Blue Sun, Yellow Sky Page 15

  Michael was a huge fan of Edison Price, the great fixture designer of the twentieth century. He read every article and attended every conference about this man who spent his life perfecting the art of lighting. Renowned for his work in developing fixtures that lit a flat wall with no glare, he was like the Godfather of museum lighting, and Michael talked about him incessantly. He believed that the proper lighting of a picture was just as important as the picture itself.

  On the eve of my debut gallery opening, Michael and I spent half the day discussing the difference between incandescent, fluorescent, and halogen lights, as well as proper recessed and track lighting techniques, task lighting, accent lighting, downlighting, uplighting, and LEDs. We talked about the fact that the viewer’s attention should never be drawn to the lighting itself.

  Our eyes were the lenses we used to see the world, and the combination of our human eye and lambency was the foundation of every picture—photo or otherwise. “Hues, for example, only exist as an interaction between the optic nerve in our eye and the luminosity it perceives,” he said, knowing he’d catch my attention by relating light to color.

  I stood in front of the Madonna for ten minutes, observing the curvature of her face and the easy flow of her gown. Lorenzetto, Raphael’s apprentice and the sculptor of the Madonna del Sasso, mimicked Raphael’s style of grace and restraint. Raphael was known for being judicious in his compositions, technically skilled, and pure in his taste. Keeping that in mind, I studied the sculpture and changed my mind about the lighting. Yes, the yellow light cast an unnatural color onto the white stone, but it also created a shadow of a mountain behind the sculpture. Madonna del Sasso meant Madonna of the Rock, and the darkened formation looked like a stone mountain in the background. This contrast of dark and light was emblematic of the Renaissance Period and highlighted the softened edges of the Madonna’s dress, which meant the lighting worked for the piece and not against it.

  Michael would be proud.

  Jeff, on the other hand, wouldn’t have understood its importance, I thought. A pathetic effort to convince myself that my feelings for him were misplaced.

  Whatever Jeff was dealing with was separate from me and I knew he was sincere when he said he hadn’t meant to hurt me. I was, however, angry with myself, and that was quickly turning into self-pity. I was frustrated with myself for not accomplishing more, for taking for granted the time I thought I had to build a career, and for dedicating my life to an obviously frivolous job. It was hard for me to reconcile my part in the world as an artist who couldn’t see. Every day that my eyesight worsened, I felt my personal value diminish with it.

  I was damaged goods. The phrase entered my mind, followed by an avalanche of others. My questionable talent, my ever-fluctuating bank account, my inability to cultivate a healthy romantic relationship, and my stubborn nature. I was twenty-seven with no kids, no house, and now no career either. No wonder Jeff preferred to be with Veronica.

  Coming on this trip was beginning to feel like a mistake. The dark rings that had begun to form around my periphery were subtle, but I couldn’t deny their presence. Four weeks away hadn’t gotten me any closer to figuring out what I was going to do with the rest of my life. Traveling held no answers to life’s big questions. As far as I could tell, its only purpose was to prolong the actual process of moving forward.

  It was evening when I noticed the gold crown of the Vatican in the distance. Walking alone, I was less a tourist and more a lonely soul wandering unfamiliar streets. Everyone around me seemed to have a purpose: talking on the phone, walking briskly toward a destination, chatting animatedly, or moving hand in hand with a lover. Then there was me, meandering aimlessly toward the Vatican with not the slightest idea of what to do when I arrived.

  I crossed the Fiume Tevere River and passed along the backside of an old castle before coming to a halt in front of it. Castel Sant’Angelo, a massive fortress made of round, multi-tiered sections with a giant blue-green sculpture of a bird on top, had a fire hydrant at the entrance painted red, white, and green—the colors of the Italian flag. Finally, a country that appreciated the artistic merit of a fire hydrant. I took a photo for the postcard I’d later burn for my dad and thought about the message I’d write:

  Hey Dad,

  I guess you weren’t lying when you said I was 1/16th Italian! Wish you and Mom were here. Love you both immensely. Missing you always. -Aubs

  I kept all of my messages short and sweet. Nothing heavy, nothing sad, and especially nothing about RP. My parents would’ve blamed themselves and I couldn’t stand the idea of them feeling sorry for me.

