Contessa (8 page)

“
Yeah,
”
I say, enthusiastic about finding my own
aesthetic
.

“
Okay. Then I
’
ll tell you the first thing you need to do.
”

“
What?
”
I ask in anticipation.

“
Go with your father on Saturday. He wanted it to be a surprise, but he wants to take you to a gallery up there. You can check out some works you
’
ve never seen before: sculptures, paintings, photography, drawings. There
’
s a special exhibit on women artists and another on New York artists. He read about it in the paper and knew he wanted to take you there. So will you go?
”

“
Can
’
t you go with us?
”

“
Liv, I
’
m going with Trey to the birthday party. I promise you
’
ll have a good time and you will learn so much. And it will mean so much to Dad. Please?
”

I truly am excited to see some work of other artists, even if I
’
m not looking forward to the prospect of a long car ride with Dad.
“
Okay.
”

“
Okay. I
’
ll let him know. He
’
s going to be so happy.
”
She leans over to give me a hug.

“
Alright, alright, Mom,
”
I tell her after she
’
s held on a little too long. She kisses me on the cheek and tells me good night.

“
Sweet dreams, honey.
”

“
Love you, Mom.
”

“
Love you, too.
”

Over the next few days, while the rest of my family works diligently on a science project for Trey, I spend the evenings making finishing touches to the portrait. Of course I had no intention of painting over it. I had every intention to make sure my current work had a proper place for display. I knew Granna would love it, and that she
’
d forgive me for taking the photo from her wallet.

On Thursday, I meet her at the workshop like I do after school every week. I volunteer once a week to work with kids at the foundation my parents started when they got married. A few months ago, I began teaching this class. The children are between seven and ten years old, and I teach them about colors. My art teachers at the private school I attend tell me they
’
ve never seen anyone so skilled in color. Tonight, the color is brown–and the perfect setting for me to reveal my portrait of Nate to Granna. His brown eyes, light brown hair, brown leather jacket. I had created a background for the photo, using blues and light green hues, mingled with an earthy taupe color. The painting created a sense of warmth, comfort, stability and calm.

“
I
’
ve got a surprise for you, Granna,
”
I tell her as I carry the painting, concealed beneath a layer of craft paper.
“
I hope you like it.
”

“
I hope I do, too,
”
she answers.
“
This isn
’
t like
‘
Big Grey Mess,
’
is it?
”

I laugh at her question, remembering the painting I had offered her a few years ago when I was experimenting with black and tonal greys. She wasn
’
t a fan, and told me so, explaining that it really didn
’
t go in her house. It
’
s one of the things I love about her. She tells me the truth. The painting ended up in my Dad
’
s office. He said it was beautiful, of course.

“
No, it looks nothing like
‘
Big Grey Mess.
’”

“
Good.
”
She smiles and gives me a big hug when I put the artwork down.

“
Hi, Livvy,
”
Jordan, the youngest in the class, says to me.

“
Jordy, I see you dressed for tonight
’
s lesson,
”
I comment on his tan corduroy pants and brown windbreaker that matches the color of his skin. His white t-shirt underneath has small holes in it and is tight against his tiny frame. The kids we work with don
’
t have a lot, and Jordan and his mother live with friends while his mother tries to find work.

Jordan nods with excitement and walks quickly to the break room to put his jacket away. I stop him on his way out.
“
Jordan, I
’
ve got something for you.
”
I reach up into the cabinet and pull out one of the embroidered polo shirts that carry the name of the school, Nate
’
s Art Room.
“
I bet you
’
ve grown out of your other one, right?
”
I know he hasn
’
t, but I also know he gets a lot of wear out of it. It is probably as tattered as the t-shirt he wears tonight.

“
Thanks, Livvy.
”
He immediately puts it on, and then drapes it with his smock. All the kids have personalized smocks, one for home and one for school. We provide them with all the supplies they need to help them develop their creativity. Not all the kids in the Art Room program are artists, even though that was the original intent of the foundation. We started a new class on Wednesdays for kids who have exceptional musical abilities. One of my cousins actually works with them. Lexi is in her last semester at Juilliard and has already started rehearsals for her first off-broadway show. For those students, we buy their musical equipment. I guess my dad
’
s wealth is definitely good for that. He
does
help a lot of people.

The rest of the kids file in to get ready for class as I prepare their palettes with paint. I take my position at the front of the room while Granna hands out healthy snacks to all the kids. We always start off with a treat to give them a little energy and sustenance while I talk about the theme of that week
’
s lesson. When they
’
re done eating, we start painting.

