“So, you’re saying photography is inferior to painting?”
“I’m saying they serve different purposes.” She picks up her brush again and turns back to the canvas. “Photography documents. Painting interprets. One shows you what someone looks like. The other shows you who they are.”
My mother watches our exchange with barely concealed delight. I can practically see her cataloging every word, every glance.
“And who is my mother, Miss Cross?” I gesture toward the canvas. “What have you interpreted so far?”
“That’s between me and my subject.” She doesn’t even look at me. “You’ll see the finished piece when it’s ready.”
“She already tried that line on me,” my mother says with a laugh. “I asked to see the preliminary sketches, and she refused.”
“It’s not personal, Your Majesty. I never show unfinished work.” Addison mixes colors on her palette with care. “Half-formed ideas lead to half-formed opinions. I’d rather people see the complete vision.”
“A woman who knows her worth,” my mother observes. “I admire that.”
“Or a woman who’s stubborn,” I counter.
Addison’s lips twitch. “The two aren’t mutually exclusive, Your Highness.”
I laugh before I can stop myself, and my mother’s eyebrows rise slightly. I rarely laugh like that in front of her.
“Tell me, Miss Cross,” I say, leaning forward, “do you believe art should comfort or challenge?”
“Both. Neither.” She considers the question while adding a stroke of color to the canvas. “Art should make you feel something. Whether that feeling is comfortable or challenging depends on the viewer, not the artist.”
“A diplomatic answer.”
“A true answer.” She glances at me over her shoulder. “Though I suppose diplomacy and truth are mutually exclusive in your world.”
My mother actually snorts. It’s the most undignified sound I’ve ever heard from her.
“She has you there,” she says, taking a sip of tea. “Most people are far too careful with their words around us. Miss Cross seems unbothered by titles.”
“I meant no disrespect, Your Majesty.”
“I know you didn’t. That’s what makes it refreshing.” My mother sets down her cup and studies Addison with new interest. “Where did you train, Miss Cross?”
“Formally? Rhode Island School of Design. Then a year in Florence, studying Renaissance techniques.” Addison shrugs, as if these credentials are nothing. “But most of what I know, I taught myself. Trial and error. Lots of errors.”
“Humility from an artist,” I say. “That’s rare.”
“Not humility. Honesty.” She loads her brush with a deep blue. “Anyone who tells you they knew what they were doing from the start is lying. Art is failing over and over until something works.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.” She meets my eyes and holds them a beat too long. “But when something finally works, it’s worth every failure that came before.”
The air between us feels charged. My mother is watching. I know she’s watching. But I can’t look away from Addison.
“Well,” my mother says, breaking the silence, “I think that’s enough philosophy for one afternoon. Miss Cross, shall we continue?”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” Addison turns back to her canvas, the moment dissolving as quickly as it formed.
I should leave. I’ve made my appearance, participated in the conversation, and satisfied whatever test my mother was conducting. But I don’t want to go. I want to sit here and watch Addison work, watch the way she tilts her head when she’s concentrating, watch her bite her bottom lip when something isn’t quite right.
“I should let you work,” I announce, standing. “But this has been … educational.”
“I’m glad you stopped by.” My mother’s smile is knowing. “Perhaps you’ll visit again during Miss Cross’s next session.”