  The postcard tradition was something I couldn’t bring myself to give up. So, for the first few years after their death, I mailed the postcards home knowing I’d be the one to receive them through the forwarding service Eli set up. I switched to burning them after my good friend Stephanie’s grandfather passed away—exactly two years after my parents. He and I never met, but Steph talked about him frequently, relaying stories and Chinese proverbs that he’d impress upon her whenever she saw him. She’d retell them to us with an air of passivity, but I knew they affected her. A small hole not mended in time will become a big hole more difficult to mend was one proverb that surfaced often when she argued with her mom, and unsurprisingly their issues were always resolved before nightfall.

  At her grandfather’s burial site, a pit was set up with burning coal where the family placed Joss paper, a symbol of money, and other items like paper villas, cars, medicine, food, and top shelf liquor made of papier-mâché. In death, he was given all of the luxuries that had eluded him in life. For me, the burning of symbolic items opened up a portal to the afterlife. Fire, which before I had equated to destruction, now represented renewal. That same night I burned the stack of postcards I had previously mailed home.

  Two blocks from the Vatican entrance I saw a sign that read “Migliori Spaghetti Carbonara in Tutta Italia.” I had no idea what it meant, but Spaghetti sounded really good and the aroma of garlic bread sealed the deal. The restaurant was on a bustling street corner with a patio facing the Vatican. Small buildings obstructed most of my view, but I could see the crown dome topped by a golden cross. I ordered the carbonara special and a carafe of vino, and sat observing the flow of the city. My need for sustenance meant I wasn’t going to make it to the Vatican.

  As I waited for my food, it dawned on me that Jeff’s absence was strange and at the same time liberating. Not because I wanted to get away from him, but because I was tired of pretending I wasn’t afraid. I didn’t want to admit that my relationship with Jeff had changed in the nine years we spent not being a part of each other’s lives, but he was no longer the person to whom I could say anything. High school was a long time ago and I didn’t feel comfortable bursting into tears in front of him now. That kind of emotional freedom came only with solitude.

  My spaghetti carbonara arrived beautifully plated with the angel hair pasta covered in a creamy sauce, bacon bits sprinkled on the outer edges of the plate, and a raw egg yolk sitting on top. I pierced the yolk with my fork and watched the yellow insides drip over the strings of pasta creating a yellow river down the front of my plate. Swirling the pasta onto my fork, I took a bite. Surprisingly light for how thick the sauce appeared, I finished the entire plate and sat idly sipping my wine while watching pedestrians pass by—and occasionally hearing snippets of conversations from the diners nearby.

  With quite a bit of alcohol in my system, the evening felt serene despite the crowds in the streets. I laughed to myself as Jeff’s words rung in my ears. He might have had a point about me running away at difficult moments. I’d been gone for over four weeks and I still hadn’t even told my closest friends the real reason behind the trip. But how much longer could I keep avoiding this?

  Hailing a cab, I decided it was time to face the music.

  When I opened the door to our hotel room, Jeff was nowhere to be seen. His bags were just as we had left them and nothing in the room a
ppeared to have been touched. I flopped down on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

  Jeff was definitely mad at me. Our very first fight had been in our freshman year of high school; Jeff had joined the wrestling team and was hanging out with the guys a lot more than with me. We argued about it, he disappeared for a few days, resurfaced with a giant bag of peanut M&M’s, and we made up over some comedy starring Ron Livingston and Jennifer Aniston. The same went for the time I stood him up at the winter formal sophomore year because I thought I was having a creative breakthrough. Two days of silence, a bag of Sour Patch Kids, and a movie starring Ben Stiller made everything all right. I wasn’t worried that Jeff wouldn’t come back; what concerned me was whether a bag of candy and a funny movie could fix the situation we had created.

