Page 69 of Wild Flower

I nod, not sure how to respond.

“Do you understand what I’m saying to you?” Katz asks, his scholarly eyes looking down at me over his glasses.

“Don’t listen to you,” I tentatively reply. “Don’t hesitate.”

Katz smiles and it may be the single-most bizarre thing I’ve ever seen. This man doesn’t smile. He frowns and pontificates. He doesn’t laugh or show joy.

“I want to put your pieces in the university show next month,” Katz replies. “But there’s red tape. And I don’t want what I’m about to say to erase what you just learned. Don’t take this personally, and don’t hesitate. This is university bureaucracy. However, due to the sensitive nature of some of your images—again, that’s its strength,” he says firmly, his voice rising. “You challenge us with the sexual undertones in your work, Finn. But you have to get model releases and make sure you have permission from your subjects, before we can show it. Because if they don’t know you took this picture and you invaded their privacy—”

My mouth goes dry. Did I overstep on something intimate? Becca’s seen this photo and knows about it. But Archer doesn’t.

“It’s red tape,” Katz reiterates. “The art is perfect.”

Perfect? My eyes cut to Katz. Did he really say that?

Katz laughs. It’s not mean and condescending, but light, accompanied with that smile marring his face again. “You remind me of myself when I was young,” he says.

Whatis happening?

“Society is going to tell you in a thousand brutal ways that you can’t do and see and photograph what you want,” Katz continues. “And if you ignore them, then they’ll tell you that you can’t show it.”

I frown. Is he afraid the university will censor me?

“There are three things you have to iron into your blood,” Katz continues, lifting up his fingers as he ruminates. “One, don’t listen to them. Any of them! Including me. Two, don’t hesitate. Chase that muse to the truth. And three, always get a model release. You understand?”

I nod stiffly. This is a lot to process.

“Good.” Katz nods with a curt jolt of his chin, handing me several papers that I realize are the university’s photo contracts. “I’m going to put your work in one of the featured positions—if you get the release. It’s too powerful to hide it in a corner.”

And with that, he ushers me out of his office, contracts in hand.

“I only give featured placements to grad students,” Katz states, “but you’re an exception.” Again, that awkward smile creeps over his face, and I nod knowing I should be thankful. “I need that in a week.” Katz points to the contract and before I can nod or say anything, he shuts his office door in my face.

Charming.

A featured position as an undergrad? I tell myself to take his advice and not let it go to my head, but there are too many emotions swirling in my chest. Will Archer and Becca sign this model release? Is what we have strong enough for that? What if they want to keep us private?

I think of the Orchid and what we shared in public. Only, no one was paying attention to us when that happened. A photo on the other hand is trapped in time, public for all the peering eyes and critics to happily sink their talons in. My work is incriminating, as Katz warned, but it’s also what makes it art in his eyes. The question is how will Archer and Becca feel when they’re the ones printed larger than life?

39

BECCA

It’s midday and I’m surrounded by pink and blue tropical drinks.

Archer, Finn, and I are sitting in the back patio of a local tiki bar called the Gin n’ Lava. It’s a kitschy dive, covered in knickknacks like plastic crabs and hand-painted signs with jokes likeYou can’t laugh out loud in Hawaii, all you can do is A LOW HA!

Across the pineapple skewers and tiny umbrellas littering the table is Connor Voss. He’s the lawyer-turned-bartender from Flambé that Archer suggested I talk to. Even though he’s wearing a t-shirt and jeans, he intently reads my mother’s contract like he knows what to look for. There’s a stack of post-its next to him, and he keeps scribbling notes and sticking them to the contract, all the while muttering:Nope!orThat’s predatoryorWhat kind of idiot wrote this thing?

“Hello, day drinkers!” comes the voice of our waiter, a wiry-looking guy in a Hawaiian shirt who’s carrying a tray of tiny glasses filled with green slush. “As Connor’s friends, and because it’s slow as shit today, you get to try out my new recipe!”

The waiter puts the shot-sized glasses in front of us.

“They’re not interested, Mason,” Connor grumbles, not even looking up.

“Nonsense,” Mason insists. “I own this place. I can do whatever I want.”

“The ability to do what you want is completely inconsequential to their desire to be your guineapigs,” Connor drawls, his eyes still on the contract.

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