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Chapter no 7

Hello Stranger

WHEN I GOT back home, there was an email waiting for me from the North American Portrait Society, which reminded me Iโ€™d 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 modelโ€”no work done from photographs.

 

Portraits may be either oil or acrylic, but no mixed media.

 

Portraits must be new workโ€”painted within six weeks of the deadline.

 

Also there was a whole attachment about a component of the evening Iโ€™d 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 bidderโ€”with 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 Iโ€™d frittered away fourteen days since learning I was a finalist. True, Iโ€™d had a lot going on. But the North American Portrait Society wouldnโ€™t 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 gyrusโ€”not to mention that I hadnโ€™t even started painting. Or even really thought about it.

Time to pull it together. If I was well enough to marry Peanutโ€™s veterinarian, I was well enough to paint one portrait.

But โ€ฆย how?

The portraits I did were classic, traditional ones. One of my art teachers in college had called me โ€œa multicultural twenty-first-century Norman Rockwell.โ€ I took all different kinds of subjects and gave them aย Saturday Evening Postย treatmentโ€”realistic, 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, tooโ€”and, in fact, Iโ€™d taught myself to paint by copying her portfolio. Thatโ€™s what I did in high school instead of drinking: stayed in the art studio twenty hours a day and copied my motherโ€™s brushstrokes.

Iโ€™d say, at this point, you could barely tell my work apart from hers, and that not only made me feel proudโ€”it made me feel like Iโ€™d found a way to hold on to her.

But hereโ€™s 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

โ€”the 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 canโ€™t fudge it, is what I mean. You canโ€™t 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 faceโ€”front and center.

Iโ€™d done it a thousand times. Iโ€™dย 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 โ€œfacepocalypse,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, sheโ€™d be willing to do crazy stuff.

I called her after getting the reminder email, and I said, โ€œWeโ€™re still on for tomorrow, right?โ€

โ€œOf course,โ€ Sue said.

โ€œDonโ€™t flake out, okay? I really need you.โ€ โ€œI never flake out,โ€ Sue said.

She sometimes flaked out, to be honest. But who didnโ€™t?

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. Weโ€™d split some kind of takeout dinner, and her boyfriend Witt swore he didnโ€™t mind her โ€œworking late.โ€

โ€œYouโ€™re not really working, though,โ€ I said. โ€œAre you?โ€ โ€œLabor 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. Iโ€™d 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 rightโ€”rich and eye-catching without being overwhelming. Iโ€™d 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. Iโ€™d painted her twenty times, at least, and she was one of my favorite subjects.

In ordinary times, weโ€™d already have this thing locked up.

But now, of course, things were different. Maybe I knew her face so well, I didnโ€™t have to see it to paint it? Maybe Iโ€™d painted her so many other times, my hands would know what to do by muscle memory?

I closed my eyes and tried to picture Sueโ€™s 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 mindโ€™s 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 wasnโ€™t going to make this harder on myselfโ€”it was hard enough. I wasnโ€™t 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 canvasโ€™s empty white face hole.

By the time Sue arrived, I was ready to quit.

โ€œI donโ€™t want to find out for sure that I canโ€™t do this, you know?โ€ I said. โ€œIโ€™d rather onlyย suspectย that I canโ€™t do it. Doesnโ€™t that sound better?โ€

โ€œNo. That doesnโ€™t sound better. Because then youโ€™re not painting. And you always get really crabby when youโ€™re not painting.โ€

She wasnโ€™t wrong.

โ€œEven painting something bad,โ€ Sue said, โ€œis better than not painting anything at all.โ€

โ€œIs it?โ€ I asked. Guess we were about to find out.

โ€œMaybe youโ€™ll surprise yourself,โ€ Sue said. โ€œMaybe portrait painting is another brain system like reading emotions is. Or maybe youโ€™re so good at this, you donโ€™t even need your face area thingy. Wouldnโ€™t that be amazing?โ€

I nodded.

