Your Destination Is on the Left by Lauren Spieller

Author:Lauren Spieller
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers

CHAPTER 12

Midmorning sunlight streams through the windows, turning the chaos of the studio a stunning gold. Fiona and I are curled on the sofa, our empty hot chocolate mugs crusting over on the table in front of us.

“Your technique is already very good,” Fiona says as she swipes through photos of my portfolio on my cell phone. She points at a picture of a painting on the screen. “But there’s no passion here. I don’t see you in this.”

“Those pictures are small,” I argue. “Maybe if you see the paintings on a bigger screen . . .”

“It doesn’t matter. Big or small, grainy or clear, these read like careful forgeries, failing to capture the essence of an original. Perfect replications void of soul.”

I suck in a sharp breath. I thought these paintings were good. How can I call myself an artist if I can’t even tell the difference?

“All artists go through this phase,” she says, handing the phone back to me. “It’s transitional. You start with raw talent, with color and shapes and speed. The kind of talent that makes your parents pin your work to the fridge.”

I think of the countless times Mom’s told me how wonderful I am, how talented, how special. Guess I was right not to believe her.

“Then your parents send you to art class,” Fiona continues, “and you learn to focus on technique. Most people never move past this stage. Or they give up on technique entirely. Few can marry talent and technique into one.”

“What if you get stuck? What if all the passion that got you started in the first place is gone, and all you can think about is technique?”

Fiona considers me for a second, her head tipped to the side. Her long black hair cascades off her shoulder like a waterfall. “Stay right here. I have an idea.”

She strides over to a towering stereo with wall-mounted speakers, and flips through a stack of tottering CDs, reading the front of the cases before tossing them down again. She finally finds what she’s looking for and slips the CD into her stereo. The machine gobbles it up, and a series of green lights flash.

Fiona’s index finger hovers over the play button. “When my brain won’t shut up, sometimes I have to drown it out.”

She pushes play, and I’m hit with a wall of sound. Beating drums, so loud and insistent I feel them pounding inside my brain, my bones. She turns a dial, and the volume soars. The sound rattles the windows, my teeth. I place my hand over my heart, and I swear I can feel it vibrating inside me.

Fiona returns, a piece of charcoal in hand. “Draw!”

“Draw what?” I shout. “I can’t even think.”

“Exactly!” She rips a piece of drafting paper off a long roll attached to the end of a table, and holds it out to me. “Don’t think. Just create.”

Fiona tears off another piece for herself, and drops to the floor. She pulls a broken piece of charcoal across the page in long, sure strokes.

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