Many Points of Me

by Caroline Gertler

  Right. Our planning meeting at her house after school today. I nod and swallow, wanting to tell her that a mixed-up animal isn’t something I can share with the whole school.

  Mr. B dims the light to signal the start of class. “Today we’re going to continue to look at self-portraits, to figure out how to draw what you actually see. To notice specific details of facial features, such as shapes, lines, and spatial relationships. How do artists use their technical awareness to render themselves with authenticity?”

  A self-portrait by the seventeenth-century Dutch artist Rembrandt lights up the screen. The version at the Met, which reminds me of Dad, since we used to go see the painting together.

  “Rembrandt painted about forty self-portraits during his lifetime. He painted this one nine years before he died. He was fifty-four years old—what was considered an old man in those days.”

  My breath catches. Dad was fifty-four when he died, and everyone said how young he was.

  “Rembrandt suffered great sadness,” Mr. B continues. “He’d lost his wife, a child, his students. He was bankrupt. Yet he examines himself in the mirror and paints as he sees himself, with truth and sincerity. He doesn’t try to make himself look better than he was. That’s the Truth—the authenticity—I want you all to find. Seeing yourselves for who you really are and presenting that true self to the world.”

  What comes into my head is not who I really am, but the worst possible way to think of Dad: sick, a collapsed version of himself, in the hospital bed, tubes going in and out of his body. His hair had fallen out, brown and red spots speckled his skull. His skin was paper-thin, the veins like road maps in his hands.

  His hands, which had been strong enough to lift the wood frame of a stretcher and pull canvas tight across, stapling it to the wood. Hands that could make magic with pencil on paper, paintbrush on canvas. In the end those hands were so weak, they could barely hold mine. But he reached for me with those hands, wanting to pull me close. To hug me.

  The most awful part was that I was afraid to touch him. Afraid the cancer and drugs and radiation in his body were contagious, or that I’d knock an IV line out of his hand. Afraid of how different hugging him would be.

  If only I could go back—not just eight minutes, but months, years. If only I could’ve not been afraid.

  “Next time you’re at the Met, remember to visit this Rembrandt,” Mr. B says. “In person you can really notice how extraordinary the eyes are. The eye on the right is hazy, distorted, and the one on the left is in focus, looking at us directly. Why would Rembrandt have done that?”

  Mr. B waits. He’s not going to help us out here.

  As usual, Theo has an answer. “It shows us what he was feeling inside. He was old and having a hard time. But he was also strong and confident. Bold.”

  “Yes. For your own self-portraits, think about your eyes, what they can tell us about your feelings. It might not just be one thing—but two or more feelings. Maybe even conflicting feelings, like Rembrandt: full of loss, and yet still strong.”

  “What are my eyes saying?” Harper whispers to me, pulling me away from Mr. B’s ideas as she wiggles and crosses her eyes.

  I hold in a giggle, watching her cross and uncross her eyes. But then she stops, suddenly, and her eyes go really wide at something on the screen. And I know before I even turn to look, that it’s something about me. Because Luca Banks points and says “Georgia!”

  It’s not actually me—it’s him—the van Gogh self-portrait with a bandaged ear, blue fur trapper hat and all. The one I dressed up as for Halloween. I feel my cheeks burn hot and slap my hand over my eyes so I don’t have to see all the stares on me.

  But I hear my name Georgia Georgia Georgia in whispers and snorts of laughter around me until Mr. B, confused by the reaction, calls for quiet.

  I don’t even hear what he has to say about van Gogh—something about choice of color, prominent brushstrokes, a feeling of disconnection. All I hear is the words Harper whispers in my ear, “You were such a nerd!” I shake my head in protest, but inside, I silently agree.

  After what feels like hours, Mr. B finally turns to another image. Frida Kahlo, the great Mexican artist. Her thick, dark hair is piled on top of her head, her bushy eyebrows meet in the middle of her forehead, and she has the trace of a mustache.