โ€œJust jump in,โ€ she said. โ€œI 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 Iโ€™d known so long, who Iโ€™d painted so many times โ€ฆ 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 didnโ€™t 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 couldnโ€™t 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 couldnโ€™t see her expression, but I could definitely read her emotion.

And that emotion was โ€œHuh.โ€ โ€œTell me,โ€ I said.

โ€œDo you want me to be honest?โ€ โ€œNo. Yes. I donโ€™t know.โ€

โ€œItโ€™s a little funky,โ€ Sue said at last. โ€œWhat does that mean?โ€

She paused. โ€œItโ€™s not photorealism.โ€

โ€œWe knew that already. What are you saying?โ€ โ€œItโ€™s a little bit like a Salvador Dalรญ painting.โ€

โ€œOh my god, is your faceย melting? Like a Dalรญ clock?โ€

โ€œNo โ€ฆ the pieces are all technically kind of in the right place. Ish. Itโ€™s not surrealism, exactly. Itโ€™s justโ€ฆโ€

โ€œHow bad is it that you canโ€™t even find the words?โ€ โ€œItโ€™s a little ghoulish.โ€

โ€œGhoulish!โ€ I had my answer. โ€œGhoulish is super bad. Ghoulish is a catastrophe.โ€

But she came over and hugged me.

โ€œItโ€™s certainly eye-catching,โ€ she said, trying to accentuate the positive. โ€œNobodyโ€™s going to be bored looking at this thing.โ€

But eye-catching wasnโ€™t going to cut it.ย Not boredย wasnโ€™t what the judges wanted. And donโ€™t get me started on ghoulish. This was a puppies- and-kittens type of organization.

These North American Portrait Society folks were about following the rulesโ€”not breaking them.

I stared at the painting and tried to see what Sue was talking aboutโ€”or any face at all. But I just couldnโ€™t. 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 โ€ฆ that hit a glass jar of brushes โ€ฆ that went flying and shattered on the concrete floor.

โ€œShit,โ€ I said, deflating.

I moved to start picking up the shards, but Sue stopped me. โ€œGo sit down. Iโ€™ll get this. Take some breaths.โ€

I did as I was told.

Sue found a broom and a pan. โ€œWhat about Chuck Close?โ€ she suggested. โ€œHe was a portrait artist with face blindness. How did he do it?โ€

Iโ€™d been reading up on him. He was a face-blind artist who painted enormous photorealistic faces. But I shook my head. โ€œHe superimposed a grid over a photograph. But for this competition, it has to be a live model. No photos allowed. Itโ€™s in the rules.โ€

โ€œWhat do other face-blind portrait artists do?โ€

โ€œShockingly, a search of โ€˜techniques of face-blind portrait artistsโ€™ does not turn up a huge number of results.โ€

โ€œYouโ€™ve tried it?โ€ โ€œMany times.โ€

โ€œWell, then,โ€ Sue said, frowning again at the painting. โ€œWeโ€™ll just have to get creative.โ€

 

 

I ASKED DR. Nicole about it when we had our first meeting outside the hospital.

Iโ€™d been supposed to start twice-a-week sessions with her the day after I came home. But in my Pajanket stupor, Iโ€™d missed that first appointment. And then the next two. And I was seriously considering just never going at all when she started calling meโ€”stalking me, reallyโ€”until I finally gave in.

I Ubered to her office.

Which wasnโ€™t an office at all. It was a 1920s bungalow in the Museum District.

Itโ€™s not a stretch to say that I fan-girled Dr. Nicole with the same intensity that I was now madly in love with Peanutโ€™s 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 โ€ฆ she was even better. Her short, naturally graying hair seemed to ring her head like a halo.

โ€œHello, Sadie,โ€ she said, taking my hand and giving it her signature squeeze. โ€œCome 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.

โ€œIโ€™m sorry I missed all those appointments,โ€ I said, now that I was finally here. โ€œI didnโ€™t want to leave my apartment.โ€

โ€œI understand,โ€ Dr. Nicole said.

