Sincerely,
Jessa Wyatt
Program Officer, Arts & Equity
Karael Foundation
I read it again. I’ve seen Karael logos on other people’s wall cards. They like work that looks stern and urgent next to mission statements about impact. They fund projects that travel. They publish slim catalogs with heavy paper. The words “no creative oversight” are the right words. They have also appeared in every foundation email since funders learned artists have the internet. I scroll to the footer. Their mission statement is sincere and a little vague. Their board is names I’ve seen on buildings.
I set the phone down and look at the canvas to rinse my brain. The nurse’s left eye looks back at me the way I want it to, steady without asking for praise. I check my back door even though it’s daytime and the building is quiet. Old habits have their own gravity. The deadbolt is engaged. The small thumb latch on the fire escape window is down. I check my keys on the hook by the kettle: studio, walk-up, mailbox, and bike lock. I spin the studio key on my finger and put it back.
When I was twelve, I learned that anything left out in the open belongs to the next set of hands. At twenty-seven, that lesson still sits in my shoulder blades. I don’t lock the door because I think someone is coming to steal a wet portrait. I lock the door because anxiety is a muscle, and mine likes to do reps when it smells attention.
I pour more coffee, take one sip, and set it down because the turpentine overpowers it. I draft a reply to Karael in myhead before I write it. Grateful but clear. Warm without offering ground. I bring the phone back and type.
Dear Ms. Wyatt,
Thank you for reaching out and for considering “Witness” for preliminary support. I appreciate the Karael Foundation’s stated respect for artist autonomy, particularly with survivor-centered work. I’m available for a twenty-minute call tomorrow between 10:00–12:00 or 3:00–5:00.
Before we schedule, I want to outline non-negotiables for this project, so we’re aligned from the start:
No creative oversight or approval, including over image selection, titles, or installation.
Full artist credit on all materials; survivor anonymity maintained as agreed in my consent forms.
No use of my work in foundation marketing that implies endorsement by participants.
Opt-out clause at my discretion if any programming jeopardizes participant privacy or safety.
If these conditions are acceptable, I’m glad to talk further. Please confirm a time within the windows above.
Best,
Aurora Hale
I read it twice. It says what I need it to say. Professional, not combative. Ethics first, logistics second. I hit send and feel the small drop that comes after you put your boundary in writing.
The recording in my ear runs on. “I didn’t tell anyone for a year,” the nurse says. “Then I told one person. Then I told you. Maybe that means it’s getting smaller.”
“Maybe it means you’re getting bigger,” my recorded voice says, and I can hear the part where I swallow before I speak because I don’t want to make the words about me.
I return to the canvas and line up the brush with the collarbone. The clavicle is a straight line in theory and a soft curve in real life. I mix ochre and blue and cut it with white until it goes gray-beige, then warm it again with a breath of red, not enough to announce itself. The first stroke is wrong, too high. I wipe it out with a rag and lay it in at the right angle. The second stroke sits like it was always there.
My phone buzzes again. My curator again, a text this time:Ledger wants a quote. One or two sentences max. Think “artist statement lite.” Send in 15?
Fifteen minutes to say who I am in two lines. I stare at the portrait and try to simplify. I type:“I paint from conversations with people who chose to be seen on their own terms. The work isn’t about what happened to them, it’s about how they keep going.”
I send it. She thumbs-up reacts immediately and adds,Perfect. Keep working. Forty-five minutes, image please.Then:Also, the press will ask about your process. Practice the short version. No jargon. People listen better when you don’t sound like a grant proposal.
Fair. I set the phone down again and talk to the empty room like it’s a class.
Short version: “I interview the person first. We talk on tape for ninety minutes, longer if they want. I don’t ask about details they don’t bring up. I ask about what helps. I ask about mornings. I ask what they wish they could forget and what they hope never fades. Then I sketch from sitting with them, not from photos. Later, I paint from my notes and the sound of their voice. I send them the image before it ever goes on a wall. If they say no, it’s a no.”
I say it again, faster, then shorter: “I paint with permission. I paint people’s strength, not their worst day. I send the work to them first.” It’s the core. It’s enough. I imagine amicrophone with a red light, a camera angling up my nose, a stranger with a notebook asking if I consider my work activism. The truthful answer is yes and no. The work isn’t a slogan. The work is a room you walk into and feel your spine straighten because it recognizes someone who fought the fight you know all too well.
I grab the camera and step backward until the frame holds the whole portrait and the corner of the easel, for context. I take three shots, adjust the exposure a notch, take two more. The image on the screen looks like the canvas but colder; cameras punish paint. I bump the warmth by two points, which is the difference between accurate and lying. I send Zoe the best one with a short caption:anchor piece, 70%—left eye resolved, mouth refined, collarbone in progress.She’ll know what that means.
With the sending done, the studio goes quiet again. My heartbeat settles back into the part of me that does work without announcing it. I pull the earbud out to give one side of my brain a break. The heater clicks off. Down the hall, someone from the start-up wing laughs too hard at something that wasn’t funny. My neighbor, an older sculptor with a soft spot for brass clamps, drops a piece of metal on concrete and swears. The building is alive in a way that doesn’t intrude. I like that I can hear people living and still keep my head in one place.
