Chapter 37
Iwant to wallow, but as a starving artist, that is not a luxury I can afford. I did my stint waitressing and met Peter at the Gagosian Gallery. I was amazed when Peter didn’t comment that I looked like shit or that I was wearing a huge amount of makeup.
Jade had no such qualms about saying I looked worn down when we strategized before my waitressing shift. She’d lined up interviews for me to coincide with the Vertex opening. We went over possible questions and a script of points that I could make if necessary. It reminded me of times with John’s press secretary, and I could feel myself tensing. What if I messed this up too?
But now I am home, surrounded by canvases in the empty living room. I should paint.
That’s how I get over breakups. And now it’s even more imperative. If the reviews are positive, I might actually be able to sell some paintings.
I put up a new canvas on my easel and stare at my paint selection. The paints from William make me tear up all over again.
Get a grip, Miranda.
I squeeze out paint on the palette. A tear drops down. I wipe away the wet under my eyes with my hands.
Just try for one painting.
I dip my brush into the paint and then spread it across the canvas. A big, bright-turquoise streak across the whole canvas, almost like a rainbow arc. I add another, layering on top, like the way I thought we were building layers in our relationship, strengthening it. And deepening. What color could convey that deepening? I mix in a bit of darker blue to my turquoise to see if it captures that. With another brush, I sweep that above the turquoise curve. It makes the turquoise pop. And then I take some yellow to symbolize the hope on top of a gray circle to show how it buoyed up. Not that we were without conflict. I mix some purple into the painting. Still, I thought the conflict strengthened our relationship. I add more of my darker blue mix. It jars against the purple.
Opposites don’t last.
The conflict killed our relationship.
Why haven’t I learned anything from my parents?
I let my tears fall, wiping them away again with the back of my hand. I tilt the painting to let them fall on it.
Maybe I should use more of a dark gray for the conflict. I mix up some dark gray, squeezing the last from the tube that William bought me. I drop it into the wastebasket near my easel. Finished.
I paint the dark gray over the smudged purple, trying to let some purple show through. It is salvageable.
It looks better. It looks good. I add some frothy pink near the gray to lighten it. And some light-yellow streaks as if the sun is peeking out behind some clouds. I label it Tears 4:40 and put it aside.
It’s good. It gives me a feeling of happiness.
I wash my hands and my brushes in our kitchen sink. The I’m an accountant, not a magician mug is sitting in our drain rack. I can’t bring myself to give it away, but I don’t want to be reminded of him. I bury it behind the rest of the cups on our shelf. His toothbrush is still in my bathroom. We hadn’t progressed far enough that he had a drawer in my bedroom. I should also burn my box of mementos. Or not.
I staple together a small, rough canvas using the old sweatshirt I grabbed when he came over to give me the paints, centering the sweatshirt’s pocket. I pull out my box of mementos from times with William. I’ll make this into art too. That’s probably the best way to get over him. I glue the finished, rolled-up, gray paint tube to the sweatshirt canvas. I put William’s handkerchief in the pocket with a little bit peeking out. He might want it back. I find my expired MetroCard from the subway ride we took together, and the catering menu Kimberly gave us, and glue those to the canvas. And my McDonald’s toy. Some shells from Fire Island. The matchbox from our restaurant date. And yet, these pieces barely explain the totality of our relationship. It’s more the conversations and the support. Our texts.
I print out a snapshot of the text exchange about fountain pens and the Japanese letters for Faito and glue those on. I handwrite Faito and Fighting! on a slip of paper and glue it on. I take out the pressed cherry blossoms and drop them on top like confetti. I carefully glue in each pressed cherry blossom to the place where it dropped—except one has landed on the exclamation point dot of the Fighting! text. I put that one pressed petal back in the box.
I should fight for William.