WHEN I GOT back home, there was an email waiting for me from the North American Portrait Society, which reminded me Iโd forgotten all about it. It had a big long to-do list of action items before the juried show, and another copy of the rules and guidelines, including:
Portraits must be on 30 inch ร 40 inch canvas.
Portraits must feature only one subject.
Portraits must be of a live modelโno work done from photographs.
Portraits may be either oil or acrylic, but no mixed media.
Portraits must be new workโpainted within six weeks of the deadline.
Also there was a whole attachment about a component of the evening Iโd evidently missed in the original email. Not only was the show a competition that would be judged in real time, it was also a silent auction. Our portraits would be bid on over the course of the evening and sold to the highest bidderโwith the proceeds going to fund classes and education.
My first thought wasย That sounds nice.
Eclipsed immediately byย Oh god. What if no one bids on my portrait?
It was, shall we say, a pretty good reminder to get my ass in gear.
I counted back through my calendar, and Iโd frittered away fourteen days since learning I was a finalist. True, Iโd had a lot going on. But the North American Portrait Society wouldnโt be left waiting. The portrait submissions for finalists were due three days before the actual show, and even though other people had to crate and ship theirs, and I could just Uber
mine over to the gallery, I still had just over three weeks left to get this done.
Three weeks.
Not nearly enough time for myย old, fully functioning fusiform face gyrusโnot to mention that I hadnโt even started painting. Or even really thought about it.
Time to pull it together. If I was well enough to marry Peanutโs veterinarian, I was well enough to paint one portrait.
But โฆย how?
The portraits I did were classic, traditional ones. One of my art teachers in college had called me โa multicultural twenty-first-century Norman Rockwell.โ I took all different kinds of subjects and gave them aย Saturday Evening Postย treatmentโrealistic, simple, easy-to-understand images with lots of warm rosy light and plenty of charm. Those were the style of portraits my mother had painted, tooโand, in fact, Iโd taught myself to paint by copying her portfolio. Thatโs what I did in high school instead of drinking: stayed in the art studio twenty hours a day and copied my motherโs brushstrokes.
Iโd say, at this point, you could barely tell my work apart from hers, and that not only made me feel proudโit made me feel like Iโd found a way to hold on to her.
But hereโs the truth about portraits like these: They are all about the face.
Everything in a portrait like that is directing the viewer toward the face
โthe lines, the angles, the framing, the colors. The face is where the emotions are, and where the story lies, and where the heart of the whole thing happens.
You canโt fudge it, is what I mean. You canโt put the subject in sunglasses. Or have that person facing away from you or hanging upside down or hiding under a hat. Not if you wanted to be good. Not if you wanted to win ten thousand dollars. You needed a perfectly rendered, so- detailed-it-feels-alive faceโfront and center.
Iโd done it a thousand times. Iโdย crushed itย a thousand times. Faces were my specialty.
But now?
I had no idea what to do.
And I had only three weeks left to figure it out.
AT SOME POINT, in the wake of what Sue called my โfacepocalypse,โ she had kindly agreed to be my live model. I had a better shot with her face, she reasoned, since I knew it so well.
And plus, as ever, sheโd be willing to do crazy stuff.
I called her after getting the reminder email, and I said, โWeโre still on for tomorrow, right?โ
โOf course,โ Sue said.
โDonโt flake out, okay? I really need you.โ โI never flake out,โ Sue said.
She sometimes flaked out, to be honest. But who didnโt?
Sue worked as an art teacher at a primary school, and the plan was for her to come over after work every day for a week. Weโd split some kind of takeout dinner, and her boyfriend Witt swore he didnโt mind her โworking late.โ
โYouโre not really working, though,โ I said. โAre you?โ โLabor of love,โ she said, letting us both be right.
I made Sue bring her red polka-dot dress with the ruffle sleeves. If the face was going to be weaker than usual in this portrait, then everything else had to be stronger. Iโd need to render the silkiness of those ruffles in a way that made youย feelย them rustling against your own skin. Also, the red needed to be just rightโrich and eye-catching without being overwhelming. Iโd have Sue sit on the floor and frame the perspective from up above so I could fill as much of it as possible with that gorgeous fabric.
No question: that polka-dot dress had a lot of work to do.
Sue, I should mention, has a stunningly beautiful face. She has perfectly defined lips, an elegant nose, black hair so shiny she could sell shampoo, and monolid eyes with deep brown irises. Iโd painted her twenty times, at least, and she was one of my favorite subjects.
In ordinary times, weโd already have this thing locked up.
But now, of course, things were different. Maybe I knew her face so well, I didnโt have to see it to paint it? Maybe Iโd painted her so many other times, my hands would know what to do by muscle memory?
I closed my eyes and tried to picture Sueโs face. But no luck.
