“That’s so cool,” he says.
Earlier today I felt that familiar quickening in my heart again that comes with excitement for a new project. I used to hum when I was a little girl drawing at the dining room table. I was so happy, euphoric even, I couldn’t keep it in. I felt such a sense of joy I would lose myself for hours, not realizing that I had begun to sing. My ankles locked together, swinging to the beat. I loved watching the disparate parts of a project come together; how, once it was created, it felt almost inevitable, predestined, and mathematically perfect.
The other night at the beach, the sun was setting and there were these three little girls playing tag, their parents watching on lounge chairs a few yards away. The girls’ small frames became black silhouettes against the orange sun and without second-guessing myself, I took their photo. Later, I approached the parents and offered to send it to their emails so they wouldn’t think I was some creep, but there was something in that image that touched me.
Innocence, I realized later when I was editing. It looked like innocence. Strangely, of all things, it makes me think of Theo.
I want to try to paint it today.
On the ride home, Theo asks more questions about my work. I tell him about getting fired, even though I’m still ashamed of the story.
“Getting fired is like getting dumped,” says Theo. “Everyone should try it once. It builds character. Besides, you have to stop waiting for permission to create from the outside world. No one’s going to give it to you. You have to go out and grab it for yourself.”
I can’t help but be affected by being in the small car with him. Usually, at work, there’s a desk separating us. Here, he feels closer than ever.
Theo is borrowing one of the other instructor’s cars today, a vintage beach Bronco with tan leather seats and a bright-blue exterior. For his sake as well as my own, I hope he’s a good driver, because every inch of this vehicle would cost a fortune to replace. Still, it’s nice being here. I feel a sense of contentment down to my fingertips, with the windows open, the top down, the warm air blowing in. Now that it’s mid-June, the island is in bloom.
“When did you know you loved painting?” Theo asks, one hand on the steering wheel.
“I think I’ve always known, since I first held a paintbrush, but I didn’t know I was allowed to really want it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I didn’t know it was possible to make a life doing what I loved. I still don’t. But I’ve never loved painting the appropriate amount.”
“Who decides what’s the ‘appropriate amount’ to love something?” he asks.
“I guess I just mean that the way I felt about it was almost… violent.”
“Violent?” Theo laughs.
“Yeah, I felt like my ambition, even as a little girl, was somehow wrong. Sometimes, I feel like what I’m doing is silly. I’m drawing pretty pictures, you know? I’m not curing world hunger, or trying to stop a war, or attending a protest, or doing what Rose does for her clients. Often, I’ll scroll through my phone and see all of these videos of everything wrong with society, people suffering, and I feel helpless. Does art matter? Can it afford to? But also, can it afford not to? I’m not doing anything tangible that would really matter or help anyone, and yet, it feels urgent to me. When I’m painting or drawing, it feels like the only thing that matters even though I know, logically, it isn’t. Does that make sense?”
I’m rambling now, and I trail off at the end, embarrassed, but Theo takes it in stride.
“I know what you mean,” he says. “When I was trying to go pro, I felt like the tennis world was the only place that mattered. There was nothing better than hitting that perfect shot, feeling the ball against the racket and knowing I could command it to land exactly where I wanted it to. It was…” He searches for the right word. “Beautiful.”
I know exactly what he means, too. There’s something defiant about creating beauty in an ugly world, about prioritizing it as essential.
“When did you decide against going pro?”
Theo laughs. “It’s less like I decided against it, and more that itdecided against me. Pretty early on in my teen years I realized my limit. I was good enough to get a scholarship to college, but I was never going to make it to the US Open.” He shrugs. “But that’s okay. It took me weeks to learn how to love it again even though I know I’ll never hit that highest rung. Time to figure out a new dream.”
I think about what he’s saying. I can picture a younger version of Theo easily: fluffier hair, even lankier limbs. I imagine him at predawn practices, dedicated to his craft, and the crushing disappointment of knowing that no matter how hard he worked, it wasn’t enough. I wonder if that’s what it’s like for me with art, if I just don’t have it. At least art is something without such a harsh age limit.
“Have you figured out a new dream yet?” I ask him.
Theo looks over at me, his uneven smile on full display. “Still figuring it out.”
There’s something liberating in that, I think. Allowing yourself to dream a new dream. I thought the magazine world would be the destination I always hoped for, but now, I realize that it wasn’t. Actually, maybe it was holding me back.
We stop speaking, but the silence is comforting rather than awkward. I take the opportunity to ask him about his T-shirt again.
“I didn’t know you lived in New York,” I point out, almost accusingly.
His eyes remain fixed on the road. “Yeah, I graduated from University of North Carolina in 2018 and moved to the city. I did Teach for America for a year in the Bronx. I worked a few administrative nonprofit jobs afterward in fundraising and such, but I realized that what I really love is teaching.”
I nod to myself. “I can see that. You’re a really great teacher.”
