“On second thought, he’s right.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “It really isn’t finished. I told you before I wasn’t sure about it.”
I collapsed into a rickety chair that nearly broke under me. “Unfinished abstract?!” I muttered. “Someone’s gone insane.” I realized I had a lot to learn about art.
“What do you need to do?” I asked, feeling like I was the one being tested.
“Don’t get so worked up. He barely looked at the other three. He focused on the abstract, held it in his hands despite its size, and said it wasn’t finished.”
“And you agree with that crazy statement?”
“Yes! Yes! It’s not finished. He told me to finish it and bring it back next week.” I couldn’t believe my ears. Either I didn’t understand art at all – or I really, really didn’t understand art.
Back home, she asked me to put the “unfinished” painting on the easel in her studio.
“I want to look at it constantly, until I know how to finish it.” I didn’t understand, but I was glad she wasn’t giving up. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. At her request, I hung the other three paintings back on the wall and left the “unfinished” one on the easel.
“Well?” I asked the next evening.
“Well what?”
“Did you finish the ‘unfinished’?” I teased.
“Not yet,” she replied, and we both laughed. The question kept coming up until the day I left for work, and then she said she had an idea. That evening, she announced she had finished it. I rushed into the studio and studied it from every angle. I didn’t see a single change.
“What did you do? I don’t see any difference.”
“Look, I added this line,” she said, pointing to a diagonal green line cutting across the canvas.
“That’s it?” I asked, stunned.
“Yes. It improves the composition, balances it. Now it’s finished. You’ll see.” What could I say? I was embarrassed twice – once for not noticing the change, and again for not understanding how a single line could alter the fate of her career.
“Are you happy?” I asked the next morning as we drove to the Avni Institute.
“I think so. But I want him to be happy,” she stressed, meaning Strichman. Traffic was much heavier this week.
“Wait here,” she said as I stopped in front of the building. She disappeared inside with the canvas while I waited double-parked, my hazards flashing, with horns blaring behind me. Fifteen minutes later she returned, glowing.
“Well?” I asked.
“Well what?”
“What what?”
“Fourth year,” she said calmly.
“What does that mean? Is that code for something?”
“It means he accepted me directly into the fourth year at Avni!”
“You’re kidding.” She shook her head, bursting with excitement, and told me the whole story: Strichman had examined her painting so intently she thought it might catch fire. Then he said, “I have nothing to teach you. The painting is perfectly finished.” He praised her endlessly and told her to enroll straight into the final year. The honking outside didn’t matter anymore.
“I told you – you’re not only wonderful, you’re talented too.” I still didn’t understand how one diagonal green line could change everything, but it didn’t matter.
“Let’s celebrate,” she said, cheeks flushed.
“There’s an opening at Gordon Gallery tonight. Let’s go!”
“With you, I’m game for everything,” I replied, shifting into first gear.
