She’s the type of person who wears flat shoes and walks directly on earth so you were shocked to hear, she’d be wearing heels from this summer.
Her thin fingers in front of you wrapped around a coffee cup, are those that let lines breathe and crawl on paper. Patterns filling every inch of pure white. Black ink, desperate to leave the canvas.
“You know, being an artist, creating things, doesn’t have to be a job.”
She says.
“Even if I’m working 24/5 in finance, I can spend my weekends making art.
And then I can call myself an artist.”
It was around this time, spring, she was a graduating senior, you a sophomore, sitting at the corner sofa in Blue State Coffee, while the sun glistened in from the window. Double majoring in art history and architecture, but going to Goldman Sachs. But because, we all knew her paintings were exceptional. But because somewhere in your heart you were hoping she wouldn’t follow the same path as everyone else. IT, finance, consulting — What’s the point of liberal arts education if we all end up there?
“I don’t have to be an artist , written, and confirmed on my business card.
I just want to live artistically.”
You weren’t quite sure if she was telling that to convince you, or herself. Her skinny pants were too colorful as if proving the world that she existed, dark black hair bundled behind in a tight bun, body lean and had nothing unnecessarily.
You nod, but, you’re not convinced.
She shouldn’t be in finance. She should be doing art.
You look at her, with slight admiration, and
a great amount of disinterest.
< May 2017 >
At that time you didn’t know you’d be living in New York City because it was your least favorite city you’ve ever been to. The amount of people, nasty streets, and crowded humid trains, all contributed to justifying your distaste.
You were there for two days because of the girl standing beside you. With short black hair, she’s Misugi, an exchange student from Japan, whom you decided to show around the city.
Guggenheim museum is known for its beautiful and calculated architecture. The slope curving up, paintings and sculptures aligned along the white walls. Misugi stood there,
her eyes nailed to one painting, gushed with colors. You get interested, that she’s interested. She explains to you about the various types of brush strokes and then
She takes her eyes off the painting. Turns around with her head slightly tilted
“If you can steal one art from this museum, which one would you pick?”
You think for a while.
You’re not sure.
You point at one painting.
You don’t think you even liked it.
It wasn’t this one at Guggenheim that you remember most.
It was the one you see later at Lumas.
Lumas is in the Meatpacking district. The name of this district originates, literally, from the past that they used to chop and pack meat here. Now a high-end, designer place.
You push a heavy glass door and enter Lumas, a modern simple art gallery with Misugi.
As soon as you step in, she’s in her own world.
So you wander around.
And pause.
Emmanuelle Descraques
“Hélène and the bubble gum”
Your initial impression swings between emptiness and erotica. A lady with carefully painted red lipstick, and a loose bubble gum hanging between her lips carelessly. Chin slightly up, her eyes not exactly looking. As if her dreams popped and shrank along with that bubble gum. There’s also a slight sense of loneliness, but it’s fierce too.
I don’t give a fuck. You could almost hear her say.
Before you notice, Misugi is standing behind you, eyeing the door asking if you wanted to leave. You take a last glimpse of the art.
Somehow you think of her, Hélène and the bubble gum,
when you think of Manhattan.
At the hotel room that smells slightly of mold, Misugi is packing her belongings in a suitcase.
From a half open backpack, a small postcard comes out. It’s our last day – she says, this is for you. Your eyes open wide. It was the postcard of a painting you pointed at Guggenheim, the one you said you would steal.
“You wanted this, didn’t you?”
She says.
A year later, you don’t know where that postcard went.
Did you even like that painting? Maybe you did, maybe you didn’t. You don’t remember at this point, the feeling you had when you pointed at that painting. So that was it.
She went to continue her trip to Philadelphia, and you, back to Brown.
< November 2017 >
Isn’t the view amazing, the person said.
His voice pulls you back to focus on the huge window in front of you. The one that has a pointy top, should be… The Empire State Building. Hmm pretty slender.
What was his name anyways? You think. Ehh… Senior Manager. But, his name? You try to remember what it said on the business card he handed you. It was after the sixth, and final, round of interview. It should be one of the cards stuffed in your pocket.
“Sometimes I like to look down at the city,” he said, standing by the window.
His navy suit fit well in this room.
“To see how far I’ve climbed up”
From the 41st floor of Rockefeller Center you
look down.
Gazing at the same view the senior manager was admiring with pride, you attempt to search for the beauty he was able to find through his eyes. The black handbag held in your left hand, had a folder inside, which had a resume, which listed in Times New Roman font 12, all the experiences at publishers, newspaper companies, and you remember the cheeky columns you wrote for Time Out, and the photos of all the restaurants and people you’ve interviewed. Why were you here, trying to be in consulting? You knew you would be fine being told you weren’t a good consultant, but wouldn’t have enough guts to handle, to be told your writing or photos weren’t good enough. And you weren’t quite sure where up meant when writing, whereas here it was easy — the title on the business card changing from analyst, consultant to senior to manager to senior manager to partner and the numbers increasing accordingly on your bi-weekly paycheck.
Looking down at the
Buildings, the ice skate rink, flags of different countries, the absurdly large Christmas tree – it’s going to light up tomorrow on Wednesday, the 28th actually, and then, people, more people, they’re so tiny
and ..
Your eyes meet your own eyes through the glass reflection.
You look down
At yourself.
With slight admiration,
and a great amount of disinterest.
But you wanted this, didn’t you?
Kia Sadahiro 