In the Shadows of Freedom

by C

  “I travel pretty light. But I had some art supplies shipped here. I hope that was okay. Did you happen to get them?”

  “Oh … yeah. Let me find that.” Nikki went to the corner of the bedroom and picked up a cardboard box. She peered at the return address in the corner. “Fort Christopher? That’s where you live?”

  “Where I used to live.”

  “Huh. Where the heck is that?”

  “It’s upstate … in the Adirondacks.”

  “Sounds familiar.”

  Amanda cocked her head. “It does? Not many people have heard of it. It’s pretty small. The only thing of note is Valor Academy, and that’s about an hour’s drive away.”

  Nikki’s stomach churned. “That must be what I’m thinking of. Did you go to Valor?”

  “Yeah.”

  Nikki waited, hoping for some elaboration. Amanda surely must know Nikki’s allegiance: she had to have seen the NCP stickers everywhere. Nikki decided to probe her for more information. “What did you think of it?”

  “I liked the art program. That was about it.”

  “I hear there are a lot of religious activists and protesters up there.” Nikki tried to keep her voice neutral.

  Amanda’s face darkened, and she crossed her arms. “I wouldn’t know. Or care. That’s not my thing. I’m glad I’m not there anymore.”

  “Well, if that’s the case, welcome to NYC! You’ll be happy here.” Nikki grinned. Maybe Amanda Burrow would be a good roommate after all. She would require some work, but she had potential.

  Amanda opened the box and began checking her supplies. Nikki glanced at her from the corner of her eye. Amanda seemed really quiet, though. Maybe too quiet … it was unsettling. But that could change as she loosened up and felt more comfortable.

