16 THE PASTORAL STAIN
16
T HE P ASTORAL S TAIN
Mid-December brought the season’s first snow. Winter in Indiana had a parasitic cold that burrowed deep in my teeth, smarted in my throat until it left a twinge of pain with every swallow. We were instructed not to fuck with the Manor’s old fireplace, but Saz made it her mission to coax the hearth to life. This involved several trips to the woods past the garden and lots of crumpled newsprint subjected to Saz’s lighter. The radiators already kept the house too hot, and the thought of a fire was awful enough to make me want to sleep in Grainer. But the idea of more time in Grainer was its own hell.
We spent the weekend after Survey on edge, Finch flighty and Caroline shut up in her room. If she ate or used the bathroom, I never saw it happen. Snacks and cold mugs of tea collected outside her door. I could hear her talking through the wall we shared. It was an endless, furious muttering, the kind of relentless monologue that left me unsure if she was taking several phone calls or talking heatedly to herself in the mirror.
Amrita and I went on a walk to get away from the Manor, she enthusiastically and I reluctantly, wind biting down to bone and leaving me shivering by the time we circled the promenade. Finch’s hyacinth had crusted over on my arm and kept opening again every time I showered. I could feel its raw edges rub up against the material of my sweatshirt beneath my coat.
Amrita looped her arm in mine and slid her hand into my coat pocket. Our fingers laced together, and her palm kissed heat against my own.
“You know you can talk to me about anything,” Amrita urged after a while, the only sound the soft huffs of our exhales. “You haven’t been acting like yourself ever since all that stuff went down with Kolesnik, and I still don’t understand what happened at Survey.”
Amrita and I had known each other longer than anyone else. She held my hair the first time I got sick from drinking, made me soup on the common-room stove, rubbed my back after nightmares that woke us both. When she broke her ankle freshman year after we tried to sled down a hill in the garden, I slept beside her hospital bed, slumped in a chair with my head pillowed on her thigh. I don’t know why it always surprised me when she knew me—when she could see past the weak barriers I tried to build.
“I know. I’m sorry,” I said, the words rough with shame. “I still feel horrible for missing Saz’s critique.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it. You ran out like something was after you, Jo. I’ve never seen you so scared.”
I risked a glance in her direction. She focused ahead, her profile the only thing in sight—the long slope of her nose, black lashes, full lips pressed into a concerned line, color deepening in her cheeks with the chill, thick hair bunching up around a scarf that used to be Caroline’s.
“Everything was overwhelming,” I said finally. “You know, Finch and Caroline were at each other’s throats, and I guess I panicked after they started to fight. I just wanted everything to go smoothly. And I haven’t been sleeping much. I don’t know, I think it’s all catching up with me.”
Another squeeze. Amrita’s brow furrowed, but she didn’t push me any further.
I didn’t tell any of them what I’d seen. I was terrified of being the one that couldn’t take the heat, of fracturing us further and outlining all the thin places we could shatter. They were already so aware of my mannerisms that I had made it easy for them to know I was suffering. There would be no concealment of emotion—but I made a pact with myself. My demons would remain my own.
With Monday came the threat of Moody’s list.
Our first class after Survey felt like a funeral. Caroline stood as far away from Finch as she could get. The room tittered with awareness, everyone recalling the way Finch and Caroline had publicly negged each other and my untimely exit. Saz crossed and uncrossed her legs again and again as Moody settled onto her stool. I had another goddamn headache. It was hard to remember the last time I’d felt healthy. Something in the studio smelled metallic, like a coming nosebleed.
“To say I’m disappointed would be an understatement,” Moody started. “Rotham expects a certain respect for your peers, your predecessors, and yourself. Several of you”—she paused to give us a hard look—“disregarded these values.”
I slumped lower in my seat and hoped to dissolve into dust.
“However, the events of your Senior Survey have made it clear to me that the loss of Kolesnik had a greater toll on you than I had previously realized. I explained the recent tragedy to our panel of critics, and, luckily, they were very understanding. They were impressed by the caliber of your artwork, despite all interruptions.”
The paper in her hands was creased with months of reading. It was the same roster she’d greeted us with on day one.
Amrita touched my shoulder from her perch on the stool behind me. It was likely supposed to be a show of comfort, but I seized up beneath her hand, heartbeat roaring in my ears.
“We’ve narrowed down our Solo selection to the five students we believe to be most capable of presenting a unified body of work at the end of the semester. You’ve all worked incredibly hard and deserve to be recognized for it. But Rotham is a rigorous institute, and our Soloist’s revered position exemplifies dedication. The following five students have the chance to show en Solo .”
I folded my arms across my chest and pinned my hands beneath my armpits to stop their shaking. I inhaled until my chest began to ache.
“Caroline Aster,” Moody began. “Amrita Balakrishnan, Jodie Finchard, Mars Jackson, and Joanna Kozak.”
Silence settled over the room as Amrita’s hand on my shoulder squeezed hard enough to clutch bone. I heard her whisper something that sounded like shit, Jo. My ears rang, the skin there so hot I thought it might be wet.