Iโ€™m 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.

โ€œNobody has all the answers,โ€ she said when I told her that. โ€œIโ€™m 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 aroundโ€”and, 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 breadโ€”warm 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 didnโ€™t care. My eyes filled with tears at my first bite.

โ€œHow is the facial perception?โ€ she asked. โ€œAny changes?โ€ I shook my head. No change at all.

โ€œIt may take some time,โ€ she said. Then, โ€œHow are you coping?โ€

โ€œI donโ€™t think Iโ€™m 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 peopleโ€”and then running into Parker. I told her that I wanted to be the kind of person who could think of prosopagnosia as a superpowerโ€”but I just didnโ€™t know how to get there.

โ€œWell,โ€ she said, โ€œgetting there is the fun part.โ€ From anyone else, that wouldโ€™ve been insulting.

I told her about trying to paint Sueโ€™s portrait, and what a total disaster it had been, and how the thought that Iโ€™d worked so hard for so long only to finally get my big break and thenย totally blow itย was keeping me up at night.

โ€œWhy do you want to win the competition so badly?โ€ Dr. Nicole asked. โ€œBecause itโ€™s ten thousand dollarsโ€”and Iโ€™m broke.โ€

She nodded, like,ย Fair enough.ย โ€œAny other reasons?โ€ โ€œBecause it could change my life,โ€ I said.

Dr. Nicole waited, like she knew thereโ€™d be more.

โ€œBecause I could use some encouragement,โ€ I said. โ€œBecause Iโ€™m ready to get something right. Because Iโ€™m just so tired of failing.โ€

That felt like a pretty big confession, right there. But Dr. Nicole just waited, like there was more.

โ€œI guess I should mention,โ€ I said then, โ€œthat my mother was also a portrait artist. And she also placed in this same competition thirteen years ago. But she, umโ€ฆโ€ I took a sip of tea. โ€œShe died suddenly the week before the show.โ€

Dr. Nicole sat back in her chair.

Now, at last, Iโ€™d said something real. โ€œWe should probably talk about that.โ€

I wrinkled my nose and shook my head.

Dr. Nicole gave a little have-it-your-way shrug. โ€œWhatโ€™s your dream?โ€ she asked then. โ€œWhat do you want from your career?โ€

โ€œMy dream?โ€ I asked. This felt like a trick question. โ€œWhat does the life you want look like?โ€

I shrugged. โ€œIโ€™d 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? โ€œIโ€™d like to make a living. A good living. Maybe some job stability. And to just wake up every day and paint. I donโ€™t need to take over the world. I donโ€™t need diamonds and yachts and furs. But Iโ€™d like to get my car back. Orโ€”okay, maybe a better car. I donโ€™t 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 wasnโ€™t trying hard enough.

I went on. โ€œBut if youโ€™re 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€

โ€œProve that to whom?โ€

Whoa. This lady could useย whomย in conversation. And make it sound right. She was literally the coolest. But I didnโ€™t know how to answer that question. โ€œI donโ€™t know. People.โ€

โ€œWhich people?โ€ But I just shrugged.

Dr. Nicole changed her approach. โ€œWhat would you get if you were successful?โ€

โ€œWhat would I get?โ€

Dr. Nicole nodded. โ€œEmotionally.โ€

Ah. Emotionally. Suddenly I knew what she was asking. โ€œYou know,โ€ I said, โ€œI donโ€™t really think that we need to do a whole lot of deep emotions in here. Iโ€™m really just here for the neuropsychology tips. You know? To snag a few coping techniques. I donโ€™t need to, like, delve into my dark past or anything.โ€

She looked at meโ€”and, again, I could feel this without seeing itโ€”very kindly said, โ€œYou know itโ€™s all the same, right?โ€

โ€œWhat is?โ€

โ€œEmotions. Coping tips. Your dark past.โ€ Ugh.