  Nikki walked toward the doorway. “Hate to take off so soon, but I’ve got to run for a meeting. The extra key to the apartment is by the coffeepot. You have my number, right? Just give me a ring if you need anything.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” Amanda gave a timid, close-lipped smile. On the heels of that success, Nikki grabbed her photos from the kitchen counter and left.

  ~~~

  Amanda sank onto the bed, more exhausted from the conversation than from all her traveling. She loathed introductions: they exacerbated her normal social awkwardness. She never knew the right thing to say. Now that it was thankfully over, she would replay everything in her mind and see how badly she had done.

  She untied her worn sneakers and pulled them off. What had Nikki thought of her? She couldn’t have been impressed. Nikki personified glamour. The taupe-colored dress that hung long and loose on her tall frame, the numerous piercings in her nose and ears, her gel-styled hair that was sleek and sophisticated … Amanda couldn’t be more of a contrast.

  But she liked Nikki and her welcoming, bright personality. Maybe they could become friends. It would be nice not to be so alone.

  Amanda unpacked her few possessions. There was only one of value: a small painting carefully covered and tucked safely inside her book bag. Brown wrapping paper covered all of her creations—she never showed them to anyone, not even to her dad or Chiara. This rule applied most of all to the particular work now before her: one of her earliest paintings and, more importantly, her favorite. She hid the masked image under the bed.

  Her inspiration piqued, she unpacked her brushes and oils, wanting to capture this moment. This was a turning point: she needed to mark it through art—the only way she could express herself anymore. The strokes of the brush were the beats of her heart, her life story; the varying colors were the dimensions of her personality. Her personal art was her diary in image form.

  She opened the tiny window in the living room. She was used to the pungent scent of her painting medium, but Nikki probably was not. She set her wooden palette on the cardboard shipping box, and on the other side, she placed her tackle box, which held her tubes of oil paints. Thus situated, she began.

  As soon as her brush touched the canvas, she lost herself in the realm of thoughts and dreams. Even the noises from outside—traffic, shouts, blaring hip-hop music—failed to disturb her. She relished the first few strokes, the colors dashing across the expanse of the white gessoed board—the start of a new creation. Time escaped her as she delved into the deep space where she kept her most private self locked away.

  The hours passed, but she continued her work. That was her one definitive rule when it came to her creations: leave nothing unfinished. For her, an incomplete painting felt like a story with no final chapter or a song with a missing coda. She just couldn’t put a piece of herself in her work and walk away from it undone.

  The sun slipped past the tall frames of buildings and then finally set. Sighing with contentment, Amanda put down her brush and, stepping back and stretching, surveyed the result, the transformation from tabula rasa to accomplished picture having been fulfilled.

  The painting was, naturally, of a city. Yet the buildings in her painting began as trees, a complete garden of them. As they stretched upward, their wood trunks gradually became steel, transforming themselves into looming skyscrapers. On the ground, wandering amid the roots, stood amorphous gray shadows of people, uniform in their anonymity. In the forefront of the picture loomed an imposing figure of a person—dark and mysterious. A sole billboard displayed the only object of color in the painting: a glistening crimson apple.

  The piece was an enigma to her, which didn’t surprise her. Following an inner impulse when painting, she often couldn’t understand her own creations. She stretched and yawned. Tomorrow would be her first class at the Graduate Academy and she wanted to meet the day refreshed. After cleaning up her art supplies and rinsing her brushes, she crawled into bed and closed her eyes. Maybe it was the unfamiliar bed or the curious figure from her painting or the screams of the bombing victims that still filled her head in the stillness—whatever the reason, she couldn’t ignore the foreboding heaviness that filtered through her restless dreams.

  Chapter Three

  First Day

  “Hey! Come on over and have yourself a nutritious breakfast. You can’t skip the most important meal of the day!”

  Amanda jumped at the sound of Nikki’s voice. She had just gotten ready (with uncommon alacrity) and, leaving the bedroom, found Nikki perched on one of the stools by the counter in the kitchenette. Nikki patted the stool next to her and waved Amanda over.

  Normally, Amanda would have chugged a glass of orange juice and grabbed a banana. But, not wanting to be rude to her new roommate, she decided to take a seat beside Nikki. She had a few extra minutes until she had to leave for the Masters Academy anyway.

  Nikki slid a box of cereal in front of her. “I also have the cocoa kind that turns your milk all chocolatey, if you want that instead.”

  “Thanks, but this is fine. I didn’t think you would be up so early. Didn’t you get back pretty late last night?”

  Nikki looked up at the ceiling, squinting her eyes. “About 5:00 a.m. So … around two hours ago.”

