The Light of Paris(3)

Tamping down the longing that always emerged when I was talking about art, I shook my head. “I wanted to be a painter, but I just . . . I guess I just grew out of it.”

The truth was far too difficult to explain, especially to Miss Pine, with her heart big and warm enough for these kids and their self-conscious eyes, and the earnest chitter of her jewelry. This was the bargain I had made. I knew Phillip had married me partially because he had zero taste and I knew something about art, but I was only allowed to be in contact with it in the most clinical of ways, preferably ones that made him look good. I could visit dealers and haggle over paintings for his office, or for the condo, purchases based more on square footage and their power to impress and/or intimidate the person looking at them than on artistic merit. I could lead tours here, volunteer, but I couldn’t make art myself.

“Art isn’t something you grow out of just because you’re not a teenager anymore. It’s not like falling out of love with a teen idol.”

I clutched at my heart in fake horror. “Don’t even joke about that. Isn’t it your job to protect teenage dreams?”

“Not officially, but I suppose I do it anyway. See, if I’d been your teacher, you wouldn’t have given up painting.”

“Ah, but then who would do the glamorous job of introducing apathetic teenagers to the glories of Rembrandt?” I asked.

“I’m sure someone would step into the breach. Not that I’m mocking what you do. You’re a volunteer, right?”

“Right,” I said, though I wasn’t sure whether volunteering truly made what I did more impressive. The deal was, I worked for free and got to pretend I was altruistic and not just bored to tears with the Chicago Women’s Club and the achingly dull business events Phillip insisted I attend with him.

And leading tours brought its own kind of discomfort, the way it boxed me in as surely as any of those other duties. When I talked to tour groups, I spoke about technique, about chiaroscuro and proportion, about brushwork and craquelure with the confidence of a scholar, but I never spoke about the way art made me feel. I never spoke about how seeing a painting for the first time—really seeing it—is a wondrous thing. When I open my eyes to a painting, it is as though everything has changed and will never be the same again. Colors look more vivid, the lines and edges of objects sharper, and I fall in love with the world and all its beauty—the tragedies and love stories on the faces of people walking by, the shine of a wet sidewalk or the way the leaves offer their pale bellies to the wind before a storm. I want to weep for a broken eggshell below a bird’s nest, for its jagged edges and the bird inside freed to take flight.

When we finished the tour, Miss Pine let her students spin off where they wanted—to sketch, she told them sternly, not to the gift shop or the café. A few of them wandered back to the Renaissance rooms (I suppose Venus’ bare breasts had been rather too much to turn down after all); a few others lingered with the vibrant beauty of the Impressionists.

“Listen,” Miss Pine said, coming over and thrusting a postcard at me, the edges slightly soft and bent from her bag, “if you change your mind and want to get in touch with your inner teenager, I’m teaching a painting class this weekend at a new studio in Bucktown. It starts tonight. You should come.”

Staring down at the postcard as though it were the door to Narnia, I pictured it: a bright studio, the smell of paint and canvas, the weight of the brush resting against the curve underneath my thumb, both new and familiar.

“That’s very kind of you,” I said, slipping back into that smooth, emotionless voice that was my armor, “but I have plans.” My presence had been demanded at one of Phillip’s dinners that night, and the next day I was leaving to visit my mother. I didn’t want to do either of those things, would far rather have spent the weekend at that painting class, but my life was heavy with obligations and light on everything I wanted to do.

She shrugged. “Another time, then. My phone number is right there.” She pointed at the bottom of the card, and I saw a smudge of dried paint on the inside of her finger, a sight so familiar it confused me—was it her hand, or mine, a decade ago? “No pressure. Just fun.”

“Thank you,” I said, knowing I would never reach out to her. I knew it was better to keep that part of myself at bay, but to my surprise, that knowledge felt sharp and raw, as though it were new and not years old.

After Miss Pine and the students left, I ate a handful of cookies in the staff room, shoving them so quickly into my mouth that they scraped against my tongue, then gathered my things and went home. Sometimes I took the long way, in order to pass a string of galleries that always had something deliciously irreverent and exciting on display, but I had to meet Phillip. He was desperately trying to make a deal with a developer named Teddy Stockton, which meant I was doomed to making polite conversation with Teddy’s wife, Dimpy, and the other wives all night.

At home, I paused at the front door. Lately I had found myself in a strange, black moment of hope every night, a half wish that my husband would not come home.

I didn’t want anything bad to happen to him; I just wished he would go away. He could disappear through a wormhole, or a circle of standing stones. Or maybe one day he would simply decide he’d had enough and move to some Caribbean island without me. I’d wish him well, honestly. I’d pack up his things and send them down to him with a tube of sunscreen and my best wishes. It would be tidy and emotionless and no one would be to blame.