I could see her hair. If I zoomed in, I could remember the bow shape of her mouth. The rich brown of her eyes. But all the pieces put together?
My mindโs eye drew a blank.
The old me would have had this thing in the bag. But I kept pushing that thought aside.ย Our thoughts create our emotions.ย I wasnโt going to make this harder on myselfโit was hard enough. I wasnโt going to freak myself out. I would practice the art of self-encouragement if it killed me.
Sue showed up dutifully every day, like a champ.
After Monday, I had the basic framing. Then Tuesday and Wednesday, I worked on the details and the drape of the fabric. Thursday, I nailed down her arms and hands.
And then suddenly it was Friday. Time to ruin it all with the face.
I dreaded it all day long, staring at the canvasโs empty white face hole.
By the time Sue arrived, I was ready to quit.
โI donโt want to find out for sure that I canโt do this, you know?โ I said. โIโd rather onlyย suspectย that I canโt do it. Doesnโt that sound better?โ
โNo. That doesnโt sound better. Because then youโre not painting. And you always get really crabby when youโre not painting.โ
She wasnโt wrong.
โEven painting something bad,โ Sue said, โis better than not painting anything at all.โ
โIs it?โ I asked. Guess we were about to find out.
โMaybe youโll surprise yourself,โ Sue said. โMaybe portrait painting is another brain system like reading emotions is. Or maybe youโre so good at this, you donโt even need your face area thingy. Wouldnโt that be amazing?โ
I nodded.
โJust jump in,โ she said. โI really suspect that the worst possible choice is to not even try.โ
I suspected that, too. And so I tried.
I stood in front of the canvas, looking down at the dear face of my dear friend who Iโd known so long, who Iโd painted so many times โฆ and I saw nothing but unintelligible nonsense.
But I pushed on.
My best strategy was to divide the face circle on the canvas into mathematical sections, and mark, in general, where the eyes and nose and mouth should be, and then focus on one puzzle piece at a time, plugging them in where each one ought to go.
It was a good plan. But it didnโt work.
When I finally finished the pencil sketch, I stepped back and realized that now it, too, looked like puzzle pieces.
I hadย justย drawn that picture. But now I couldnโt see it.
I asked Sue to check it and see if I was on the right track. She got up all eager, but then slowed way down on the approach.
I couldnโt see her expression, but I could definitely read her emotion.
And that emotion was โHuh.โ โTell me,โ I said.
โDo you want me to be honest?โ โNo. Yes. I donโt know.โ
โItโs a little funky,โ Sue said at last. โWhat does that mean?โ
She paused. โItโs not photorealism.โ
โWe knew that already. What are you saying?โ โItโs a little bit like a Salvador Dalรญ painting.โ
โOh my god, is your faceย melting? Like a Dalรญ clock?โ
โNo โฆ the pieces are all technically kind of in the right place. Ish. Itโs not surrealism, exactly. Itโs justโฆโ
โHow bad is it that you canโt even find the words?โ โItโs a little ghoulish.โ
โGhoulish!โ I had my answer. โGhoulish is super bad. Ghoulish is a catastrophe.โ
But she came over and hugged me.
โItโs certainly eye-catching,โ she said, trying to accentuate the positive. โNobodyโs going to be bored looking at this thing.โ
But eye-catching wasnโt going to cut it.ย Not boredย wasnโt what the judges wanted. And donโt get me started on ghoulish. This was a puppies- and-kittens type of organization.
These North American Portrait Society folks were about following the rulesโnot breaking them.
I stared at the painting and tried to see what Sue was talking aboutโor any face at all. But I just couldnโt. I squinted and concentrated and tried to make the pieces click for so long that frustration finally burst up out of my body like a geyser. I slammed my fist down on the paint table, accidentally hitting a book โฆ that hit a glass jar of brushes โฆ that went flying and shattered on the concrete floor.
โShit,โ I said, deflating.
I moved to start picking up the shards, but Sue stopped me. โGo sit down. Iโll get this. Take some breaths.โ
I did as I was told.
Sue found a broom and a pan. โWhat about Chuck Close?โ she suggested. โHe was a portrait artist with face blindness. How did he do it?โ
Iโd been reading up on him. He was a face-blind artist who painted enormous photorealistic faces. But I shook my head. โHe superimposed a grid over a photograph. But for this competition, it has to be a live model. No photos allowed. Itโs in the rules.โ
โWhat do other face-blind portrait artists do?โ
โShockingly, a search of โtechniques of face-blind portrait artistsโ does not turn up a huge number of results.โ
โYouโve tried it?โ โMany times.โ
โWell, then,โ Sue said, frowning again at the painting. โWeโll just have to get creative.โ
I ASKED DR. Nicole about it when we had our first meeting outside the hospital.
