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As I walk toward the Whitman Building, my heart’s beating fast.
This is it. The first day of the rest of my life. This is where I get to start my career as a working artist. It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do.
I know my mother is probably beaming down on me from heaven right now. Or at least I hope she is.
Here I go, mom. Wish me luck.
She used to give me my own little canvases and paint palettes when I was small, to keep me from getting in her way while she was painting her masterpieces. I was just as obsessed as she was. My sister used to joke that if either one of us cut ourselves, we’d bleed oil paint.
There’s not an item of clothing I own that doesn’t have the telltale sign that I got caught by inspiration in the middle of something else I was supposed to be doing. Like now. I’m wearing my favorite pair of overalls that are dotted with a couple of random splatters of paint. Today I might as well be prepared to get dirty.
The faculty at Hawthorne includes a few major artists and some of the best fine art teachers in the country, but this building is also one of the reasons the art program here is so popular. It’s made almost entirely of glass. Steel framing gives the place a modern, futuristic feel, setting it apart from the classic New England architecture of the rest of Hawthorne. It’s the tallest building on campus and sits on its own little hill.
I pull open the huge wooden door and step inside. I’ve been here before, on tours and for exhibitions, but it’s no less breathtaking than it was the first time I saw it. Huge windows offer amazing views out over the campus. The walls are decorated with artworks that have been gifted by now-famous alumni over the years.
There’s a Fergus Worthington, with its bold primary colors.
A Romeo Jones, with its off-center geometric lines.
And an Adelaide Fox.
My mother’s style might be described as photo-realism with a twist. Sections of her paintings look like photographs, but mixed into the composition are more expressionistic swirls, like the two styles are at war.
When she burst onto the art scene in her twenties, my mother’s pieces were considered new and original. By the time she was thirty, her exhibitions were selling out and she was making real money out of it. By the time she was thirty-five, she’d made an international name for herself.
One of the most memorable days of my life was when we went to New York City after one of her paintings had been bought by the Museum of Modern Art. I was seven years old. Even being so young, I knew it was a huge deal. The painting looked so impressive on that big white wall under its own spotlight. It was surrounded by other masterpieces but, to us, it outshone all of them. The museum people took us all out to dinner at the fanciest restaurant I’d ever been to.
Now, I love that a part of her is here, where I’m about to launch myself.
Or at least try to.
I don’t bother trying to compete with my mother. There’s no point. Our styles are so different, it would be impossible to ride on the coattails of her legacy, not that I’d want to. Your style is nothing like your mother’s, they comment. I get that a lot. Then they often say, but it’s good. Like they’re surprised.
If I’m going to make it as an artist, it’s going to be purely off my own steam. And if I don’t…then I don’t.
It’s not that I’m not ambitious.
I am.
I’m also sort of content to be the daughter of Adelaide Fox. I’ve always known that I might never be able to outshine her talent. You don’t grow up with a famous parent without coming to terms with the fact that you might always be second best.
I’ll try to be as good as I can, of course, but there’s also a part of me that doesn’t want to obscure her memory with my own ego.
It’s confusing.
I loved her so much. I miss her. It’s hard to think about how to evolve without her.
“Welcome,” a woman greets me. She’s holding a coffee mug in one hand and a stack of papers in the other. “I’m Gwen Hartley, chair of the art department. I’ll be teaching the freshman painting class this semester.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Zara Fox.”
Ms. Hartley smiles, studying my face, looking for similarities. She has riots of curly red hair barely contained in a bun. Strands have come loose and frame her face. “I was impressed by the portfolio you submitted with your application, Zara. You’re definitely forging your own style.”
“Thank you.” In other words, I don’t paint like my mother, which I already know. With my dad as the university’s football coach and my mom’s reputation as an artistic genius who died too young, I have some work to do to carve out my own identity.
I guess that’s what I’m here to do.
Ms. Hartley nods toward the interior of the building. “Let me give you the grand tour. We’ve got the shared studios and the main exhibition space on the first floor. Classrooms are on the second floor and the individual studios are upstairs. And of course, the most important part, the coffee maker is in the foyer. Just over there.”
