Page 4 of Volt
As I stand in the kitchen drinking my juice, my eyes fall on the large oak bookcase that’s set between the two large windows that overlook Baker Street, the main drag of Pineville. I walk over to it and take the picture off the shelf and feel a faint smile touching my lips. The picture is of me and my parents on our family ski trip to Brian Head, Utah. It was the last trip we ever took together as a family.
“I miss you guys. I miss you guys more than anything,” I whisper.
I carefully set the picture frame on the shelf among the rest of the knickknacks and personal family mementos I kept. I didn’t keep much—just some of the most treasured remembrances of them that I have. A lot of it, I couldn’t bear to keep. It’s sometimes too painful to even look at these things. But this shelf is like my shrine to them, and most days, it brings me a sense of comfort. My parents were the kindest, most generous people who ever lived as far as I’m concerned. They were great parents to me and never failed to remind me how much I was loved. The day I lost them was the worst day of my life.
Turning away from the shelf, I stare through the windows to the street below and try to fight back the tears that are welling in my eyes. After they died, I learned that my folks had purchased this loft and had intended to give it to me after I graduated from college. This was going to be my first home away from home. They thought it was perfect for a burgeoning artist—something they encouraged me to pursue with all my heart. Which I did—am.
But they hadn’t finished paying it off yet so I had to use most of my inheritance to do that. With the rest, I was able to get through a few semesters of school at the San Francisco Art Institute, but the money was quickly drying up and I didn’t qualify for enough scholarship money to finish my education. I needed to survive and make what I had last. I felt so desperate that I considered selling the Ducati that was bequeathed to me to do it. In the end though, I couldn’t sell it. It’s not just that I’d coveted the bike forever while my dad was alive, it’s that I felt like it was one of the few tangible links I have left of them. So, since I refused to sell the bike, I had to get a job to get by. But at least this loft is mine, free and clear.
Some businessmen have tried to get me to sell it from time to time, wanting to convert the entire building into one cohesive structure, but I refuse every time. Much to their consternation. My dad was a commercial architect and loved the idea of mixed-use buildings—businesses on the bottom floor, residences above—and this was one of his projects. I’ve been offered a lot of money to sell, but this is one of the few things I have left of them—this loft and all the furnishings in it, of course—so I continue to refuse. I’ll never sell this place. Ever.
Pineville is a small sleepy town along the Northern California coast. It’s a blend of the forest and the sea. It’s gorgeous, and I have always loved living here. It’s quiet. Peaceful. There’s a certain tranquility in the air here that rarely fails to soothe my nerves. A ride along the coast, with the sea air on my skin and the wind in my hair always makes me feel like a new woman. A ride always helps strip my cares and anxieties away. Or at least, makes them dull to a roar low enough that I can get my equilibrium back.
I walk over to the doorway of my studio and lean against the frame, looking in at the canvas on the easel. I look at the swaths of color and how they blend with the cutout words and other elements of the work. The canvas is done primarily in reds, oranges, yellows, and black, all of the swaths of color meant to give it a dynamic feel of motion. Like a canvas of flames. And within the fire is the shadowed suggestion of something—a car perhaps.
I’ve embedded the glass from a vodka bottle into the paint, giving it a shiny, shimmering look. There are also other messages hidden throughout the canvas, using newspaper headlines and cuttings from other media sources to portray my own meaning of this piece. I know what it means to me, but I’ve always thought great works leave it up to individuals to determine what is being represented in a given work.
I started off as a painter, and I still love the form. But I’ve since evolved into more of a mixed-media form of artistic expression. I feel like mixed-media, being able to use my painting in conjunction with words and pictures, gives me a broader range and ability to express myself. I feel like there’s more freedom in what I’m doing now. That doesn’t mean I’ve abandoned painting as a whole. I still paint. But what I’m working on now is a series that means a lot to me. That’s very personal.
But regardless of whether I used just paint or this mixed-media form, the criticism from my instructors at the SFAI was the same—they didn’t feel it. They say the emotions are dulled and blunted and say it stems from me being disconnected from my own work. After all, how can I expect them to feel the emotions I want them to feel if I’m not able to feel them myself? And while I understand what they’re saying on an intellectual level, on an emotional level, it’s left me at a loss.