The others made sense—but me ? I could hardly remember if the panel had even said anything good about my work. It was over the moment I locked eyes with the specter in Kolesnik’s seat.
And she didn’t say Saz’s name.
Cameron said, “Are you fucking serious?”
“Excuse me?” Moody asked, flushing pink.
“Aster and Finchard treat Solo like a dick-measuring contest, and Jo didn’t even hear her critique for more than five minutes before she had to leave. The only people on that list who deserve a Solo spot are Mars and Amrita.”
“Good thing they’re on the list and vying for a spot then, right, Mr. De Luca?” Moody said sharply. “As I said, our decisions were made based on merit and the quality of a painter’s work. Of course, critique is an important factor. But in a gallery setting, the work will speak for itself. We brought the same considerations into our evaluation.”
Cameron simmered with anger. The rest of the class sat in stunned silence.
If Moody were honest, she would admit that Rotham wanted a bloody showdown, wanted to pit us against each other and watch how we’d descend into madness. Because that had to be the answer. If merit was meant to carry me, I should have been dropped somewhere along the line. Every painter at Rotham knew that the best Solos were always the ones born out of chaos and competition. You got vicious, laudable work when you thought it was the only chance you’d ever get. And this was our only chance—one that had to be seized, wriggling and desperate.
We were supposed to put on a show. I would play the part of unsound augur facilitating my own end, and Caroline and Finch would tear each other apart. Mars was entirely capable and deserving of the spot, but I closed my eyes and prayed it would be Amrita. No one could ever stay mad at her, and her work was incredible. Besides, if Caroline and Finch had nothing left to hold over one another, what reason would they have to hate each other?
Moody tapped her pen against her palm. “On Thursday, we’ll take the train into Chicago to view the Art Institute’s Henry Fuseli exhibition. I want you to use this visit to consider the works that inspire you and to take notes on how you experience them in person. Regardless of the post-Survey decision, you are all expected to complete your thesis papers for submission at the end of spring semester.”
Cameron got up, his stool sliding with a hard grate as he headed for his studio. Moody released a long exhale through her nose. “Any questions? No? Good. I’ll be going around to have a chat with each of you. Meet me at the train station to take the eight o’clock to Chicago, bright and early.”
Caroline was gone by the time I turned toward the studios—I expected she had followed Cameron’s example and headed to her cubicle.
“I don’t understand what her problem is,” Finch sighed when I fell in step beside her. Amrita and Saz were already paces ahead of us, Amrita with a hand on Saz’s back, rubbing slow circles.
“Who?” I asked, distracted. I wanted them to wait up. I wanted to tell Saz I was sorry.
“Caroline,” Finch continued. “She got exactly what she wanted, and she’s still throwing a fit.”
“Well, she’s mad about the burn. You’d be upset if you were in her place.”
“Yeah, at one of them ,” Finch emphasized, gesturing loosely around the studios. “Never any of you. We wouldn’t do that to each other.”
The words warmed me. I was always so afraid that she didn’t feel the way about us that we felt about her. Or, at least, how I felt about her.
Saz stopped in the doorway of her studio ahead of us. Finch faltered when she noticed me slow down. “What’s up?”
“We should talk to Saz.”
Finch’s face fell, just a fraction. “She might want some space.”
I ignored that and said, “Go ahead. I’ll catch up.”
I could feel her eyes on me but waved her on again without meeting them. I didn’t want to have to address whatever I might find there. When she finally went on without me, I retraced my steps to Saz’s studio doorway.
She crouched in her studio, the contents of a tote bag emptied on the floor as she rummaged for something. Her skirt made a splayed circle across a pile of abandoned drawings.
“You should be on that list,” I said to her back, “not me.”
Saz paused with her hand around a lighter. She flicked it once, twice, and then thrust it back into her bag without looking at me. “None of that,” she said at last. “If anyone was going to be nominated, I’m glad it was you. You’re amazing, Jo, and you deserve your spot.”
“You know you’re equally incredible,” I answered, because I knew putting myself down would only make her angry.
“Well, you didn’t see my critique, did you?” Saz smiled. Her lashes were wet. She kept herself mostly angled away from me, but those tears in her eyes broke me up inside.
“I’m sorry, Saz,” I mumbled, another useless apology. Guilt was a mechanism built into my heart. I ran on shame.
“Shut up, no apologies. I’m happy for you, Jo, I’m just sad for me, too.”
She held her hand out. I took it, made a bridge out of us in that little room.
“I can talk to Moody,” I tried again. “I think she’s made a mistake. I can offer my spot, or maybe we can—maybe she’ll reevaluate, maybe—”
I saw the frustration rise in her face. “Seriously, drop it. I can’t—I can’t do all this right now. Thanks, but it’s too much.” Saz’s eyes were flat when her fingers squeezed mine and then slipped away. “Go. Moody will be making her rounds soon.”
