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Hetal slips an arm through mine. “I know we closed nominations for the Citizen Hero award, but there’s someone I think we need to consider,” she says with a conspiratorial smile on her face.
She started an organization for kids who have been in the system for more than a year without being adopted and also provided help for the transition from being wards of the state of New York to being fully independent.
When she asked if I would give some of the kids piano lessons, I’d been less enthusiastic. I wasn’t sure what to expect with these kids. A lot of them are either fresh out of a crisis or still in the throes of one. I expected them to be unfocused and reluctant.
I’ve been so glad to be wrong. Some of them stopped coming or half assed the lessons. But there are a few who are hungry to learn, restless with creativity, and really talented.
It’s turned out to be one of the best things I’ve ever done.
The kids have given me a perspective on life I was sorely missing. They all tell me how lucky they feel to get to study with me. But it’s me who’s lucky to have the chance to do for them what my father did for me.
This award ceremony is meant to highlight people in the community who are uplifting people with their work. Nominations just went out and the ceremony is in a few weeks. Except for the award recipient, all the plans are finalized
“Isn’t it going to be expensive to change all the graphics and stuff we’ve printed already?”
“Yes, but once you see, you’ll understand,” she says with a wide grin.
“See what?”
“Come on, it’s in Dean’s office.” She pulls me down the hall with her.
We step into the small room and she flips on the light. “Ta-da! Dean helped me set it up in here, so all the board members could see it. I thought it would be easier to convince you if you could see it up close. It’s an experience, right?”
My heart nearly stops beating when I see the painting in the center of the room.
I know right away that it’s Beth’s work. She’s got this distinctive style - the fantastic mixed with real - human faces and bodies with accents that are only found in the wildest imagination. The use of metallic gold and silver, and blue, was also her signature.
“Hetal, where did you get this?” I try to sound like my mind isn’t screaming.
“Isn’t it amazing? I was totally blown away,” she smiles dreamily at the painting.
The painting is Hetal’s face, but reimagined. She’s got golden suns for eyes, her lips are formed from a cluster of tiny metallic red hearts, her eyebrows are streaks of silver lightning raised in defiance. It’s beautiful - like something out of a fairytale, and yet, it is so clearly Hetal - the eternal optimist, who lifts everyone up with her loving words and her lightening quick wit.
Something’s wrong with my lungs. I can’t tell if they’re working overtime or malfunctioning, but I can’t breathe.
“Where did you get it?” I ask again. This time my voice sounds as coarse as my insides feel and she looks at me, concern furrowing her brow.
“It arrived in the mail today. I brought it here cause Milly’s having it framed.”
“From where?” I ask and walk over to the canvas in the middle of the room.
“Somewhere in the city, the return address is one of the PO Box places. I mean, I knew her work was amazing, but today was the first time I’ve even considered nominating her.”
“Do you know the artist?”
“No, well, I mean. Yes. Kind of. Hold on, here.” She hands me her phone and I take it, holding my breath as I turn it over to look at the screen.
It’s open to a picture she posted on IG. In it, she’s standing next to the painting on her wall, her cheek pressed to it to give a side by side comparison. I read the post slowly trying to focus on the words instead of the millions of questions that are rushing around my mind.
I hand Hetal back her phone with a trembling hand. “Wow. So, she does these for people?”
She nods. “Completely for free. And it was only yesterday when I scrolled all the way to the bottom of her feed to see the first picture that I realized she’s making the kind of difference that our organization seeks to. To help people find a sense of self that’s not tied to the way the rest of the world sees them. And these paintings, if she sold them, would cost a mint. I mean, this should be in a museum. I’ve never thought I was beautiful, until I saw my heart.” Her eyes mist over and she stares at the painting with pride.
Oh my God. Beth is painting. For the public.
“So, is it okay? If I nominate her? I mean, we have some amazing nominees already, but I think she’ll win.”
“Yes, do it. She will absolutely win. I know she’s got my vote,” I say eagerly.
