“Still, I liked him, or at least, I found him useful and interesting to talk to. He knew an immense amount about his subject, and his suggestions for my work were helpful. I brought him a whole folder of sketches I had made for potential sculptures. Some were complex and would need custom equipment before they could be built. He went through each sketch, seeming particularly taken with a drawing I’d made for a massive figure that would look male from one angle and female from another.”
Mara leans forward on her elbows, chin cradled by her palms, fascinated by this story. I knew she would enjoy getting a peek at the younger version of myself, closer in age and stage to where she is now.
I’m not enjoying it as much. I don’t look back on that time with the same arrogance I used to.
I push ahead, wanting to get it all over with as quickly as possible.
“Professor Oswald was the first person who took an interest in my art. It meant something to me. So when he participated in a show shortly after Christmas, I wanted to attend. Even though he hadn’t mentioned it to me and I hadn’t technically been invited.
“It was Marcus York who put me on the guest list. He’s an old friend of my father’s, did I tell you that?”
Mara nods.
“It was the first time I’d spoken to him since my father had died. He was glad to do me a favor—after all, I was the one who inherited the money and the business, though I had no interest in running it myself.
“I went to the show. As soon as I got there I could see everyone buzzing around Oswald’s sculpture. I didn’t hear a word they said. I just stood there, staring.”
Mara’s eyes go wide as she anticipates what I’m about to say.
“It was an exact replica of the sketch I showed him. Almost every detail the same. The main difference was that it was smaller than I’d intended—probably because he didn’t have the means to make it bigger.”
Even though she knew what was coming, Mara lets out a groan of outrage. She understands how violating it feels to have an idea stolen before you’ve even had a chance to bring it to life.
“What did you do?” she cries.
“I walked up to him, almost in a daze. I didn’t know what I intended to say to him, which was unusual for me. I saw his surprise that I was there and his look of squirming discomfort. But then he pushed that away and greeted me with as much friendliness as usual. Clapping me on the shoulder, saying how glad he was that I had come.”
“Did you confront him?” Mara fidgets in her seat, unable to stand the suspense.
“Not then. It would have made a scene, and remember, barely anyone knew me yet. Oswald was the one with the connections and the tenure. This was his show.
“I stayed after class on Monday. I was too upset to be strategic. I just blurted it out like an idiot: ‘You copied my sketch!’ ”
“What did he say?” Mara murmurs through hands pressed to her mouth. She’s squirming with agitation, like she’s the one who stole the idea.
“He scoffed in my face. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said, ‘First of all, there’s hardly any similarity at all between your preliminary sketch of a concept and my actual piece. And second, I’ve been talking about the concept of gender perception in my classes for months. If anything, your sketch was more likely inspired by the lectures I gave as I was sculpting the piece.’ ”
“Motherfucker!” Mara shrieks, jumping out of her chair and pacing around the kitchen island.
There is no better audience for a story than Mara. Her empathy is so acute that she feels it all as if it’s happening to her.
It takes several moments for her to calm down enough to take a seat again.
“Alright,” she says. “What did you say back to him?”
“I just stared at him. Truly impressed with the absolute magnitude of his bullshit. He was lying so intensely that he actually believed it. He had been telling himself fairy tales late at night while working on the sculpture. Pretending that it represented this and that, while shaving away the bits of his memory that recalled the exact dimensions and proportions of my sketch.”
“Did you pull it out of your folder? Shove it in his face?”
I shake my head.
“You will never convince someone who has already convinced themselves. And you damn sure can’t reason with them. I left his office, wondering what I had hoped to get out of that encounter at all. Did I actually think he would publicly admit that he stole it? That he’d credit me for the work? Did I forget how humans operate? There was never going to be resolution, or any kind of justice. I suppose I wanted to see acknowledgement in his eyes—shame, apology. But he robbed me of even that. He was so deep in delusion that he would fight my allegations with all the outraged fervor of a man who had actually been wronged.”