I didn’t even try to find Caroline, too afraid of the barbs I might uncover. Obediently, I went to my studio. One of them had collected my paintings after Survey and stacked them in a pile on my desk. They waited there with the cornfield canvas still rolled up in the corner. The sight made my throat sting with emotion.
I’d spent so much time comparing myself to the rest of them. I didn’t know how to be proactive about my hope the way they always had, intentional about their desires and distinct in their dreams. Saz wanted a piece in the Tate Modern. What did I have to show for myself other than the prayer that my parents wouldn’t disown me for choosing a school whose scholarship barely covered my housing? I knew that we were alike in a million ways, but it was the ways we were different that made us quiet.
And painting was a necessity by now, same as drinking water or sleeping more than a few hours or choking down something sustaining. Still, those necessities had failed me plenty of times. Sleep eluded me, and I had a hard time keeping anything down unless it was bland and tasteless. Dark shapes blotted the corners of my vision. I couldn’t trust my own mind.
“You okay, Jo?”
Moody’s simple question was enough to summon grief in me. I had to shut my eyes against the constriction of my throat. When I blinked them open again, I found her waiting next to my easel, unwilling to sit. Her discomfort was apparent—I made her uneasy. I wondered if we shared the same sleeplessness. There were bags under her eyes, tension written in the lines of her face.
“I thought you’d be more excited,” Moody continued. “About the results of Survey.”
“Why me?”
Banal question. Thoughtless tongue, roguish mouth. I knew it sounded like I was ungrateful, but I meant what I asked. Why would they choose me after the way I collapsed? If I couldn’t trust myself to make it through Survey, how could I be expected to Solo?
Moody frowned. “Didn’t you come to Rotham to create artwork that could stand on its own? Did you expect to be beside it every time an audience experienced it, explaining your meaning and ensuring that no one would ever misunderstand what you’re trying to portray? That’s the nature of art, Jo. You make it, and then you lose control. Interpretation is beyond your boundaries. In some ways, it’s an awful idea to come to terms with, and in others, it’s remarkably freeing. You can keel over in the middle of a critique, and if the panel’s still enraptured when you’re gone, you’ve done something right. You did it right. You made them want more.”
I had to lean against my desk for stability. The edge of the table dug into the backs of my thighs. “More?” I murmured, wrapping my arms around my middle.
“Solo is important for a reason. Rotham creates an environment that pushes you beyond your limits. It’s meant to force you as far as you can go, to test your relationships with your peers and your work and your drive. The student that Solos shows us that they can sustain a life like the one Rotham has given you.”
“I don’t know if I’m that kind of student,” I said.
“Should I offer your spot to someone else?”
“No!” I rushed, shame slick in my mouth. No, of course not, but simultaneously yes— give it to Saz, give it to anyone but me, don’t let me be the one to bear it.
“You earned it,” Moody said, as if it didn’t shatter me, as if I could take it. “It’s an honor, Joanna, not a death sentence. The others will understand. It breaks them, for a bit. But down the line, those who don’t Solo make do without it. You’re all talented. But success takes a certain degree of risk that not everyone can accept.”
And I can? I wanted to ask, but the words that tumbled out of my mouth surprised us both. “How do you cope with it? How can you bear getting what you want when it could mean leaving the rest of them behind?”
“I wish this wasn’t the truth,” Moody started, faltering. “But this life is temporary, Joanna. Friends move on. Peers lose touch. Community is important, but competition is hard. There were Jean-Michel Basquiat and Andy Warhol, Sally Mann and Cy Twombly, Paul Gauguin and Vincent Van Gogh, Helen Frankenthaler and Grace Hartigan, Edgar Degas and édouard Manet. Friends, yes, but tragedies too. They were close but painfully critical, and many of them grew apart. Some people can’t take that kind of scrutiny.”
“We aren’t like that,” I said immediately. Make me better than I am, my heart begged simultaneously, reinvent me.
Moody’s face fell, full of pity. “You chose this practice, and you get the consequences that come along with it,” she responded softly. It wasn’t really an answer at all, but it was clear that it was all I was going to get as she turned to go. “We’ll discuss your thesis over the next few weeks as you prepare your Solo propositions. If you have any questions, you know where to find me.”
She was right, in most ways—I’d chosen Rotham for the ways it would force me to grow, not for companionship. But now that I’d found my women, I couldn’t imagine giving them up for anything else. Who was I as a Soloist, up there alone? They’d become the reason I wanted to paint anything at all.
I wanted someone wiser to tell me the answer. I thought that was why I came to Rotham in the first place—to be instructed and made anew. The only part of myself that I was certain about was my capability in loving them. The rest seemed inconsequential. Some part of me would always crawl toward the idea of “better.” I wanted to fucking rest.
And really, if I was honest with myself, the worst part was the comparison. I wanted to be the kind of girl who didn’t need sleep, who could survive on a coffee and a cigarette, who could paint until the automatic lights went off and fall asleep on the studio floor. But I was so tired. The corners of my life were crowded with phantoms.
What had we done the ritual for if the goal wasn’t mutual ascension? To be closer to greatness and to one another? To make the most of this fear and to transform it into something beautiful?