  “Frida Kahlo made one hundred forty-three paintings in her life, and fifty-five of those are self-portraits. Do the math: that’s a large percentage of her work.” Mr. B scrolls through a few slides. One shows two images of her in the same painting. In another, she’s framed by a decorative pattern, including birds. Dad would’ve liked that one.

  “There’s a famous quote by Kahlo about why she paints herself: ‘I paint self-portraits because I am so often alone, because I am the person I know best.’”

  That confuses me, because I also feel like I’m often alone, but I don’t think I’m the person I know best. I don’t think I know myself at all.

  At the end of art class, I turn back to my half-drawn mixed-up animal.

  Maybe each part of that animal shows a different part of me: the unicorn horn is the artist-me; the blue-jay head is the daughter-of-Hank-me; the mermaid tail is the friend-of-Harper-me . . . and on and on.

  There are so many different versions of me:

  The “me” who is my mother’s daughter, who was my father’s daughter.

  The “me” who wants to follow in my father’s footsteps, but isn’t sure she can.

  The “me” who’s always been best friends with Theo but is pushing him away.

  And the new “me,” who’s becoming friends with Harper.

  But which one is my truth—the real me?

  The problem with the mixed-up animal is that it has nothing at the center. There’s no truth at its core—it’s just a jumble of different parts.

  Still, it could be the self-portrait that I hand in to Mr. B for my classwork.

  The one thing I do know is that it’s time for me to tell him I’m not entering NYC ART. I take a deep breath and wait near Mr. B’s desk until the room empties.

  “Hey.” I twist the straps of my backpack into a spiral.

  “How’re you doing, Georgia?” He looks up from the notes he’s making in his attendance book. “I heard some whispers of your name in class. Anything you want to talk about?”

  “Not about that,” I say, looking down, feeling the burn come back to my cheeks.

  “Okay,” he says, but he doesn’t sound convinced. “You know I’m here if you ever want to talk. How’s your self-portrait coming along?”

  “Actually,” I look up. The simple words rush off my tongue, “I don’t want to enter NYC ART.”

  “You don’t want to enter?” he repeats, like he’s trying to process the impossible.

  Disappointment weighs heavy in my stomach, like I’ve just eaten a slice of pizza too many. It would be so easy to take it back. To say that’s not what I meant. But I do mean it. I don’t want to enter this competition. Not with a self-portrait.

  I shake my head. He’s quiet, waiting for more of an explanation, but I can’t give one. So I bite the inside of my cheek and squeeze my hands together.

  “You still have time, if you change your mind. Take this weekend to think it over, and let’s check in next week. We can make a time to sit down and go over your ideas together.”

  I just shake my head again and turn to run out of the room. I don’t want his kindness. Not right now.

  Theo’s leaning against the wall outside the art studio, waiting for me to walk to science.

  “Long time, no see.” He brushes his fingers through his hair, which stands up higher than usual. And his glasses are clean—I can actually see his eyes. He smells different, too. Not like hummus and pretzels, but a soapy scent, like hair gel. “Krypto and I miss you. Lunch isn’t the same without you.”

  I shrug. “Neither is walking home alone. I guess you’ve been busy.”

  “Yeah, can’t wait until these s
ets are finished. Then I get home late and draw Theo-Dare panels. Still haven’t figured out which one I’m going to use for the final entry.”

  “I’m sure they’re all great.”

  “Want to come by later and see them? Help me choose?”

  “Not today. I’m busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  “You know, the Valentine’s Day cards with Harper.”

  “Oh, that.” Theo rolls his eyes—as if set design isn’t a waste of precious art-making time, but card design is. “What about your NYC ART entry? T-minus eleven until submission day. Is that what you and Mr. B were talking about?”

  “Sort of.”

  “So, what’s your plan?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “You don’t have a plan for the most important thing in our lives?”

  “Is it the most important thing in our lives?” As I question it, I already know my answer. An art competition is maybe one of the least important things in my life.

  Theo stops and tugs my backpack strap to stop me, too.

  “Excuse me, but are you in there, Georgia Rosenbloom?” He uses his deeper, stronger Theo-Dare voice. “Who’s replaced Super G with this person who doesn’t seem to care?”