  I rose off the bed and moved over to Jeff’s computer. Signing in under guest mode, I logged into my Gmail account to send a mass e-mail to my friends. The letter was three paragraphs long: the first, a description of the lanterns in China, floating in the Dead Sea, and the Taj Mahal, with promises to send photos soon; the second, a moment of honesty about why I suddenly had to see the world; the third, a request. I asked that they not reply or send me anything telling me how sorry they were. I didn’t want to pity myself and if they pitied me, I wouldn’t be able to help it.

  When I was done with the body of the letter, I started adding its recipients. Sharon and Alison: my Columbia roommates who now lived in Washington D.C. Jason, Michael, and Courtney: Houston-to-L.A. transplants whom I quickly befriended in a bar during an Astros-Dodgers game. Nicole, John, and Eddie, my hipster ex-coworkers at Blick Art Supplies—my first of many part-time jobs in Los Angeles. Bill and Lina, my adventurous, outdoorsy friends who let me tag along on group camping trips they planned. The three of us had had many an existential conversation under the stars with Kahlua and hot chocolate. I thought about adding aunts, uncles, and cousins, but I had distanced myself from all of them after my parents’ funeral. Just thinking about the sorrowful looks on their faces as they read that I was going blind made me remove them from the e-mail. They were loving and always reached out to me during the holidays, but the pity and grief that lingered in their eyes made it hard for me to be strong. Michael already knew, but I added him anyway so he would know that I told Rusty.

  I attached a link to photos I had uploaded to Instagram and clicked ‘Send.’

  Instantly, the computer started ringing. Rusty was calling me via Google Voice. I answered.

  “Hello?” I said, hearing static in the background.

  “I cannot believe you left for China without even telling me!” He had obviously not read the entire e-mail yet.

  “I’m in Rome now actually,” I said, suppressing a smile even though he couldn’t see me. It was good to hear his voice.

  “Rome? You get around, don’t you?” he teased.

  “How is everything back home?” I asked.

  He didn’t respond for a long time. “Is this for real?” he finally asked. He had obviously gotten to the second paragraph.

  “Yes.”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment. “How far along are you?”

  “That sounds like you’re asking when my baby is going to be born,” I laughed, trying to keep the tone of conversation light.

  “Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

  “I’m fine. I don’t need anything—I’m with Jeff.”

  “Jeff who?”

  “High school Jeff.”

  “What? I’m confused. Start at the beginning.”

  I told him everything. Even about our ill-fated romance and my misplaced feelings. Eventually, I tried to steer the conversation in another direction, and I mentioned how being at the top of the Eiffel Tower was similar to gazing over L.A. at the Griffith. I also told him that the natural red rock of Petra reminded me of his painting Seasons and promised to e-mail him a photo.

  “Have you been painting at all?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’ve been shipping some paintings to Michael, but he still hasn’t received the one from China yet. Enough about me though, what’s going on there? I miss you,” I said.

  “It’s all the same.”

  “Are you working on anything?”

  “Yeah, I’ve started a new collection.”

  “That’s awesome! I can’t wait to see it when I get back,” I said. Rusty didn’t say anything. “I’m going to be fine Rust,” I said with false confidence.

  “You just worry about yourself and making the most of your trip. Tell that Jeff kid I’m going to punch him in the balls,” Rusty said as the electronic latch on the door clicked and Jeff walked in carrying a giant bag of mixed candies.

  “Will do,” I said to Rusty. “I gotta run.”

  “Alright, bye darlin’.”

  I hung up and moved over to the bed where Jeff was dumping the candy. “Jesus,” I said, impressed by the amount that was there. Jeff was spreading it about like a kid assessing his loot after a night of trick-or-treating.

  “Please don’t be mad,” he said sheepishly.

  I made a face.

  “I’m sorry about what I said—”

  “We made a mistake,” I cut him off. “You’re sorry. I’m sorry. Let’s leave it at that.” I opened a candy wrapper to try and mask the lingering smell of alcohol on my breath.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  Jeff smiled. “Have you been drinking?”

  “Yep.”

