Page 72 of Selling Innocence

Was that the problem? Was I trying to please others with my art?

“Do you know why I took you on as a mentee?”

I frowned as I thought back to when I’d first arrived, when after one of my first classes, he’d approached me about becoming my student advisor. The college usually assigned those automatically, and my first had been an old man who had scowled and hardly said a word to me. I’d jumped at the chance to have someone like Grisham help me, instead. “No,” I admitted. “It seemed like such a great chance that I didn’t want to risk asking why.”

He chuckled, then took a hard butterscotch candy from the jar on his desk and handed it to me, as he often did when I looked stressed or upset. “I’m tenured here, and I don’t teach many classes anymore, so I don’t serve as a student advisor unless I volunteer. I saw the painting you did for your entry piece, the one of that woman with dark hair.”

My mother. I remembered painting that, how many nights I had stayed up late, each brushstroke as freeing as it had been painful. I’d almost not turned it in, fearful that putting my mother’s image out there could be dangerous, but in the end?

I couldn’t ignore that the piece mattered to me.

“Often people forget the purpose of art. It’s to make the audience feel something. It’s manipulative in a way, but so much more honest than most of our lives are. We create things to force others to experience what we want them to. Unfortunately, artists forget this. They think it’s about widespread acclaim or sales or fame. They get stuck because they stop trying to make people feel something first and foremost.”

“But Professor Callos always talks about audience, about trends, about how to create something that people want.” I recalled the long, boring lectures where I’d jotted down notes as Callos had turned art into a marketing class, sucking the life out of my passion.

“Professor Callos isn’t an artist. He’s no different than someone who pours concrete driveways for a living. Creating something doesn’t make a person an artist. When I saw that painting you did, I knew you had what it took to be an artist, a real one. You had the passion and ability to create things that made people feel. I always go to the opening exhibit to see the work from the incoming students, but in the past, I just walked by before leaving, never even pausing to look at something more than a second or two. When I saw your painting, though? I stood there until they told me I had to leave, that they wanted to lock up.” He chuckled, the sound warm, as though the memory were a cherished one.

“Why, though? I mean, I worked hard on it, but it’s hardly my best work. I’ve learned so much since then, have made things more realistic, more detailed, more impressive. What was different about that one?”

“You felt as you painted that. When creating something, if you feel nothing, the audience won’t, either. I could feel your pain from the brush strokes, the shorter ones used around the eyes to show your hesitation there, the spots near the bottom that are discolored—probably from when you cried and your tears landed on the canvas. You let yourself experience pain when you made that, and that pain translated through the image to me. I wanted to know you better, to understand what you’d suffered so you could portray such pain.”

I swallowed hard, dropping my gaze. He was usually friendly, but this was the first time it felt like he was getting personal. Worse, he picked at a scab I knew I couldn’t allow to bleed.

“Who was she?” he asked.

I couldn’t tell him the truth, but denying my own mother entirely felt wrong. Instead, I offered something close enough. “She was important to me. She was murdered over a decade ago, and I miss her.”

Grisham nodded, his expression soft. “I figured as much. I’ve seen paintings done of those who have hurt the artist, and they’re done differently. Likewise, I’ve seen pieces done for a loved one who died that are all nostalgic nonsense. That piece drew me because of its honesty. You showed your own pain and sorrow, but you didn’t make her an angel. The slight twist of her lips showed a cutting tongue and her shrewd eyes implied a very calculating woman. The darker colors showed you missed her, but also held a certain level of anger, of resentment. Those things are fascinating, and the mixture is what creates truly great artwork. Nothing in life is simple. Things are never all happy or all sad. Life is an amalgam of beauty and ugliness.”

He gestured at my phone. “What you’ve worked on for the exhibit isn’t bad. It will secure you a spot next year, but nothing more. It isn’t what you’re capable of, what I know you can do. It’s like a world-famous chef cooking boxed mac and cheese. You can do it, and it will be fine, but it is a far, pathetic cry from what you’re capable of.”

His words stung, worse because I couldn’t deny the truth of them.

Had I really put my heart into anything recently? Had I let myself feel anything?

I’d painted that piece of my mother after my father had died, after I’d found out that he’d killed her. It had been one of the few times I’d given myself fully over to the pain of those events, to how conflicted I felt.

My mother had loved me, but I didn’t remember much about her. Between my young age when she died and how busy she had been when still alive, we hadn’t spent that much time together. Sometimes I thought rather than missing her, I missed what I’d wanted out of a mother.

“Putting our wounds on display isn’t easy, is it?” I whispered.

“No, it isn’t. Do you know why there are few great artists? Because it is terrifying to peel our skin off and bleed on a canvas, to open that window and allow strangers in to witness the darkest parts of ourselves. Hatred, jealousy, pain, every negative emotion that we’re taught to pretend we don’t have? Those are the things that connect us all and make great art. If you can’t tap into that, you’ll be forever falling short of your potential.”

I tucked my phone into my pocket, hating that I couldn’t deny what he said. Sure, there were positive feelings, good things, but they weren’t the full truth. The reality always was a mix of good and bad, and so much of my life had been bad that I wasn’t sure if I really made the good things. I didn’t know them well enough to paint them, to make people feel them.

“Well, thank you,” I said and pushed myself to my feet. “I’ll think about what you said and start over. Could we meet in another week to look over my progress?”

Grisham nodded, staring at me hard, his glasses making his eyes appear even larger than usual. “Of course. I’m looking forward to seeing what you come up with.”

I headed for the door, but his voice made me pause just as I reached for the handle.

“I believe in you, Kenz. I wouldn’t have done all I’ve done if I didn’t know you could live up to my expectations. Stop wondering if you’re good enough, if you’ve got it or not. Not many people have what it takes to be great, so don’t doubt yourself. I don’t make mistakes.”

And just like that, I knew that no matter how hard it was, I couldn’t let him down. I’d spent my life letting people down, falling short of those around me. My life was in chaos, my love life nonexistent, danger trailing me, missing my family, and I could do nothing about any of that.

However, I could do this. I understood art, and I’d damn well have this one part of my life go right.

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