Chapter 17
Unfinished Interview – The Maw?
One of the things I’ve learned in life is that when you live with the woman you love, routine isn’t just boring – it’s destructive.
That’s why I always tried to find new things that would bring freshness into our shared life.
For example, the subject of Lily’s health, which had consumed us at the beginning, was fading into the background.
What began to dominate our communication more and more was my suggestion that she study painting in a structured way.
“Stop it!” she would say every time I brought it up.
“Get off my back. I’m a big girl, and I’ve decided I don’t want to study painting. I made a decision, and that’s that!” One time, she was so angry she actually slammed the bedroom door behind her, leaving me stunned. I knew that wasn’t going to be our night together.
“What’s the harm in trying?” I nagged from the other side of the door.
“Enough! We’ve already discussed this. You know nobody would accept me. I’m too old. I have nothing new to contribute, and I have no desire to be a student again. High school and university were enough for me. I want to be free and do what I want. You know me!”
“You? Too old? Maybe you’re just afraid of failing! Since when are you like everyone else? You’re special!” I tried to soften her resistance, but it didn’t help.
“Yes, you’re right. I’m like everyone else. Leave me alone!” She shut down my words, and I decided to back off. I didn’t want to anger her too much. I sat down on the floor outside the door and waited. She didn’t budge.
“But everyone who’s seen your work has loved it,” I broke the silence.
“At least they reacted…”
“Who saw it? Your friends? You know they don’t understand painting. My family? Enough, enough, enough. I don’t want to talk about it.” I stayed quiet. I knew she wouldn’t hold out forever.
“They – your friends – proved they don’t understand painting at all.” I realized she must also be sitting on the other side of the door.
“What? What do you mean?” Without realizing it, I had set her up perfectly.
“Didn’t you see how they stared at your idiotic painting and completely ignored my latest one?” she finished, ending the discussion.
A few days earlier, we had argued about art and taste. I claimed people could recognize real art even without knowledge or formal training. Lily disagreed.
“I have an idea!” I suddenly exclaimed. She looked at me, puzzled.
“I’ll paint something on one of your canvases and hang it in the apartment. Let’s see if anyone notices.” I teased.
We bet on it – as always, the prize was a big hug and then some.
I found a blank canvas in her studio, 30x40 centimeters, and smeared random colors on it in the shape of a gaping mouth. We both laughed at the ridiculous result, which I named “The Maw,” and hung it in the bathroom, figuring that was the most appropriate spot.
“I bet you they won’t even notice it,” I told her when friends came over that evening.
“Wanna bet? I’m sure they’ll notice – and they’ll pay more attention to your silly painting than to any of mine.”
That Friday night, we both lost out. I was wrong, big time. Everyone who came back from the bathroom commented on the glaring new addition: the mess of smeared colors on canvas. The smell of fresh paint was still strong, too. It was impossible not to react, especially in the apartment of a painter.
“Big deal,” I said afterward.
“Everyone goes to the bathroom.”
I didn’t expect what happened the night after our fight.
When we went to bed, Lily was reading the paper and saw that the Avni Art Institute, known as Avni, was inviting candidates for entrance exams. She announced she was going to apply.
I couldn’t believe my ears. To my surprise, it seemed she had relented.
I decided to play it cool, as if it was only natural.
That night, we got a lot more than just a “good night” hug.
When I came back from duty, her studio was a mess.
She looked lost and told me she was trying to gather works according to the school’s requirements and was struggling.
“You’ve got ‘Ma’alot,’ ‘Faces,’ and two abstracts on the wall – the lyrical one and the expressive one,” I boasted, proud that I had learned the terminology.
“I agree about the lyrical, but the other one … I’m not sure.”
“It’s wonderful,” I insisted.
“You’re just flattering me.” I knew nothing about painting, but I loved the composition and the colors.
“When’s your interview?” I asked.
“Wednesday evening.” I promised to leave work early and help her with all the logistics so she wouldn’t strain herself.
On the day of the interview, Lily was tense all morning.
I came back before five so that we’d have enough time.
Packing the canvases on the roof rack of my father’s Ford took longer than expected, so we arrived at the last minute.
I dropped her off next to the art institute, left the paintings against the wall, and begged her to wait for me until I found parking.
I didn’t want her to carry them upstairs alone.
When I got back, she and the paintings were gone.
I ran up to the second floor. She was chatting with another candidate, younger than her.