Iโd been supposed to start twice-a-week sessions with her the day after I came home. But in my Pajanket stupor, Iโd missed that first appointment. And then the next two. And I was seriously considering just never going at all when she started calling meโstalking me, reallyโuntil I finally gave in.
I Ubered to her office.
Which wasnโt an office at all. It was a 1920s bungalow in the Museum District.
Itโs not a stretch to say that I fan-girled Dr. Nicole with the same intensity that I was now madly in love with Peanutโs new veterinarian. This whole brain surgery thing seemed to have really turned up the volume on my emotions.
In the hospital, she had seemed to glow with comfort and compassion. Now, here in the real world, as she opened the door in a belted maxi dress, dangly gold earrings, and open-toed flats โฆ she was even better. Her short, naturally graying hair seemed to ring her head like a halo.
โHello, Sadie,โ she said, taking my hand and giving it her signature squeeze. โCome in.โ
What was it about her? She was so damnedย together.ย Her voice. Her calm. So balanced and solid and like she had it all under control.
The opposite of me, basically. Especially now.
โIโm sorry I missed all those appointments,โ I said, now that I was finally here. โI didnโt want to leave my apartment.โ
โI understand,โ Dr. Nicole said.
Iโm not going to lie. My life lately had me questioning everything. And Dr. Nicole Thomas-Ramparsad, Ph.D., just felt like a person who had all the answers.
โNobody has all the answers,โ she said when I told her that. โIโm just here to help you ask the right questions.โ
Exactly what someone who had all the answers would say.
Her office was bright and breezy. It had a little bit of an Old Hollywood vibe to it, with plaster walls and a wrought-iron staircase rail. Big windows. A lazily spinning ceiling fan with basket-weave blades. Potted palms and rubber trees all aroundโand, outside the window, positively basking in the sunlight, a cheery forest of birds-of-paradise everywhere.
Dr. Nicole made us tea and brought me a slice of coconut breadโwarm with melting butter. Did neuropsychologists bake bread for their patients? Was this a thing?
No matter. Dr. Nicole clearly made her own rules.
Plus, I was so starved for comfort, I didnโt care. My eyes filled with tears at my first bite.
โHow is the facial perception?โ she asked. โAny changes?โ I shook my head. No change at all.
โIt may take some time,โ she said. Then, โHow are you coping?โ
โI donโt think Iโm going to win any coping trophies anytime soon,โ I said.
I told her about feeling like I was on an alien planet. I told her about not feeling like myself. I told her about being so terrified of not recognizing peopleโand then running into Parker. I told her that I wanted to be the kind of person who could think of prosopagnosia as a superpowerโbut I just didnโt know how to get there.
โWell,โ she said, โgetting there is the fun part.โ From anyone else, that wouldโve been insulting.
I told her about trying to paint Sueโs portrait, and what a total disaster it had been, and how the thought that Iโd worked so hard for so long only to finally get my big break and thenย totally blow itย was keeping me up at night.
โWhy do you want to win the competition so badly?โ Dr. Nicole asked. โBecause itโs ten thousand dollarsโand Iโm broke.โ
She nodded, like,ย Fair enough.ย โAny other reasons?โ โBecause it could change my life,โ I said.
Dr. Nicole waited, like she knew thereโd be more.
โBecause I could use some encouragement,โ I said. โBecause Iโm ready to get something right. Because Iโm just so tired of failing.โ
That felt like a pretty big confession, right there. But Dr. Nicole just waited, like there was more.
โI guess I should mention,โ I said then, โthat my mother was also a portrait artist. And she also placed in this same competition thirteen years ago. But she, umโฆโ I took a sip of tea. โShe died suddenly the week before the show.โ
Dr. Nicole sat back in her chair.
Now, at last, Iโd said something real. โWe should probably talk about that.โ
I wrinkled my nose and shook my head.
Dr. Nicole gave a little have-it-your-way shrug. โWhatโs your dream?โ she asked then. โWhat do you want from your career?โ
โMy dream?โ I asked. This felt like a trick question. โWhat does the life you want look like?โ
I shrugged. โIโd like to be successful.โ It felt weird to say that out loud, in a way. Like I was being greedy. But what on earth had I been hustling for all these years if not to be successful? Did anyone ever try like hell for years toย notย be successful? โIโd like to make a living. A good living. Maybe some job stability. And to just wake up every day and paint. I donโt need to take over the world. I donโt need diamonds and yachts and furs. But Iโd like to get my car back. Orโokay, maybe a better car. I donโt want to want too much. I think I could be satisfied with just, like, a functioning car and enough money to pay my bills.โ
Dr. Nicole waited, like I wasnโt trying hard enough.
