Field Notes on Love(5)

“He’s trying to say that art is subjective,” says Pop, who has appeared in the doorway, still wearing his suit and tie from the gallery. “Just because they didn’t love your film doesn’t mean it’s not great. And just because they had a different opinion about it doesn’t mean you have to change yours.”

“Actually,” Dad says with a grin, “I was gonna say the thing about jackasses. But his was better.”

Pop shakes his head, but he’s still looking at Mae. “You were really proud of that film,” he says with a smile. “I guess I don’t see why that has to be any different now.”

    She glances back at her computer. “Garrett’s always saying—”

They both let out strangled groans.

“Garrett,” Dad says, rolling his eyes so hard that Mae worries they might get stuck like that. She knows he’s mostly teasing; they act the same with any boy she brings home. But Garrett’s flashy red car and swanky Park Avenue address haven’t helped matters.

Pop pushes off the doorframe and walks over to sit beside Dad on the bed, their shoulders touching. “Hasn’t he gone back to the city yet?”

Mae had met Garrett at the start of summer, when they were the only two people at an art house screening of Cinema Paradiso. She’d seen it a million times, of course; it was her grandmother’s favorite. And though it was a bit sappy for Mae’s taste, Nana was in the hospital at the time, and something about sitting in the darkened theater and watching the flickering screen felt almost reverential, the closest thing she had to a prayer.

Afterward, she discovered Garrett waiting for her in the lobby, as if they’d planned to meet there. With his square jaw and blond hair, he looked like he should be anywhere else on a Saturday night: at a party or a baseball game or possibly even a movie premiere. Instead he was holding a half-empty bucket of popcorn in the crook of one arm, and he lifted his eyebrows expectantly. “So? What did you think?”

Caught off guard, Mae studied him for a moment, then shrugged. “Brilliant, if overly sentimental.”

“Right,” Garrett said, looking thoughtful, “except the sentimentality is intentional. Which is why I think it works.”

“Even well-intentioned nostalgia can be saccharine.”

    “Only if it’s manipulative,” he argued, “which it’s not in this case.”

Mae squinted at him. “What are you, a film critic or something?”

“Aspiring,” he said matter-of-factly. “What are you, an expert in Italian cinema?”

“Aspiring,” she said with a grin.

Later, after several cups of coffee, they still hadn’t come to an agreement about the film, but they had managed to get into a heated argument about their favorite directors—Wes Anderson for her, Danny Boyle for him—and at least ten other film-related topics. Mae was in the middle of a rant about the lack of female directors when he leaned over to kiss her. Surprised, she pulled away, made a final point about how the statistics are even worse when it comes to women of color, and then kissed him right back.

It was never something that was meant to last, and that suited Mae just fine. Garrett lived in the city and was just at his family’s sprawling farmhouse for a couple of months before heading off to Paris, where he planned to study French cinema at the Sorbonne.

“In French,” he said that first night, and she knew then that he was all wrong for her. But his smile was dazzling and his hair was tousled just right and his taste in films was so ridiculously nostalgic that she was already looking forward to spending the next six weeks arguing with him. Which is pretty much what they did.

“You just like him because he’s cute,” Dad says. “But he has the personality of a croissant.”

Mae tilts her head to one side. “Do croissants have bad personalities?”

“I don’t know. I was just trying to think of something needlessly fancy.”

    “How can a piece of dough be—”

“You know what I mean,” Dad says, rolling his eyes. “So what did he say?”

“The croissant?”

“No, Garrett.”

“He says it’s impossible to make a great piece of art if you haven’t really lived.”

Dad snorts. “And I suppose he’s really lived?”

“Well, he’s been all over the place. And he grew up in the city. Plus, he’s going to the Sorbonne next year.”

“Trust me,” Dad says, “there are as many idiots there as everywhere else in the world.”

“Look, he’s not totally wrong,” Pop says more gently. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned after twelve years at the gallery, it’s that sometimes art isn’t a matter of skill or technique. Sometimes it is about experience. So maybe you’ve got some more living to do. But that’s the case with everyone, whether you’ve grown up in a big city or a small town, whether you’re going to school in Paris or not.”

Mae nods. “I know that. It’s just…”

“It’s hard,” Pop says with a shrug. “It is. But the hurt and rejection and disappointment? It’ll help you grow as an artist. And it’ll all be worth it when you finally get it right. You know that as well as I do.” He nods in the direction of her computer and gives her a small smile. “So what do you say? One more screening for old times’ sake?”