“So I have an idea that could be really cool, I think,” she cuts me off, plopping herself on the adjacent lounge before leaning into me, almost conspiratorially. I am not used to this youthful energy from her.
“What do you think about exhibitingOn Beautyat the Hammer?”
“Museum?”
“Yes. You know I’m on the board?”
I did know. And I knew she was currently working on a fundraiser. But we had never discussed their collections, and I had certainly never broached the idea of exhibiting there.On Beautywas tentatively scheduled to be my first solo show at Cherry and Martin. There were so many moving pieces, and their schedule was booked so far in advance, we’d put it down on the calendar for October of 2016. In the meantime, I would be contributing a few pieces toThings Fall Apart,a group show at the gallery. And a series of photos for an exhibit on art in nature at the Maison Européenne de la Photographie in Paris; I was prepping my captures of the parakeets in Kauai for it. Balletic, enchanting. I titled itThings Beautiful and Temporary.
I’d given Anouk a rough breakdown of the theme and goals forOn Beauty, but we had not discussed it in detail. And so for her to raise it even casually as a possibility was momentous.
“You’re still working on it, yes?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Don’t look so surprised, Cecilia.”
“I am. That’s a substantial thing to put out there. Thank you.”
“Well, I haven’t raised it yet. So no pressure or anything. But think about it, and if it’s something you want to do, talk to your gallery and see how they feel, and I’ll see how we can make it happen.” She pops what’s left of the plum into her pretty French mouth and then stares out into the yard.
“I don’t know why they call these fruits ‘stones,’” she says, eventually. “When they are so soft, and feminine. And see…” She produces the pit in the palm of her hand and holds it up for me. “Life.Alors… What was it you were saying about Sacha…?”
“Can’t recall,” I say. “It must not have been important.”
That night over dinner I am distracted by the prospect of doing a show at the Hammer, the idea that I had likely become Anouk’s “new obsessive friend,” and the uncomfortable realization that one was contingent upon the other. Which naturally complicated things.
I am so lost in my own thoughts, I almost miss it when Julien casually mentions a lockdown drill at Bancroft.
“You had a what?”
“A lockdown drill,” he repeats, heaping chicken masala onto his plate, courtesy of our favorite Indian delivery. “This morning. For the whole school.”
“Yep,” Lucie chimes in. “I was in theater, so there were cool places to hide, like underneath the stage and in the wings. But they said in the classrooms you should probably go under your desk.”
Lucie’s speech pattern throws me. Hints of Southern California upspeak. She was beginning to sound American.
“Out of view from the doors and windows,” Julien adds. “Or in a closet, if you have one.”
“And turn out the lights.”
“And turn out the lights.”
My head swivels from one child to the other, confounded by their nonchalance.
“Bancroft has a main switch that can lock all the classroom doors automatically, which is pretty cool. Like one big panic room,” Julien informs us, his mouth full.
“Did you know in the lower school instead of desks they haveshared tables, so the kids hide in the supply closets?” Lucie’s eyes widen. “They have to sit still and not talk. Can you imagine that? Twenty-five six-year-olds in a closet? Margot told me. She’s a lifer. Can you pass the naan?”
I am livid.
Back in Paris, the kids’ schools had fire drills. And here in California, I expected there would be some sort of earthquake prep. But the idea that my children are being trained in how to respond to an active shooter infuriates me.
Sixteen years post-Columbine and the eighty-plus school shootings that had occurred since, and the most powerful nation in the world still hasn’t managed to solve this epidemic other than instructing its children to turn off the lights and hide. My kids deserve better.Allkids deserve better.
“So for Halloween, I think I’m going to be a zombie cheerleader. There’s this street everyone goes to in Santa Monica that’s supposed to be amazing with, like, a haunted house and everything and the best trick-or-treating. Can we go?”
How quickly she could pivot. I was still thinking about six-year-olds awaiting their fate in a closet and my daughter had moved on to dead cheerleaders and free candy.
