Mostly die.
Because this portrait was going to lose. Big-time.
It might turn into a really compelling piece of art. It might become a fascinating character study. It might wind up beautiful or mesmerizing or powerful.
Hell, it might even be salable.
But it would not be the kind of portrait the North American Portrait Society was looking for. It would not be the kind of painting that had allowed me to beat out 1,990 other competitors. And it would not look like the work of a twenty-first-century Norman Rockwell—guaranteed.
Which was freeing, in a way.
Knowing I was going to lose?
It meant I could lose with some style.
After Joe agreed to the final attempt, Sue gave me a pep talk.
“Do you think I can do this?” I’d asked.
“What do you mean by ‘do this’？”
“Win. Do you think I can win?”
“No way in hell,” Sue said.
“Hey!” I said. “You’re supposed to encourage me.”
“I don’t think you can win,” Sue pushed on, “but I do think you can make something interesting. I do think you have mad artistic skills and a wildly creative brain. I do think you understand color and light like no one I’ve ever met. And I also think, just from the vibes I’m getting across international borders, that you might be madly in love with your subject.”
So that she could get to her point, I chose not to argue.
“Maybe you need to let go of winning. Maybe there are all kinds of ways to win. Maybe it’s a chance for you to make your own set of rules.”
“You’re saying I should give up?”
“Don’t give up. Just shoot for a different kind of victory.”
“You can’t just not win and pretend that you did.”
“Look,” Sue said. “Maybe you can’t do your usual thing right now. What if you do something crazy and different? What if instead of trying to make a thing you can’t make, you try to do something else?”
“Like what?”
“Like try to tell the story of this moment in your life. Try to capture your world right now, cracked open, exactly the way it is. Capture the chaos and the uncertainty and the longing. And don’t forget to capture whatever’s going on with you and that guy—because there’s some kind of fire in that.”
I thought about it. “I don’t usually try to tell a story about my life with portraits.”
“But,” Sue countered, “that’s what you’ve been doing all along. Telling the story of a girl trying like hell to paint exactly like her lost mother. And maybe now, in the story, the girl has no choice but to paint like herself.”
“But this isn’t myself.”
“Right now it is.”
I thought about it.
“What if you just capture your story—right now—as it is. I’d give anything to see that.”
“I’ll try,” I said. Because what other choice was there?
“And then text me a picture.”
“Fine,” I said. “But if you text back words like ‘serial killer,’ we’re going to have a problem.”
* * *
OKAY. SUE WASN’T wrong.
Before, I’d been trying to paint a portrait. A highly specific kind of portrait.
But knowing that I couldn’t do that was a kind of freedom.
Now all I had to do was paint something interesting. Something compelling. Something that held your attention. Something true about my life.
I was going to paint the moment. My experience of Joe in this moment.
Whatever that might turn out to be.
What I didn’t have going for me, obviously, was the face.
What I did have?
Joe’s exquisite torso, for one. Right? I knew for a fact I could see that. Now that I thought about it, it seemed like a crime to leave a visual feast like that all covered up.
I also had going for me: form, color, mystery, composition, contrast. And attitude. I wasn’t going into this painting timid. I would dive in bold—headfirst and naked.
Metaphorically naked.
Which left me feeling all the things you feel when you’re about to get naked. Nervous. Awake. Churning with anticipation. Hyperaware of the fact that you’re alive.
When Joe arrived, he seemed like he might be some of those things, too.
“You don’t have to do this,” I said as I opened my hovel door.
“Sure I do. I said I would.”
“Yes, but I’m giving you an out.”
“I don’t need an out.”