  “I care—just, maybe about different things. I was actually telling Mr. B that I’m not going to enter.” I cross my arms over my chest. Challenging Theo to try to change my mind.

  “What? How could you not enter? That’s the craziest thing you ever said!”

  “I just don’t want to.”

  “But this was our plan. To win together. To have our work hang in the Met together. It won’t be the same for me if you’re not in it!”

  “Guess what—this isn’t about you. I’m just feeling like, NYC ART isn’t everything.”

  Theo winces, like I’ve hurt him with my words. He puts on his deepest Theo-Dare voice: “NYC ART is everything to Super G. Super G must enter!”

  “What about life, Theo? NYC ART is not real life.”

  “It is to me,” Theo says, in his hoarse, cracking regular voice. “And I thought it was to you, too.”

  “Well, it’s not. I have other things going on, and too bad if you don’t get it.”

  “You’re not acting like yourself these days, G. Come back to me when you’re ready.” He turns from the table we usually sit at for science and finds a seat across the room. Like he can’t get far enough away from me.

  Upsetting Theo feels like the itch of a mosquito bite I know I shouldn’t scratch. I have a twinge of guilt, but I can’t turn the clock back eight minutes and erase the conversation we just had.

  I think about Frida Kahlo saying she knows herself best. Why don’t I know myself best? Do most people feel like they do?

  I used to think Dad and Theo knew me best. Better than I knew myself.

  But I’m starting to think Theo doesn’t get me anymore. And if Dad were to see me now, I’m not even sure that he would still know me.

  It’s a relief when Dr. Anders rings the handbell on her desk for attention. She turns off the lights and tells us to close our eyes as she describes the moon. She tells us that while the light and heat that come from the sun make life on Earth possible, the moon is a dead world.

  “The moon has no atmosphere,” she says. “And the moon’s gravitational pull is much weaker than Earth’s. Imagine yourself on the moon. You’d weigh one-sixth of what you weigh on Earth. The moon is soundless, and the sky always appears black. So, everyone, stay quiet, eyes closed, and imagine yourselves weightless, leaping and bounding off the rocky surface of the moon, total silence, total darkness.”

  I want to be in that dark, soundless world, where there wouldn’t be different people’s voices pulling me in different directions. No choosing between Harper and Theo. Art and Life.

  On the moon the only voice I’d listen to is my own. Weightless and free.

  “Some of you might’ve heard of Eugene Cernan,” Dr. Anders says, breaking the mood.

  My eyes open. The lights are bright again, and everyone else’s eyes are already open. Startled, I make eye contact with Dr. Anders, who gives me a reassuring smile.

  An image is up on the whiteboard of an astronaut in a space suit standing on the moon next to an American flag. You can’t see his face under the shiny reflective face mask of his helmet, but you can imagine how he feels.

  “Eugene Cernan was the last astronaut to walk on the moon. When he died, not so long ago, he left behind a very strong legacy. Not just in his footprints, which will always remain on the moon’s surface. He also wrote his daughter’s initials in the lunar dust.”

  That makes me think how Dad left my image in his drawings.

  If Dad had been the last man to walk on the moon, he could’ve made his drawing of me in lunar dust.

  And if I were the first girl on the moon, I wonder what mark I’d leave.

  If any.

  Chapter

  Eleven

  The world seems distorted through the windows of Harper’s silver SUV on the way to her house after school on Friday. Like a painting by Bridget Riley, whose wavy lines ripple in an optical illusion. Dizzying.

  Which is how I feel—dizzy, like I’m playing the role of another girl, pretending to be me. The real me would’ve found Theo after school to make up with him. But instead, the girl I’m playing jumped into her new friend’s chauffeur-driven car for a meeting about designing Valentine’s Day cards.

  For now it’s just Harper and me. Chloe and Violet are joining after soccer practice.

  The car crosses through Central Park to the Upper East Side. It turns right on Fifth Avenue, left onto a side street, and pulls to a stop in front of a mansion. Literally. A large stone mansion with an iron fence and gates in front.

  Harper thanks her driver, who hops out to open the door for us.