I went on. โBut if youโre asking what Iย want? Deep down, what Iย long for? I want my paintings to sell like hotcakes. I want to be admired by my peers. I want to really, truly be okay, and not just pretending. I want to be kicking ass. I want to beย thriving.ย I want to prove that I was awesome all along.โ
โProve that to whom?โ
Whoa. This lady could useย whomย in conversation. And make it sound right. She was literally the coolest. But I didnโt know how to answer that question. โI donโt know. People.โ
โWhich people?โ But I just shrugged.
Dr. Nicole changed her approach. โWhat would you get if you were successful?โ
โWhat would I get?โ
Dr. Nicole nodded. โEmotionally.โ
Ah. Emotionally. Suddenly I knew what she was asking. โYou know,โ I said, โI donโt really think that we need to do a whole lot of deep emotions in here. Iโm really just here for the neuropsychology tips. You know? To snag a few coping techniques. I donโt need to, like, delve into my dark past or anything.โ
She looked at meโand, again, I could feel this without seeing itโvery kindly said, โYou know itโs all the same, right?โ
โWhat is?โ
โEmotions. Coping tips. Your dark past.โ Ugh.
โYouโre very in your head,โ she said. โIโd like to see you dip into your heart.โ
โI like it in my head.โ
โBut thatโs not really where we live.โ
โAre you trying to tell me Iโm emotionally closed off?โ I said. โBecause I have lots of emotions. Iโm great at emotions! Iโm a huge fan of you, for example. I just fell madly in love with my brand-new veterinarian. I cry atย life insuranceย commercials.โ
โReal emotions, I mean.โ
โAre you telling me thatย loveย isnโt real?โ
But Dr. Nicole pulled rank on me then. Pausing a good while before saying, โIs that a question designed to get us closer to the truth or to steer us away?โ
God, she was good.
โThe thing is,โ I said, โI donโt talk about it. My dark past. Not even with my dog.โ
โWe donโt need to talk about it,โ she said. Then she added, โtoday.โ
Then she shifted topics. โWhat are your strategies for interacting with people?โ
โIโm just going to hide in my apartment until the edema goes down.โ โWhy donโt you want to see people?โ
โIt stresses me out. Iโm embarrassed.โ โEmbarrassed that you canโt recognize them?โ
โYes.โ Embarrassed I couldnโt recognize them. Embarrassed I couldnโtย seeย them. Afraid of hurting their feelings or snubbing them by accident or seeming like a bitch. Humiliated to not be myself. Disappointed to no longer be a brain surgery poster child. Mortified, ultimately, to not be soย not okayย that I couldnโt even hide it.
โWhat if you just told people?โ
That question didnโt even make any sense. โTold people what?โ
โAbout what youโre dealing with right now. About what youโre going through.โ
โWhat? Like, wear a T-shirt that says, โI canโt see youโ?โ โThatโs one option, I guess.โ
โNever,โ I said. โNever?โ
โI will never tell anyone about this face thing. Not voluntarily.โ
Dr. Nicole leaned forward like that was the most interesting thing Iโd said all day. โWhy not?โ
โBecause thatโs need-to-know information.โ โIt might help you feel more comfortable.โ
โThe whole world doesnโt need to know that Iโm malfunctioning,โ I said, like that settled it. But Dr. Nicole didnโt seem satisfied. So I added, โI just want to be my normal self.โ
โBut you arenโt your normal self right now.โ She mercifully did not add,ย And might never be again.
โIโm just going to take a fake-it-til-ya-make-it approach.โ Thatโs what Iโd been doing my whole life. โIf I canโt be okay, Iโll seem okay.โ
โSeeming okay and being okay are not the same thing.โ โClose enough.โ
โIn fact,โ she said, leaning in a little, โthey might cancel each other out.โ
โAre you saying I should just walk around wailing and weeping?โ โIโm saying,โ she said, โthat itโs better to be real than fake.โ
I could have argued with her. But I had a feeling Iโd lose.
Dr. Nicole went on. โIt might help people to know whatโs going on with you. It might help them help you.โ
โHave youย metย people?โ I asked. โPeople donโt help other people.โ
Dr. Nicole let that land for a second. Then she said, โI can think of a few teachers, firefighters, nurses, loving parents, and Good Samaritans who might disagree with you.โ
The Good Samaritan.
And just as I remembered him, Dr. Nicole said, โDidnโt someone save your life recently?โ
Ugh. So this wasย gotchaย therapy. โYes.โ โWas that not โhelping other peopleโ?โ โThat was an emergency,โ I said.
โAh,โ she said. But it was sarcastic.
I took a bite of coconut bread and contemplated that.
Then a thought lit up my head like sunlight breaking through clouds. โDr. Nicole?โ I asked, trying not to sound suspicious. โWhen you were
arguing with me just now, were you โฆ teaching me how to argue with myself?โ
And then I could see her teethโbut also feel her big smileโas she said, โYouโre smarter than you look, choonks.โ