My voice cracks. I cough a couple times to recover.
ME: Sorry, yes. I’m hoping to apply to art schools next year, but I haven’t had any formal training. I’m going to take some basic classes starting this summer, but since I haven’t really been critiqued by anybody, I just needed to know …
The words scare me. The thought of what I could hear frightens me.
ME: I just need to know if I have any promise at all. If there is any hope for me. And I really am looking for an honest opinion, Mr. Samuels. I understand that my art is going to be amateurish at best compared to what you see on a daily basis.
I motion toward the framed posters lining his office walls, of different exhibitions he’s curated.
ME: I’m sure you can imagine that I’ve had a lot of people sugarcoat things for me because of who I am. But none of that has helped me, so I’d really like to hear what you think of my art, where I need to improve … and if there is anything here that could possibly get me into an art school.
Mr. Samuels nods his head and unzips my portfolio. One by one he lays out my sketches and paintings on his desk and examines each piece. I decided to give him a mix of what I’ve been working on: pencil and charcoal drawings, paintings in different styles. But mostly the portfolio is filled with my sketches. Since I kept my passion for art a secret, I didn’t have the courage to really set up a painting studio until a few months ago.
Mr. Samuels places several of the paintings against a wall and steps back and examines them for what seems like an eternity. I can’t read the reaction on his face and try to not stare. The last thing I want is the man who is basically going to validate the biggest decision of my life to feel self-conscious. After all, he’s not the one being judged.
You’d think I’d be used to that by now, but in the past, I didn’t care about my acting. So the opinions didn’t matter as much as this one.
I decide to fold my shaking hands, willing them to be still. I notice a fleck of red paint on my wrist and start picking at it.
After what seems like forever (but is probably only ten minutes … ten long, agonizing minutes), Mr. Samuels sits down and takes off his glasses.
MR. SAMUELS: You wanted honest, correct? Because there is good news and there’s bad, but not uncorrectable, news.
A lump rises in my throat. What if the good news is that I can always fall back on my acting?
ME: That’s exactly what I was hoping for, sir.
He picks up two of my black-and-white charcoal sketches: one I did of Emme playing the piano and another of my mother reading.
MR. SAMUELS: Your use of light and shadow is impressive.
He traces the curve of Emme’s neck down to her hands. I remember that day because the sun was hitting the practice suite and illuminated one side of her, while the other was cast in a dark shadow.
Mr. Samuels grabbed another sketch I did in Central Park at night, right before a thunderstorm.
MR. SAMUELS: And the mood of this piece is especially foreboding and mature for someone your age.
My spirits start to lift. But I steady myself because I’m waiting for the “but” I know is coming. I’ve also noticed that he put my paintings and color sketches off to one side.
He looks up from the paintings and smiles at me.
But …
MR. SAMUELS: Tell me, Carter, how long have you been working with paint?
And here it comes.
ME: I’ve really only been working with acrylics for the last six months or so.
He nods.
MR. SAMUELS: I can see that you don’t have much control over the brush yet. That’s something that comes with time, so you might want to start off by taking some introductory painting classes. But my real concern is your lack of identity.
Tell me about it.
He lays out four of my paintings.
MR. SAMUELS: We’ve got two abstract paintings, realism, and pointillism. Different styles by the same artist. While I’m seeing a lot of versatility — and don’t get me wrong, that can be a good thing — there’s no consistency. Something that tells me I’m looking at something by you. I don’t really see you in these pieces. What kind of statement do you want to make with your art? What is it that you are trying to tell us?
I guess that has been the real question all along.
MR. SAMUELS: While you can learn about proper brush technique and color theory, you can’t be schooled in what makes you want to create. Some artists spend their entire lives searching for their identity, so don’t let this discourage you. Because there is talent in here, true talent. And that, Mr. Harrison, can’t be taught at even the best schools.
I feel myself exhale. Mr. Samuels continues to give me advice and I automatically write down notes, but one thought goes through my mind: I am, once and for all, on the right track.
I’ve been staring at different blue paints for so long, they all look the same. After my meeting with Mr. Samuels, I felt inspired. It wasn’t that I didn’t have enough to work on, but that I had some promise. That’s all I was looking for. A chance that I could possibly get into art school.
I look over the acrylic section at my favorite art supply store. I want to get right to work on painting more.
A familiar voice calls out my name. I turn around and see the last person I thought I’d see here.
ME: Sophie?
She approaches me and looks tired. I haven’t seen her since our breakup and everything that went down between her and Emme.
SOPHIE: Hey, I guess I’d ask you what you’re doing here, but …
She gestures at my basket full of acrylic paint and brushes.
SOPHIE: I’m just picking up some supplies for a costume I’m making for an audition.
She holds up a bag with sequined stars.
SOPHIE: It’s for an off-Broadway show. I’ve pretty much given up on CPA stuff. I can’t wait for graduation.
I nod at her. I guess after all this time, we still have something in common.
ME: Well, good luck. I guess …
My mind races for something more to say to her, someone who was a huge part of my life, but I come up with nothing.
SOPHIE: Yeah, thanks …
She turns around and hesitates. For a moment, I’m unsure if she’s going to run for the exit or do an impromptu concert like she did at one of the store openings we went to when we first dated. She turns back on her heels and faces me.
SOPHIE: I just need to know … How could you throw it all away?
ME: Sophie, things weren’t working out with us.
SOPHIE: I’m not talking about us.
ME: Well, things weren’t working out between me and CPA either.
She shakes her head.
SOPHIE: Not that, your career. You had everything. Most people would kill to be in your position. The money, the fame … And you turn your back on it. I don’t understand. Do you not have any clue how incredibly lucky you were?
I take a moment to process everything she’s said. I guess from the outside, my life seems storybook to some (at least those who think hitting your peak at ten is enviable). But Sophie should know better — she’s seen the hours I’ve had to work, how invasive the press can be. And, yes, I’ve been lucky. Incredibly lucky. But that and some hard work were all that I had. Not talent. Not passion.