  Maybe this isn’t her house. Maybe she lives in the apartment building next door. But Harper marches straight up to the security keypad on the gate and punches in a series of numbers. It clicks and swings open.

  “Wow,” I can’t help saying.

  “Yeah, in LA it was a lot less strange to have a super-huge house.” I follow Harper up the steps, through a set of wooden doors, followed by glass doors, into a soaring entryway. “I told my parents to get a regular apartment, but they couldn’t find anything big enough for five kids.”

  There is no smell of urine. No sound of crazy Shih Tzus barking. Instead, I get a whiff of citrus cleaning spray mixed with a pine-forest candle scent and fresh flowers on the console table. The house is pin-drop silent. I’m scared to breath too loud or walk across the marble floor with my dirty boots.

  A man in a suit sits at a desk in the entryway. He smiles and nods hello to us but gives me a look like he’s making sure I’m not a criminal trying to rob the place. It’s just like an adventure for Theo-Dare and Super G—the mansion in Theo’s latest story. Only G isn’t so super without Theo-Dare.

  “Hey,” Harper says. “This is my friend, Georgia.”

  The man gives me a nod of approval. “Welcome.” He’s no Mrs. Velandry.

  “Security. My parents are paranoid about living in the city,” Harper whispers to me as we pass through the foyer. I clench my jaw to keep myself from gawking at the art on the walls. I spot some of Dad’s favorite artists: El Anatsui, Sean Scully, Vija Celmins, and a huge painting by Mark Rothko. Blue, yellow, and orange forms of color floating on a canvas.

  Dad would’ve loved it here. He used to take me to museums and galleries around the city and to visit artist friends in their studios. He said art was his religion. “You can worship in front of a Rothko just as easily as in a temple.” He taught me how to be still, how to look.

  Harper barely glances at the Rothko she lives with every day.

  “You’ve seriously got a Rothko?”

  “Yup. My dad’s dad was an art collector. He bought a lot of these before they became famous. And now my parents collect, too. Pretty cool, I guess.”


  “Where’re my dad’s paintings?”

  “Oh, yeah. We should take the stairs. C’mon.”

  I follow her up the curving wide staircase. I catch a sliver of vibrant green as we get to the second floor.

  Charcoal on Green. One of Dad’s series of Bird paintings. An abstract image of a pigeon on the grass in Central Park.

  “Nice, right? I’m no expert, but this is one of my favorites. Mom loves how it picks up the green of the chairs.”

  That’s how most people buy art. They want something that fits their decoration. But Dad’s art is more than just decoration. The Bird series is about color and the experience of Central Park—the contrast between city life and nature. I can feel myself walking through the park with him, watching the pigeons peck around for food in the grass.

  I want to go up to the painting, to run my fingers along the visible brushstrokes. Sometimes Dad even used his fingers or a nail to get a stroke just right. If I focus hard enough, I can hear him humming as he worked.

  “Let’s go to my room.” Harper brings me back to the present.

  I’d prefer to be alone forever with this painting.

  But she wouldn’t get it.

  “What about his other painting? My mom also said you have Bird in the Tree?”

  “Bird—what?” Harper frowns, unsure. “Um, I don’t know. We’ll have to ask my mom.”

  We walk up a few more flights of stairs and I keep my eyes peeled, but I don’t see any asterisms. It’s not the kind of painting you can miss. On the fourth floor, we step into a huge den area with a wall of desks and bookshelves. A boy younger than us sits at one of the desks, headphones on, hooked up to a computer.

  “My brother,” Harper says. “Ignore him.”

  One of the doors opens into Harper’s room. All white walls and light wood furniture. No clutter or traces of toys, like the LEGO sets on my bookshelves. There’s a framed print that looks like a Matisse paper collage and a few shelves filled with books.

  Photographs fight for space on the bulletin board above her desk, but they’re sophisticated and cool, not like my childish, out-of-focus Polaroids: smiling, tanned Harper on the beach in a bikini, surrounded by other smiling, tanned bikini girls, hair bleached by the sun. I can’t picture myself fitting into the never-ending party that her life seems to be in these photos.