I make the rounds, talking to each of the eight children individually about their paintings. Some choose to do portraits, some do abstract work, one–Amanda–does a still life of her dad
’
s work boots, which she brought with her.

“
Dad
’
s sick tonight,
”
she had told me before class,
“
so he said he didn
’
t need them for work.
”
I knew her dad was an addict. Some weeks, she didn
’
t show up to our workshop. Granna would check on her at school every Friday to make sure she was okay and well cared for. At ten, she was far more grown up than she should have been. Most of the kids at the Art Room have similar stories. It was only recently that I found out Amanda had three younger brothers that she would have to care for when her Dad was at work and her mom was out.

I couldn
’
t imagine that life. Although I
’
d been coming to this school for as long as I
’
d known this life, I only got to attend because my parents were the founders. I
’
d always had everything I needed. Most people think I get everything I
want
, but I don
’
t. It used to make me mad, because I knew my parents could afford the toys I wanted or the shoes that my friends had. My parents weren
’
t wasteful, nor were they extravagant. I began to appreciate that about them both, and it probably had a lot to do with the people I met being here–the amazingly talented kids who were dealt a much more difficult life than my own. How easily that could have been my life, though.

After consulting with everyone, I decide it
’
s time to unveil the painting. Every week, I bring one of my own examples to show the class. They
’
re honest with their feedback, too. Sometimes they like what I do–sometimes they don
’
t get it–but I know they
’
re all talented enough to appreciate it. I let them critique it and I try to listen with an open mind to their opinions. I know this is an important lesson for them to learn–how to take criticism. As they get older, people will get more verbal–more
real
–with their feedback. I was lucky to have Granna from a young age. She wiped away many tears when I was younger. I can remember an argument she had with my dad after one of these critique sessions. My dad didn
’
t think it was good for her to be
so
honest with me. He hated to see me cry, and did everything possible to avoid that. It was one topic they had agreed to disagree on. Granna was stubborn. Dad had a lot of respect for her, but was never a fan of confrontation. I knew Mom had something to do with it. She was always the intermediary.

“
Is everyone ready to see my brown painting?
”
I ask the kids. Most of them put their brushes down; a few continue to focus on their work, and I would never be one to interrupt their creative process. I unwrap the painting once I see Granna is settled in a seat in the back of the class.

She gasps loudly when she sees it, covering her mouth with both of her hands. Even from here, I can see her shaking. My heart pounds, afraid she doesn
’
t like it. It would hurt me dearly–this once–if she didn
’
t like it.

“
He
’
s cute,
”
Amanda says with a laugh.

“
I know,
”
I agree.

“
Is that your boyfriend?
”
another young girl asks.

“
No, actually.
”
I pause, making eye contact with Granna. She nods her head at me.
“
This is Donna
’
s son, Nate. You know that little boy in the painting over there?
”
I point to a portrait Nate had actually painted when he was young.
“
This is him, grown up. This is who our program
’
s named after.
”

All the kids turn around as they hear a whimper fall from Granna
’
s lips. She takes a deep breath and swipes at a few tears, but then addresses us all.
“
Wasn
’
t he handsome?
”
she says, standing and walking toward the painting
and me
.
“
And Livvy, this is gorgeous. It
’
s simply stunning. I think it might be the best thing you
’
ve ever painted.
”

“
Thanks,
”
I tell her, happy to receive her compliment, her hug, and her kiss on the cheek.
“
It
’
s for you.
”

“
Oh, thank you, sweetheart. Should we hang it here?
”

“
No, I think you should take it to your house.
”

“
I know the perfect spot,
”
she says.
“
It
’
s lovely. Thank you so much.
”

“
You
’
re welcome. I stole the picture out of your wallet. I hope you didn
’
t miss it.
”

“
I did, but I have copies. I just wondered what happened to it.
”

“
You can have it back.
”

“
You can keep it, Livvy. As a reminder of this amazing work of art. I just can
’
t believe it.
”
She steps aside and admires it while I ask the kids for their opinions. I have to remind the girls of the class that we
’
re discussing color theory, not a cute boy.

Granna offers me a ride home after all the kids have been picked up. Amanda
’
s mom was thirty minutes late, but she was happy for the extra time she got to spend painting. I tell Granna to go ahead. She always asks, but I only accept her offer when the weather is bad.