  Even after rolling out of bed and lounging in a lime-green bathrobe, Nikki looked like she belonged on the cover of a fashion magazine.

  “That must have been quite the meeting.”

  “It wasn’t just the meeting. A bunch of us hung out afterward and got some food and drinks. I completely lost track of time. Happens like that when I’m around them. Sorry for leaving you alone for so long on your first day here! That’s a big roommate fail.”

  “It’s okay. I’m used to being alone.”

  “So … you excited? Big day for you, right? The first day at the Graduate Academy.” She spoke in an exaggerated, fake British accent.

  “Actually … yeah, I am excited.”

  “Word on the street is that they have some cool exhibits on display. My friends and I were just talking about that last night.”

  “Oh. Did you go to the Masters Academy of Art too?”

  “Me?” Nikki laughed dryly. “No. I didn’t make
the cut. Not all of us are that smart. But I don’t need a Masters Academy anyway. It’s all about connections and knowing the right people. Ask any artist and they’d tell you that.”

  “You mean a degree doesn’t actually mean that much?”

  “Eh. It’s impressive, obviously. I mean, how could it not be? Only one hundred students across the country get accepted into that art program! But it’s not the be-all and end-all of everything. You’ve got to get out there: meet the people, get your art into the venues, learn techniques from the up-and-coming artists. People care about what you can do … and who you know. Sometime you’ll have to come around and meet my friends.”

  “Yeah.” Amanda swirled the cereal around in the bowl, her appetite gone.

  “Okay!” Nikki stood up and cleared away Amanda’s bowl. Grabbing Amanda’s hands, she pulled her up, handed Amanda her bookbag, and then steered her toward the door. “Time for school, young lady! You can’t be late on your first day. I’ve got to be honest—your outfit leaves much to be desired. Seriously, you’re making first impressions today. But I’ll let it go for now. We’ll discuss that later.”

  Amanda cringed: she could hardly wait. She waved goodbye to Nikki and began the trek to the subway. It was a lengthy ride into Manhattan, but she didn’t mind. She had waited, worked, and hoped for this day for years, and the immensity of the occasion gave an air of grandeur even to her long commute in a jam-packed subway car.

  Arriving in Manhattan, she exited the dark, stuffy subway station and walked up the stairs to the street. She waited at the crosswalk, where a nearby street vendor, shouting and cajoling, peddled some sunglasses—“Twenty-five percent off, today only!” Bright billboards stood out among the grays and silvers of gargantuan steel buildings. A man walking in the crowd in front of her spoke into his cell phone in a language she didn’t recognize. She turned the corner and caught the aroma of bagels, hot out of the oven.

  Her pace quickened and her stomach fluttered with anticipation. There, straight ahead, stood the large building that was her new art school. Her art school: she belonged here. She bounded up the steps and presented her acceptance letter to the doorman, who opened the entryway for her. She found herself in an open foyer with hallways branching in different directions. Art exhibits filled the space. Following Nikki’s suggestion, she started to investigate them.

  First, she viewed “The Devil’s Playground” and then “Genetic Gems.” She ambled from display to display, observing the technique and medium. But one series in particular captured her attention.

  The title of the display was “Passions.” She cocked her head, trying to make sense of it. All the paintings looked identical, save their varying colors. They lacked a clear image, any symbolism, or a definable shape; they were just erratic color. Did the artist take a can of paint, throw it on the canvas, and walk away? Paint-by-number seemed like the simplest way to paint, but this might beat even that. Repulsion, as opposed to admiration, filled her.

  “What do you think?” A girl stood next to her. She had long, greasy black hair, and her eyes stared at Amanda from behind thick glasses.

  “It’s … different … I guess.”

  “Care to elaborate?”

  “I guess I just don’t understand nonrepresentational art, that’s all.”

  “Do you have any idea the technique this requires?”

  Amanda shook her head no.

  “That’s what makes it so challenging, obviously. The artist has to create her painting in a way that gives the impression that it was simple, casual. The ordinary observer can’t even grasp the effort and honed skills necessary to accomplish this. This is the final capstone project for the graduating students, the culmination of all their studies. We work our whole career here to be able to accomplish something of this caliber.” She peered at Amanda. “Is this your first day here or something?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good luck. Looks like you have a lot to learn.” Without waiting for Amanda’s response, she spun on her heel and strode down the hallway.

  Amanda glanced back at the art exhibit, biting her lip. To think that all of her studies here would culminate in this … there had to be some mistake. Maybe it depended what professor you had your final year.

  She took a deep breath and checked her class schedule. It was time to go to Studio Painting I. Actually, it was past time. She rushed down the hallway, but it was the wrong one and she had to turn around. She scanned the room numbers, gritting her teeth. This was exactly what she’d wanted to avoid.

