For a moment, we held our
foreheads one against the other. It was not a comfortable position but it was
the one we somehow needed to hold for a moment. I felt his breathing near me
and even his heart pumping blood all over his body. I could see his pores and
even smell the chicken and egg sandwich he had eaten for lunch. His eyes were
shut but mine were open, looking at him and him only, wondering if that moment
was really happening or if I had been transported to another strange dimension.
But it was not one thing or the
other. It was just one of those moments in drawing class when the teacher asks
two students to come forward and pose for the rest. Of course, we would all be
having actual models later in our careers and in college, but for the time being
it was best to use ourselves as pieces of art. My partner in the exercise,
Alex, was a kid that never spoke too much and that used to carry a huge block
all over the place. He would always draw when there was no class to go to.
What I did in those empty spaces
of time between classes was to hang out with other students or go to the
library and try to pass the time reading magazines or sitting in one of the
many computers available for investigation. I would invent something to do for
myself and then spend the rest of the afternoon there. I had never been a very
social person, which might have made Alex and me really close but we were still
two very different people. He was, and always had been an artist. I wasn’t.
My family was made up by my
father who was an engineer, my mother who was an architect and a sister that
had recently left to pursue her career as a publicist. She would write to my
mother almost daily about all the exciting things she was doing for herself and
I would have to listen to my mom talk about it over and over again, during
breakfast, lunch and dinner. Don’t get me wrong, I love my sister too but
sometimes it was a bit too much of the same damn subject. But then again, there
wasn’t another.
My decision to become an artist
had been subject of the most passive resistance I had ever witnessed for my
parents. Thank God, that had happened only for a month, the time between the
first payment and the first actual day of college. And had decided that to be
my route in the blink of an eye after coming out of high school. My parents
were not only against the decision because of the career being Arts but because
I had never really shown an interest in it or, to be fair, an actual talent for
anything that someone might consider an art form.
Nevertheless, I assured them I
was certain that it was the career I needed to achieve my dreams and goals. So
they paid for it. My parents would never be the kind of parents that would say
“no” to their children. Not that we were spoiled or anything like that, but
they always knew when was the moment to say “yes” and they had to intervene.
Apparently, this life choice had to be respected, so I entered my first year
with the goal to make it all work and make them see that I was right.
However, my second year had begun
and I still had no idea why I was there. To be honest, being weird and not
social wasn’t the only reason why people wouldn’t really talk to me. You see,
artist love to have other artists to talk about… Well, arts. They don’t really
care that much for people with other interests. Just look at any tabloid: most
actors or actresses marry other actors or actresses or maybe someone in the
business anyway. Yes, they might be exceptions but that seems to be the rule.
And in my second year, it was quite
obvious. Some of my fellow classmates, most of them to be honest, had already
discovered what they wanted to do for the rest of their lives. The first year
had been an introduction to the whole things, so after that, it was kind of
expected by the teachers that every single person would have an interest that
was more of a goal than any of the other things they would learn about. And the
cool thing is that they could start choosing classes that suited those
interests.
That was the reason why my
schedule for the year was all over the place. Contrary to most people, I was
having a little bit of everything. I had music and pottery and then photography
and drawing and writing. There was even a women studies class that I included
solely because it gave me necessary credits to graduate. But I had no idea what
people were discussing most of the times, except when the discussions got very
heated. Then, I loved to see people fight for their causes, even if they were
clearly wrong.
The point is, I had no interests
and I wasn’t good at anything. Yeah, my grades were fine. Not excellent or
dreadful, just fine. I didn’t excel in anything and I wasn’t a total disaster
either. I was one of those students, which always got asked their name, even if
I had said it out loud in at least twenty different classrooms. I was sometimes
tempted to lie about it but then all these issues and problems came to mind and
I just decided either not to raise my hand ever in class or simple say my name
always before answering any questions or stating my personal opinion.
The second year drew to a close fast. There were two more years and then
we would have to choose what we would do for our finals. We didn’t really have
many exams, like in other careers. We had to build a project and then just do
it. I think that was the worst part of it all. I had no idea what to do and I
started worrying about it the day that second year ended. Those holidays were
not really relaxing at all. My back would hurt every single day and the number
of nightmares was growing exponentially.
It was so bad, that I decided to
go to the shrink that the university had in campus to help students. Of course,
he helped people with bigger issues than mine but I went there anyway because I
actually thought he could be able to help me. The moment I saw the amount of
people waiting for their slot of time, I was baffled at either how many people
had so many issued in college or how bad this doctor was at what he did. You’re
supposed to not go back if your problems were solved, right? Isn’t that the
deal?
I went there for about two weeks
and then never came back because I had no idea why I was going at all. I
realized the problems I had were becoming worse because that damn shrink wasn’t
helping at all. He was actually trying to get to my deepest insecurities and
private pains, and that would have been a box that I didn’t need to have open.
The weirdest thing was, a month later, when I ran into him in an elevator and
he looked at me the whole ride, clearly wanted some sort of an excuse from me.
Surprisingly, I came up with my
project’s idea one day, when Alex came into the library and just started
talking about what he was going to with his own project. I listened to him for
a while and then we had to leave because the librarian thought we were being
too loud. He finished telling me his story sitting on a bench near the
cafeteria. I remained silent until he asked me for my opinion and I had to be
honest with him: I had no opinion because how would I dare to criticize someone
who had already thought it all through?
And then it hit me: I was going
to be the subject of my own project. I would do something like a collage of
various forms of art in which I would always be at the center. My struggle to
know who I was would be my theme and the subject would be me.
I had fun making it all, coming
up with the ideas and telling all the professors about it. Yeah, they didn’t
really get as excited as I was but at least I got a nice grade and Alex became
some sort of friend. We even talk nowadays, when he’s not looking up at the
ceiling. Oh, and I still don’t know who I am.
