“Wanna bet? I’m sure they’ll notice – and they’ll pay more attention to your silly painting than to any of mine.”
That Friday night, we both lost out. I was wrong, big time.Everyone who came back from the bathroom commented on the glaring new addition: the mess of smeared colors on canvas. The smell of fresh paint was still strong, too. It was impossible not to react, especially in the apartment of a painter.
“Big deal,” I said afterward.
“Everyone goes to the bathroom.”
I didn’t expect what happened the night after our fight. When we went to bed, Lily was reading the paper and saw that the Avni Art Institute, known as Avni, was inviting candidates for entrance exams. She announced she was going to apply. I couldn’t believe my ears. To my surprise, it seemed she had relented. I decided to play it cool, as if it was only natural. That night, we got a lot more than just a “good night” hug. When I came back from duty, her studio was a mess. She looked lost and told me she was trying to gather works according to the school’s requirements and was struggling.
“You’ve got ‘Ma’alot,’ ‘Faces,’ and two abstracts on the wall – the lyrical one and the expressive one,” I boasted, proud that I had learned the terminology.
“I agree about the lyrical, but the other one … I’m not sure.”
“It’s wonderful,” I insisted.
“You’re just flattering me.” I knew nothing about painting, but I loved the composition and the colors.
“When’s your interview?” I asked.
“Wednesday evening.” I promised to leave work early and help her with all the logistics so she wouldn’t strain herself.
On the day of the interview, Lily was tense all morning. I came back before five so that we’d have enough time. Packing the canvases on the roof rack of my father’s Ford took longer than expected, so we arrived at the last minute. I dropped her off next to the art institute, left the paintings against the wall, and begged her to wait for me until I found parking. I didn’t want her to carry them upstairs alone. When I got back, she andthe paintings were gone. I ran up to the second floor. She was chatting with another candidate, younger than her.
“This is Rafi,” she said with a smile. He explained that he had helped her bring the paintings up. We waited in a small room. Rafi sat across from us with his portfolio. He glanced at her painting and said: “This reminds me of the Ma’alot massacre.”
“You’re right. That’s actually its title,” she replied, smiling. He was captivated.
“Unbelievable how you convey the message. Where did you study?”
“I didn’t.”
“No way.” He shook his head.
“Fact,” she answered. Their conversation was cut short when he was called in. Twenty minutes later, he came out, expressionless, wished us luck, and left.
“Good luck!” I told Lily.
“Thanks.” Her voice was tight with nerves. She carried the canvases in herself, one by one. I sat alone in the waiting area, nerves jangling. Less than ten minutes later, she returned pale and exhausted.
“What happened?” I asked anxiously.
“He didn’t like three of the paintings. And he said the expressive abstract isn’t finished. See? I told you.”
“Calm down. What did he say exactly?”
“I told you! He said the expressive abstract isn’t finished. Do you understand?” Her voice rose, tears welling in her eyes.
“Who said that?” I hugged her.
“Strichman,” she whispered with reverence, naming one of the country’s most famous artists. I had never heard of him, but at that moment, I hated him.
“He’s not going to stand in her way,” I told myself.
“What does that even mean – an unfinished abstract?”
“That’s what he said,” she repeated impatiently. “And you know what?”
“What?”