  Jeff sat down next to me on the edge of the bed, just close enough for me to tuck my toes under him. He smiled.

  “Are you going to tell me where you’ve been for the last twelve hours?” I asked.

  “Walking,” he said.

  “Walking?”

  “Yeah. What about you?” he asked.

  “I walked to the—“

  “Walking?” he repeated with a mocking smile.

  I laughed. “I walked to the Pantheon and meant to go check out the Sistine Chapel and Vatican, but I got sloshed instead.”

  “The Pantheon is supposed to be pretty cool,” he said. “Did you make any spiritual revelations or forge any divine connections?”

  “No,” I said. “Just did a lot of observing.”

  “Me too.” He let out a long breath as he leaned back, lying on the bed with his face turned toward me. “My mom says ‘Hi.’ I kind of let it slip that we were traveling together,” Jeff said.

  “I didn’t know it was a secret,” I replied.

  “It’s not. It’s just, you know my mom…” Jeff trailed off.

  “She still holds a torch for our kindergarten romance?”

  “The day I told her I asked Veronica to marry me, you know what she said?”

  “What?”

  “Does Aubrey know?”

  “Yeah right.”

  “I swear to God,” he said.

  “Well, can you blame her? I mean we did make a pretty cute sandbox couple,” I smiled, suddenly wishing I’d kept in better touch with his parents over the years.

  “You were the first person to ever break my heart, so by default one could say that all of my romantic problems stem from you.” He headed for the bathroom to brush his teeth. I followed, unable to remember if I’d brushed my own earlier.

  When I was done brushing my teeth and washing my face, I asked, “How did I break your heart again?”

  “Wait,” he said before I got into bed. He quickly tucked the sheets in, fluffed the pillows, and straightened the comforter on my side even though his side remained untouched.

  “Feel better?” I asked humorously. Although, I had to admit, I was a little surprised at how much I liked pulling the sheets back and climbing into the freshly made bed.

  “You didn’t let me buy you ice cream. You always told me ‘no’ when I tried to do nice things for you,” he said, heading for the shower.

  “Huh?”

  “That’s how you broke my heart.”

  I gave him a quizzical look. He
didn’t elaborate and disappeared into the bathroom.

  I laid in bed for a while before reluctantly peeling the covers off again. While Jeff was still in the shower, I unpacked my bag, stretched a canvas, mixed my colors, and spread out my brushes. Then, I sat down with the hotel stationary, which I tore into squares and began folding into cranes. I imagined a large pyramid with the Eye of Horus at the top covering most of the canvas. The center would mask a naked couple sitting on their knees and wrapped in each other’s arms. Once I decided to have their embracing bodies form a triangle with their toes making up the two bottom corners, I set my seventh crane down and began to paint.

  Jeff, meanwhile, emerged from the bathroom, remade the bed again, and sprawled out on top of the comforter to read a book. I thought about making fun of him and saying something about how old habits die hard. But I didn’t because I wondered if the small act of rebellion was his way of getting back to himself after being lost in a relationship.

  The painting was similar to my earlier works of juxtaposed images but without the dark humor. Just pieces of earth and fragments of life that wouldn’t otherwise exist together. Borrowing from the Latin American artist Debra Hurd, I created them in abstract pieces. The way her Blue Jazz painting featured people had always inspired me. Individual faces were indiscernible because it wasn’t about the musician—it was about the music. But where the paintings had similarities, they also diverged. Blue Jazz was loud, bursting with sound, and demanding to be heard, whereas mine was subtle, serene, and unassuming.

  I hoped to convey unity—what could emerge when two forces became one. My characters were a representation of any two things meeting to form a unique outcome. I might have even gone so far as to say that one was me and the other was Retinitis Pigmentosa personified. It was my hope that when swirled together on a palette, we formed a one-of-a-kind point of view. What emerged was so different from my usual works that I didn’t know if I liked it. The palate was monochromatic and two figures embracing in the center looked almost ghostlike. I considered adding more color, but found myself instead looking at the unintentional details found in the flowing brushstrokes and knew it was done.