โ€œYouโ€™re very in your head,โ€ she said. โ€œIโ€™d like to see you dip into your heart.โ€

โ€œI like it in my head.โ€

โ€œBut thatโ€™s not really where we live.โ€

โ€œAre you trying to tell me Iโ€™m emotionally closed off?โ€ I said. โ€œBecause I have lots of emotions. Iโ€™m great at emotions! Iโ€™m 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€

โ€œReal emotions, I mean.โ€

โ€œAre you telling me thatย loveย isnโ€™t real?โ€

But Dr. Nicole pulled rank on me then. Pausing a good while before saying, โ€œIs that a question designed to get us closer to the truth or to steer us away?โ€

God, she was good.

โ€œThe thing is,โ€ I said, โ€œI donโ€™t talk about it. My dark past. Not even with my dog.โ€

โ€œWe donโ€™t need to talk about it,โ€ she said. Then she added, โ€œtoday.โ€

Then she shifted topics. โ€œWhat are your strategies for interacting with people?โ€

โ€œIโ€™m just going to hide in my apartment until the edema goes down.โ€ โ€œWhy donโ€™t you want to see people?โ€

โ€œIt stresses me out. Iโ€™m embarrassed.โ€ โ€œEmbarrassed that you canโ€™t recognize them?โ€

โ€œYes.โ€ Embarrassed I couldnโ€™t recognize them. Embarrassed I couldnโ€™tย 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 couldnโ€™t even hide it.

โ€œWhat if you just told people?โ€

That question didnโ€™t even make any sense. โ€œTold people what?โ€

โ€œAbout what youโ€™re dealing with right now. About what youโ€™re going through.โ€

โ€œWhat? Like, wear a T-shirt that says, โ€˜I canโ€™t see youโ€™?โ€ โ€œThatโ€™s one option, I guess.โ€

โ€œNever,โ€ I said. โ€œNever?โ€

โ€œI will never tell anyone about this face thing. Not voluntarily.โ€

Dr. Nicole leaned forward like that was the most interesting thing Iโ€™d said all day. โ€œWhy not?โ€

โ€œBecause thatโ€™s need-to-know information.โ€ โ€œIt might help you feel more comfortable.โ€

โ€œThe whole world doesnโ€™t need to know that Iโ€™m malfunctioning,โ€ I said, like that settled it. But Dr. Nicole didnโ€™t seem satisfied. So I added, โ€œI just want to be my normal self.โ€

โ€œBut you arenโ€™t your normal self right now.โ€ She mercifully did not add,ย And might never be again.

โ€œIโ€™m just going to take a fake-it-til-ya-make-it approach.โ€ Thatโ€™s what Iโ€™d been doing my whole life. โ€œIf I canโ€™t be okay, Iโ€™ll seem okay.โ€

โ€œSeeming okay and being okay are not the same thing.โ€ โ€œClose enough.โ€

โ€œIn fact,โ€ she said, leaning in a little, โ€œthey might cancel each other out.โ€

โ€œAre you saying I should just walk around wailing and weeping?โ€ โ€œIโ€™m saying,โ€ she said, โ€œthat itโ€™s better to be real than fake.โ€

I could have argued with her. But I had a feeling Iโ€™d lose.

Dr. Nicole went on. โ€œIt might help people to know whatโ€™s going on with you. It might help them help you.โ€

โ€œHave youย metย people?โ€ I asked. โ€œPeople donโ€™t help other people.โ€

Dr. Nicole let that land for a second. Then she said, โ€œI 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, โ€œDidnโ€™t someone save your life recently?โ€

Ugh. So this wasย gotchaย therapy. โ€œYes.โ€ โ€œWas that not โ€˜helping other peopleโ€™?โ€ โ€œThat was an emergency,โ€ I said.

โ€œAh,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. โ€œDr. Nicole?โ€ I asked, trying not to sound suspicious. โ€œWhen you were

arguing with me just now, were you โ€ฆ teaching me how to argue with myself?โ€

And then I could see her teethโ€”but also feel her big smileโ€”as she said, โ€œYouโ€™re smarter than you look, choonks.โ€

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