“This is Rafi,” she said with a smile. He explained that he had helped her bring the paintings up. We waited in a small room. Rafi sat across from us with his portfolio. He glanced at her painting and said: “This reminds me of the Ma’alot massacre.”
“You’re right. That’s actually its title,” she replied, smiling. He was captivated.
“Unbelievable how you convey the message. Where did you study?”
“I didn’t.”
“No way.” He shook his head.
“Fact,” she answered. Their conversation was cut short when he was called in. Twenty minutes later, he came out, expressionless, wished us luck, and left.
“Good luck!” I told Lily.
“Thanks.” Her voice was tight with nerves. She carried the canvases in herself, one by one. I sat alone in the waiting area, nerves jangling. Less than ten minutes later, she returned pale and exhausted.
“What happened?” I asked anxiously.
“He didn’t like three of the paintings. And he said the expressive abstract isn’t finished. See? I told you.”
“Calm down. What did he say exactly?”
“I told you! He said the expressive abstract isn’t finished. Do you understand?” Her voice rose, tears welling in her eyes.
“Who said that?” I hugged her.
“Strichman,” she whispered with reverence, naming one of the country’s most famous artists. I had never heard of him, but at that moment, I hated him.
“He’s not going to stand in her way,” I told myself.
“What does that even mean – an unfinished abstract?”
“That’s what he said,” she repeated impatiently. “And you know what?”
“What?”
“On second thought, he’s right.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “It really isn’t finished. I told you before I wasn’t sure about it.”
I collapsed into a rickety chair that nearly broke under me. “Unfinished abstract?!” I muttered. “Someone’s gone insane.” I realized I had a lot to learn about art.
“What do you need to do?” I asked, feeling like I was the one being tested.
“Don’t get so worked up. He barely looked at the other three. He focused on the abstract, held it in his hands despite its size, and said it wasn’t finished.”
“And you agree with that crazy statement?”
“Yes! Yes! It’s not finished. He told me to finish it and bring it back next week.” I couldn’t believe my ears. Either I didn’t understand art at all – or I really, really didn’t understand art.
Back home, she asked me to put the “unfinished” painting on the easel in her studio.
“I want to look at it constantly, until I know how to finish it.” I didn’t understand, but I was glad she wasn’t giving up. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. At her request, I hung the other three paintings back on the wall and left the “unfinished” one on the easel.
“Well?” I asked the next evening.
“Well what?”
“Did you finish the ‘unfinished’?” I teased.
“Not yet,” she replied, and we both laughed. The question kept coming up until the day I left for work, and then she said she had an idea. That evening, she announced she had finished it. I rushed into the studio and studied it from every angle. I didn’t see a single change.
“What did you do? I don’t see any difference.”
“Look, I added this line,” she said, pointing to a diagonal green line cutting across the canvas.
“That’s it?” I asked, stunned.
“Yes. It improves the composition, balances it. Now it’s finished. You’ll see.” What could I say? I was embarrassed twice – once for not noticing the change, and again for not understanding how a single line could alter the fate of her career.
“Are you happy?” I asked the next morning as we drove to the Avni Institute.
“I think so. But I want him to be happy,” she stressed, meaning Strichman. Traffic was much heavier this week.
“Wait here,” she said as I stopped in front of the building. She disappeared inside with the canvas while I waited double-parked, my hazards flashing, with horns blaring behind me. Fifteen minutes later she returned, glowing.
“Well?” I asked.
“Well what?”
“What what?”
“Fourth year,” she said calmly.
“What does that mean? Is that code for something?”
“It means he accepted me directly into the fourth year at Avni!”
“You’re kidding.” She shook her head, bursting with excitement, and told me the whole story: Strichman had examined her painting so intently she thought it might catch fire.
Then he said, “I have nothing to teach you. The painting is perfectly finished.” He praised her endlessly and told her to enroll straight into the final year.
The honking outside didn’t matter anymore.
“I told you – you’re not only wonderful, you’re talented too.” I still didn’t understand how one diagonal green line could change everything, but it didn’t matter.
“Let’s celebrate,” she said, cheeks flushed.
“There’s an opening at Gordon Gallery tonight. Let’s go!”
“With you, I’m game for everything,” I replied, shifting into first gear.
“You know classes start in a few days?”
“When you start art school, I’ll start officer’s school.” Her Avni interview happened just days before I was due to begin officer training. From Avni we went straight to Gordon Gallery for Elliot Crane’s exhibition opening. That night, a wonderful friendship began between Elliot and Lily.