I just don’t understand the criticism. It’s never made much sense to me. This series in particular hits so close to home and is so intensely personal, I don’t understand how they can’t feel it. The pain and grief in these works are pain and grief I’ve lived with every day of my life for years now. I wake up and go to bed every day of my life steeped in this misery. I don’t understand how it doesn’t translate to the canvas since it’s imbued with every stroke of my brush. I don’t get how they don’t feel it because I sure as hell am.
But that criticism has continued to fuel me. It pushes me forward and forces me to try and unlock that missing element. It’s also why I’m stalled out on my other works. This series is so important to me that I can’t seem to let myself focus on anything else right now. Not until I get this one right. Not until I’m satisfied that somebody can look at these works and feel all of the pain and anguish that still grips me tightly. Not until somebody looks at these works and understands the depths of my despair. Not until somebody feels it as deeply as I do 24/7 and cries with me.
I glance at the clock and frown. “Shit.”
I strip off my clothes on my way to the bathroom, not even bothering to close the door behind me. It takes a minute for the water to get warm enough for me to jump in so I brush my teeth and put on the shower cap. It’s too late to wash my hair right now, and I figure there’s no point since it’ll end up reeking like beer and cigarette smoke by the end of the night anyway. I’ll do it after my shift.
I take a quick utilitarian shower, not lingering beneath the warm spray of water like I normally do. That done, I towel off and throw on my work uniform—black jean shorts and a tight white top that leaves little about my chest to the imagination. The guys who frequent the Red Grizzly—the bar that occupies the bottom floor of the building—are older, usually drunk, and always horny. They also tip a lot better if I’m flashing some cleavage. To me, they’re just a set of tits—albeit a nice set of tits. To them though, it’s what they’ll be fantasizing about later as they fumble with their unfortunate significant other, or maybe just with themselves, and they usually pay a premium for a good show.
I’m sure feminists across the country would cry out in shame and rage if they knew I was displaying my goods with such little care and for monetary profit. But I figure they’re mine and if I want to have a cover charge for a little look-see, that’s my right. I figure if I got ’em, I might as well use ’em to my best advantage. And I don’t see anything anti-feminist or shameful about it in the least.
Finished dressing, I throw on a little makeup, check myself in the mirror then hustle down the long hallway to the door that opens onto the landing outside. I take the wrought iron staircase down to the sidewalk then enter the Red Grizzly—the Grizz to the regulars—through the back door reserved for employees and punch the clock with a minute to spare.
“You’re late,” Mary grumbles.
I slip my card back into the rack and give her a smile. “Actually, I’m a minute early.”
“You haven’t set up your station yet.”
“Are you suggesting I come in early, off the clock, and work for free, Mary?” I ask sweetly. “I do believe that would be a violation of California labor laws—”
“You got a smart-ass answer for everything, don’t you, kid?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“Get your station set up.”
“Glad to, now that I’m on the clock,” I chirp brightly.
Mary grumbles under her breath and walks into her office shaking her head. The slamming of her office door is thunderous, and I’m sure whoever’s at the bar in the front of the house had no trouble hearing it. I don’t know why she hates me. It wasn’t always that way. Not in the beginning anyway. But over time, she’s grown to really dislike me and makes no bones about it. She’s harder on, and more demeaning to me, than anybody else for reasons that continue to elude me.
But Mary is good at what she does and so Jack—the owner of the Grizz—tolerates her. And unfortunately for her, Jack loves me to death and thinks of me as the daughter he never had and so, short of catching me stealing money from the till, there’s nothing she can do that will ever get him to fire me. She knows that, and she resents me for it. It’s the only personnel decision she has no power over and it drives her completely bonkers—and I love it.
It’s not that I abuse that power. I’d never abuse Jack’s trust and faith in me. He’s a good man and yeah, with my folks gone, he’s been something of a father figure to me. But I don’t tolerate the abuse Mary heaps out onto me and the rest of the staff, and I’m not afraid to stand up to her. Jack has told us to find a way to get along but for the most part, he stays out of our way and lets us handle it on our own. I can’t really blame him for wanting to stay out of the cross fire. If I had that ability, I probably would too.
I tie my half apron on around my waist and push through the swinging door, stepping into the well of the bar and surveying the room. There are only a couple of people in at this time of day but I’m sure it’ll pick up. Bree, the day-shift bartender, is there and gives me a smile.
