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I relax a little. “I’m excited to see everything.”
She consults a list as we make our way to the staircase, which rises alongside the wall of windows, looking out. “Your studio is room 312. It’s one of the bigger studios, with a view of the pond. I chose it for you myself.”
I’m a little surprised by this. “You did?”
“I was a huge fan of your mother’s work. I never met her but if there’s anything I can do to help you, Zara, I will. I can’t show favoritism but your studio space was something I didn’t want to compromise on. I’ve always thought it’s the room with the best view.”
“Thank you. That’s really nice of you.” I follow her up to the second floor open-air classroom, where some of the other students are talking and setting up easels.
“We have a few minutes,” Ms. Hartley says. “I’ll show you 312 now and give you a chance to get settled.”
I follow her up another flight of stairs and she leads me to my studio. I literally gasp when I see it.
The space is painted a dark grey and has a wooden ceiling. It’s furnished with a chair, an easel with a blank canvas already perched there, a stack of several more canvases behind it, a table with paints and paintbrushes laid out, and a jar for water. There’s a raised window seat that’s as wide as the room, with pink and orange squashy cushions and a throw blanket. The large window extends all the way to the ceiling, bathing the room in light and offering a view of a pond with a fountain. Beyond it, rolling hills are dotted with trees that are already starting to turn shades of red and gold. “Wow.”
“This will be your studio for the year,” Ms. Hartley tells me. “Feel free to personalize the space however you’d like. Here’s the key fob to the room and the front door of the building so you can access this room anytime. Some of our students tend to work at night, some during the day. It’s entirely up to you.” She glances at her iWatch. “Class starts in fifteen minutes in the main studio on the second floor. Anything else you need before I leave you to it?”
“No, it’s absolutely perfect.” I almost feel emotional about how much I love this space. It’s sleek and inspiring and completely mine.
Ms. Hartley reads my thoughts. She places her hand gently on my arm. “Part of our work this semester will be unshackling ourselves from our pasts and our influences. Everyone has them. Finding your wings as an artist is all about freedom. We want you to follow your own path, Zara, and no one else’s.”
She gets me. That’s her job, I guess. Maybe my past and influence are more obvious than most, but she’s right. And I appreciate what she’s telling me. “Thank you, Ms. Hartley.”
“Call me Gwen. We’re pretty relaxed here at Hawthorne. Most of the professors in the art department go by their first names.”
“Ok. Thank you, Gwen.”
“I’m excited to see what this workspace inspires, Zara. See you in fifteen.”
After she leaves, I sit on the window seat for a few minutes, just taking in the view and forcing myself not to, first, freak out because I finally feel like my destiny is being realized after a long time of wondering if it ever would. I’m also tempted to squeeze some of the paints onto a palette and lock myself away in here for days on end.
But I have all year to do that.
Tearing myself away from the view and the blank canvas, I make my way back downstairs to the open plan classroom, which looks out onto the same view as my studio. Easels have been set up with canvases, and placed in a large circle that faces the center of the room, where Gwen is arranging some items on a table covered in a navy blue velvet tablecloth.
A few other students are just arriving. Some have already claimed their spots and are talking and setting up their supplies. There are around thirty of us.
“Take any seat you’d like,” Gwen says.
I find an available easel and set my bag down next to it.
The guy sitting next to me looks up from his phone. He has dark brown hair. He’s wearing black-rimmed glasses and a Star Wars t-shirt. “Hey,” he says. “I’m Christopher.”
“Hi, Christopher. I’m Zara.”
“Zara Fox?”
Great. Everyone knows who I am. “The one and only.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks.”
“That must feel like a lot of pressure, being the daughter of such a famous artist.”
“Yeah, sometimes. But I just try to do my own thing. What about you? Where are you from? Any Picassos hanging over your backstory?”
“Nope. I’m from Boston. Every single person in my family is a computer science nerd. My dad’s pissed off I’m not attending MIT for coding or something equally nightmarish.”
