turns back to the painting. “Probably because they’re dancing.” Her tone is condescending, like she thinks I’m wasting her time.
Guess you’re not here for the art appreciation.
“And this one?” I ask. The stick figures have their arms up in the air, like they are stretching or reaching for the sky. The artist said this was dreaming, striving. The colors of the painting are bright pink, yellow, and blue, happy, with some slashes of gray and black. Because there are setbacks. And the figures go up and down, the path is not linear. Maybe this is my favorite painting of the show. No, my favorite is the gut punch of the “I’m sorry” painting.
