“At the Bainbridge. Studio hours are over, but I was in the groove, and I didn’t want to stop. And since I’m staying upstairs, I figured, why not?”
Her first night there, she gave me a video tour of her very tiny accommodations—a two-hundred-square-foot apartment above the art studio. Tiny bed, tiny couch, tiny bathroom, very tiny kitchen. Sarah went on and on about how charming it was, but it’s so small, I’m not sure I would even make it through the door frames without having to duck.
“What are you working on?” I ask.
“You really want to talk about this now? I thought you wanted to show me the house.”
“I’m not in a hurry,” I say. “Tell me.”
Her eyes shift, like she’s looking past me. Likely at her artwork. “It’s a piece for my show at Second Light. All the pieces will be demonstrations of mood, but I’m only using facial expressions. So people in isolation, no setting, no background. Just their faces with the rest of their head and shoulders dissolving into the background.”
“Sounds…difficult?” I say, and she grins.
“Yeah, I’ve second-guessed my decision about ten million times. I’ve got a few done already that I feel really good about, but the woman I’m painting now is giving me trouble. I was going for curious, but…I don’t know. What Iwanther to say and whatshewants to say—they aren’t lining up.”
“Is this woman someone in particular?” I ask.
“No,” she quickly says. “I mean, yes. But only inside my head. I made her up. I almost always make them up, and I usually have a pretty good idea of what their story is when I start. But this time—she isn’t cooperating.”
“Hmm.”
“Hmm? What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks, a playful fire in her eyes.
“It means I’m not an artist and won’t even begin to pretend like I know what I’m talking about.”
“But?” she prompts.
“But…I don’t know. I was just thinking that in hockey, there’s a certain rhythm to the game that’s often the same. And when you play it a lot, you get good at reading it. At sensing where the puck’s going to go. Where the play is going to happen. But sometimes my instincts will flare and tell me to do the exact opposite of what I wouldusuallydo. And suddenly, I’m going a different direction, or passing instead of taking a shot. I don’t always know why that happens. I’m sure I’m reading the game, but sometimes it happens so fast, I don’t always know what I’m reading. I’m just…feeling.” I clear my throat, suddenly feeling a little sheepish. “I know it’s not the same. But I think my point is that sometimes the exact opposite of what we usually do is the thing that works.”
She bites her lip and gazes past me one more time. “So maybe I should stop trying to force her to feel how I want her to feel and let her tellme?”
“Maybe?” I say. “Or you could completely ignore me because I have no idea what I’m talking about.”
“No,” she says, cupping a hand around the back of her neck. “That’s good advice. I can’t force it.”
“I’m sure you’ll get there,” I say.
She takes a deep breath. “Thanks. So…the house? How is it?”
Instead of telling her, I flip my camera around and show her. We walk through the bedrooms, then into the kitchen and around the rest of the house. Finally, I head down the hall and take the stairs that are just off the kitchen to the bonus room above the garage.
“So, I saved the best part for last,” I say as I step into the room. I push the door all the way open and aim the camera at the large windows filling up the east wall. “I was thinking this could be your studio.”
I slowly pan the phone around the large, open space. “You could paint over here by the windows where the light is best. The house has a southern exposure, but with the way the trees are situated in the backyard, you should get really good light pretty much all day long. Then back here on the opposite wall, there’s tons of space for storage. I’m just brainstorming—you could use the space however you want. But you definitely have options.”
Sarah is quiet for so long, I start to wonder if I’ve said something wrong. I quickly flip the camera around so she’s seeing my face again.
“Hey,” I say. “You can totally ignore my suggestions. And if you don’t like the house or if there’s another space you like better, we can?—”
“Carter,” Sarah says softly, cutting me off. “That’s not it.I’m just feeling a little overwhelmed. I’ve never had my own studio space—not like that.”
I shrug. “Well, you should. You deserve it.”
“Are you going to buy it?” she asks.
“I want to,” I say. “As long as you like it too.”
She bites her lip, and I can tell she’s struggling not to protest.