  Opening the door, she slipped inside. A stout man with some wisps of gray hair on the top of his head stood in front of the room. “Okay, everyone! Welcome to the painting studio. My name’s Michael. Let’s begin with a few preliminaries …” Glancing up, he spotted Amanda. “Go ahead and take a seat.” He pointed to an empty easel on the far side of the room. “Next time, I expect everyone to be punctual.”

  The eyes of the whole class fell upon her. Her cheeks burned, and she scurried over to the empty easel. The girl she had just spoken to by the art display—the condescending one—happened to be standing at the easel next to her. Perfect.

  Michael paced back and forth. “So, as I was saying, next class we’ll talk about the syllabus and the schedule for projects, along with the supply list. But for now, let’s hit the ground running. I want you to do an impromptu ninety-minute sketch of this large sports drink bottle.” He gestured to the plastic bottle he had set up as a still life, with a bottle next to each easel. “I realize not everyone brought their materials today, so I have some Nitram charcoal you may use, and as you see, there is already some paper taped onto your drawing board on each easel. Remember: you have ninety minutes, not a second more, so get to work!”

  Amanda smiled to herself. This wasn’t the most inspirational of tasks, but she could do it with ease. She would show them how much she belonged here. She had earned her seat in this studio.

  She focused her mind and efforts on the yet inchoate image. She paused every few minutes to gaze at the bottle, double-checking her proportions. She made some initial markings on the paper and then squinted, getting a good sense of the values and contrast. Then she picked up her charcoal and began sketching with intense focus, using the side of the stick to block in the dark values first.

  Over the years, she had perfected her art skills, honing them through disciplined tasks just like this. Amanda would ask Chiara to pick an object in the house for her to sketch, and then she would get to work, challenging herself each time to make it more and more realistic—she was a perfectionist. It was a game to her, and eventually, Chiara lost interest because she could find nothing Amanda was not able to sketch. She always sought to create another reality, an extension of the present existence, seemingly as authentic as this one.

  Once she succeeded in capturing this world on canvas, then she began to venture into her inner world of thoughts, sensations, questions, feelings. But that way of painting was usually unpredictable and always very personal—those were the paintings she covered and masked.

  “Charcoal down!” Michael looked up from his watch.

  The students put down their charcoal. Amanda had finished five minutes ago. She sat on the edge of her stool, ready to go. Her discerning eye looked over her sketch once more: a model representation with all the right dimensions, shades, and textures. She dared anyone to produce something more realistic than hers.

  “Now this is how we’re going to do it.” Michael rubbed his hands together. “Starting on this side of the semicircle, I want you to stand up, tell us your name, and turn your easel around so everyone can see your work.”

  Michael began at the other end of the circle, farthest from Amanda. The first girl stood up and revealed a cartoon bottle, its outline grossly exaggerated and stylized.

  Nodding, Michael said, “Nice! Very, very nice! Great contrast in this one.”

  Amanda furrowed her brow.

  The next student had drawn his sketch from
an entirely different perspective, as though the viewer were inside the bottle looking out at the class.

  “Brilliant! I love it!” Michael even stepped closer to study the image.

  The creativity only increased with each following sketch, causing Amanda’s pulse to quicken. Had she missed something? What had Michael’s original directions been again? She glanced at her sketch, a perfect representation … yet so bland when compared to the others thus far. She massaged her temples: a headache was coming on.

  The girl next to her was up. “I’m Leila, and I created my image as though I were one with the liquid inside the bottle.”

  Bold, wavy lines and ripples of haphazard bubbles filled her drawing. Her work prompted audible exclamations of praise from some students.

  “Wow. Just wow. Great work!” Michael shook his head, eyes fixed on Leila’s piece.

  Leila smirked. Then, tossing her slick hair behind her shoulder, she looked at Amanda.

  “And last but not least, you!” Michael walked in front of Amanda.

  Her stomach churned. … That’s all she needed right now: to vomit on the professor. Twelve pairs of eyes stared at her. She swallowed and stood, trying to hide her trembling hands. She turned her easel around. A long, painful silence ensued.

  “Now that’s original.” Leila snickered under her breath.

  Michael cleared his throat. “Okay, thanks.” He almost reached the front of the classroom, but then turned back around. “You didn’t tell us your name.”

  She had already sat back down, defeated, on her stool. “Amanda.”

  “Alright, thanks. So that’s it for today. Next class we’ll be discussing the semester project. For now, just finish up any final details on your sketch.”

  Everyone filed out of the room, chattering in groups, but Amanda lagged behind. She couldn’t understand. How was it possible that here, at an art school, she might not belong? Art was the one thing—the only thing—she was ever good at. But somehow it failed to meet the standard today.