Page 42 of Wild Flower

Two of my photos are closeups of flowers that I took at the botanical gardens. One is a pointy, violent-looking flower in a vibrant orange-yellow. I think it’s called a golden torch. The other is a different variety of the same plant, only the color palette is a shocking pink with a lime-green stripe at the rim. Becca would know what they are. Next time I see her, I’ll have to ask.

Those two images are relatively standard—close-ups, almost abstract, derivative of a Georgia O’Keeffe painting, only harsher. Alone, they aren’t interesting other than for their color and form, which—as Krista Jones is inevitably chomping at the bit to point out—has been done before.

Everything you photograph is derivative, Finn. Find your own vision. Something original, if that’s possible.

What makes this tryptic interesting is the image at the center, that I’ve juxtaposed between the other two. The problem is, it’s the kind of image you throw away: blurry, uneven, messy. It’s a photography 101 no-no. You’re supposed to find your focus and frame up the shot carefully. Capture the moment. Don’t be lazy. If you miss the moment, you miss the moment. Throw it away and start again. And technically, Ididmiss the moment.

I snapped this photo quickly this morning when the sunrise had just started to kiss the sky and I had enough light for a decent exposure. It’s of Becca when she wasn’t looking. In a way, the power of the photoisthe missed moment—like a snapshot of a secret in the rising light.

The photo is taken from behind Becca of her left shoulder blade and arm. There’s motion, causing a blur as she talks to Archer. She’s naked and wet, but you don’t know that from the image. And you can’t see Archer, it just looks like she’s interacting with someone. What you can make out in the blur is her skin and her flower tattoos. They aren’t the same plants as the two photos that surround it, but they have the same color palette: smears of orange and pink and green. The flowers in the two photos beside hers are bold and poisonous looking: hyper colorful. She, on the other hand, is soft and muted, moving and twisting with the waking sun behind her. She feels alive and in motion, making the flowers beside her seem unreal. It’s ironic, since her flowers are drawings and the plant photos are what’s real.

The juxtaposition is interesting: the contrast of color and movement. But I don’t really know what I’m saying with it. Yes, there’s the irony, but it felt like something more, something I can’t articulate yet.

“Finn,” Katz says, his loud voice booming through the large classroom. “Let’s start with you.”

My fist jams into my throat, and my temperature rises as I stand up. “Yes, sir.”

Katz folds his arms over his chest and stares at my art piece. He doesn’t speak, his silence so quiet I think everyone can hear my heart ratcheting. I know better than to interrupt him and tell him what I’ve done. It’s better for him to tell me what he sees so I can interpret if I should throw it in the dust bin.

I see Krista fidget in our instructor’s wake, practically bursting to speak. She’s ready to sear me with her latest judgement.

“Hold your tongue, Krista,” Katz says, raising a hand but not turning to face her, as if he can hear the eagerness on her breath. Krista turns red, and a ripple of gasps echo under everyone’s breath. Krista’s the darling. Katz always welcomes her opinion.

“I know what you want to say, Krista,” our instructor continues, and miraculously his tone is stripped of condescension. “And you’re not wrong. This is derivative, flashy, out of focus.”

That fist twists in my throat.

“But—” Katz steps closer to my work. “There’s something here that I don’t want us to scare Finn away from. Something that’s working that I can’t quite put my finger on yet …”

Katz unpins the two flower photos beside the one of Becca and looks at the blurry photo of her shoulder all alone. He shakes his head.

“No, you were right to frame the woman with these,” he corrects, pinning the flower photos back up. “The center image doesn’t hold up on its own, and yet—even with these two around it, it doesn’t quite pack the punch I want from it.”

He pinches his chin and goes into a tirade about art movements and intentions, comparing the juxtaposition to the works of other famous photographers I’m going to have to look up on the internet later. My head is buzzing. He doesn’t hate it. In fact, he’s so disturbed by the fact that he likes it but doesn’t know why that he talks for fifteen minutes straight. The only person whose work he talks about like this is Krista’s, and I can feel her eyes boring into me.

“What’s amazing, Finn,” Katz says, his voice rising, “is that you’ve broken so many conventional rules that it seems intentional. And even if it wasn’t—makeit intentional as you move forward. It’s like this piece is asking me why there are rules in the first place. Which of course lays claim that rules are arbitrary, created by fashion and culture. You’ve taken what is natural,”—he points at the flower photos—“and turned them into a glittering, overly-sharp, abstraction. It’s almost a perversion of nature with all the filters and tricks you’ve put in it. And then you’ve putthisbetween it.” He motions to Becca. “Which we all know Krista wanted to say looks like you took it on cheap 110 film from the eighties. And yet, you seem to ask why can’t that be art? Isn’t a blurry, missed moment more interesting than these other grotesque photos of flowers? Fascinating, Finn. Really interesting. It’s raw still, and I’d suggest you try different formats. Actually use 110 film, or try a polaroid, see what happens. But chase this.”

Katz turns to me for the first time in his entire critique, looking me right in the eye like I might actually be worthy of his presence.

“This is the most interesting thing you’ve brought in all year,” he compliments. “Follow this. Whatever in you sparked this … chase it. I want to see more of this next class, however that manifests. You’re the artist.”

Artist?

He gives me a terse nod and turns to the next set of photos as if his words didn’t just explode my entire self-image. Does he actually think I might have a voice and something interesting to say?

I sneak a look at Krista and her chin is high, but her lips are tight. Katz hasn’t chosen to do her work next. In fact, it’s almost like Katz didn’t notice her work at all. But I don’t smile, because I’ve been where she is right now, feeling invisible and small, and I take no glory in it.

25

BECCA

Miranda shoots me a suspicious look as I enter the Birds of Paradise carrying two giant cups of coffee.

“You said you were coming in late,” Miranda accuses, eyeing the bags under my eyes and my inability to put on anything other than a tank top and leggings. I prefer to look moreput together, especially on a Saturday when the shop is busy, but my body is sore and tired … for more than one reason.

“Iamlate,” I defend, motioning to the fact that the shop is open and the sun is shining through the skylights above. I put one of the coffee cups on the counter as a peace offering. If Miranda doesn’t drink it, I’ll gladly gulp it down myself.

“Well, it’s good you’re here,” Miranda admits, taking the coffee, but still giving me a curious look. “There’s a lady in the back near the trumpet vines who wants to talk to you.” Miranda gives me the once-over. “Unless you need a bucket of Adderall to go with your caffeine.”

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