“I’ve seen you make some wonderful things. But this? Looking at this makes me want to become a singer. What would I be called? Lady Antonia?”
“Maybe just Antonia.” I giggle.
“Mamacita rica Antonia.” She laughs. “I could be Madam Yeah, or Girl Divine.”
I can see her having all those names and alter egos. And I can’t stop laughing. “For now, do you want to just be my model? I’ve been sketching from photographs, and I really need you to sit for me to get everything right.”
“Of course!” Antonia waltzes in front of the mirror and stares at herself. “Hair up or down?” she asks.
I get up from the bed and walk behind her. “Up,” I say. “Your eyes and lips will be everything. I want to capture your personality through your face.”
I love being around Antonia. Her energy makes me feel so alive.
She gets serious for a minute. “Why are you painting me?”
“You’re important to me,” I say. “I really appreciate and love you. I couldn’t have gotten better without your help.”
Antonia turns away from the painting and looks at me. “I should have never taken you to that bar. I should have known that you needed help.”
“Stop feeling guilty. I mean it. I would have messed up anyway. You’re such a great friend to me, and I support whatever you do. If you want to sing, I’ll always be in the front row.”
“I love you to Pluto,” Antonia yells. “You’re my girl!”
She’s so crazy. I just laugh.
She gazes at me mischievously. “Do you want me to sit then?” She points to the couch on the other side of my room. “May I?”
“Of course,” I say. “I’m so glad you’re going to model for me. The painting is going to be—”
“Me!” Antonia shouts. “So...me!”
I genuinely feel happy. I don’t think I realized how messed up my thinking had become about myself until I finally had to start talking to other people about my pain. The darkness is something I’ll always have to live with, but that doesn’t mean I have to suffer. No matter what happens, I can still choose to see the beauty in life.
f o r t y - f i v e
“Once we believe in ourselves, we can risk curiosity, wonder,
spontaneous delight, or any experience that reveals the human spirit.”
—e.e. cummings
I’m finally going to be recognized for my own work.
Not because I’m the girlfriend or daughter of someone else. Or for punishing my body to fit society’s expectations. This isn’t about me being Colin Blakely’s daughter or Zach’s girlfriend. It isn’t about how skinny or good-looking I am.
This is about me, about what comes from my soul.
It’s time for the hard part now. Showing my paintings to everyone I know. I don’t think I could ask for more beautiful people inside and out to help me. Antonia, Isko and Danny are helping me to do last-minute checks on my paintings.
The theme of my show is Metamorphosis.
It’s inspired by LeFeber’s advice to me—that all of us have to go through a transformation to find peace in our lives. Those words mean something so different to me now. I think of Frida and how she experienced so much pain. The polio that damaged her leg, the trolley accident that almost killed her, miscarriages and the betrayal by her husband—yet she managed to transform that suffering into beauty. She defied her pain. She created something new.
Everything I’ve gone through in the past few months—the eating disorders and cutting, the breakup with Zach, the fights with Antonia and Sam, the media attention from the campaign, the crappy way I treated myself and others—I have to use that in my art. Pain isn’t beauty, but pain can be transformed into something beautiful.
That’s my metamorphosis.
That’s what this whole show is about.
We’re all running around, checking that the paintings and my artist statements look perfect on the wall, before the gallery opens for the show.
“Lola’s going to try to hit me with her cane,” Isko complains. “They better keep her far away from me. There’s no way I’m letting her outshine you.”
“I love Lola,” Antonia says. “She reminds me of so many people I know.”
“That’s because you only know cranky old people,” Isko says.
Antonia grimaces. “Your brother said you would be trouble today.”
“I’m not trouble,” Isko says as I check the last painting. “Well, okay, I am.” He laughs. “Better me than Danilo or Jasmine though. Someone has to be the bad boy of the family.”
“Has he always been this way?” Antonia asks.
“Ever since I’ve known him,” Danny says.
I’m so glad Isko agreed to model for me. His free spirit and ability to be himself in front of anyone has always inspired me.
“Little boy better get his act together,” Antonia says. “He has a lot of strutting to do in a few minutes. Everyone’s going to be comparing the real you to that painting.”
“Don’t you worry,” Isko says. “You’ll be following my lead.”
“Does he never stop?” Antonia asks.
“That was his way of saying he understands,” I say.
“You’re lucky I like you,” Isko says to Antonia.
Antonia gives it right back. She points to me while smirking at Isko. “You’re lucky she likes you.”
Eva Wynn, the owner of the gallery, peeks her head into the room and taps her watch. “Five minutes until I open the doors. Are you ready?”
Anxiety whirls in the pit of my stomach.
“Yeah, I think so,” I say.
“Don’t be nervous,” Danny says, giving me a hug. “Your paintings are beautiful. You can’t worry what other people think of them or about you.”
“Thanks, Danny. I don’t know what I would have done without your encouragement. I’m so happy you’re all here with me.”
“We got you,” Isko says.
Antonia nods in agreement.
The paintings of them look so amazing.
Even better than I expected.
Then I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn. It’s Sam. My heart starts racing but in a good way, a calm way. He’s wearing the suit I picked out for him and looks more handsome than ever. I can see he’s doing so well in school. I mean, everything is going so well for him. I consider right then asking him to go out with me on a real date. But then I think about what LeFeber said about fallen angels—we all must find our way to peace and health, even if we’re an angel—and also what my therapist recently told me, that broken people need to love themselves and heal themselves before they can truly love others, that love is the most healing medicine anyone can give to the self.
“I’m glad you’re here, Sam,” I say and give him a kiss on the cheek.
He smiles and says, “You’re going to be great. You’re all going to be great.” He’s so happy he’s practically bouncing on his heels as he starts walking away. “I better go back outside. Everyone’s here. I think they need help keeping Lola under control.”
“Believe me, they do,” Isko says.
I laugh as Sam backs into the doorway, turns and exits.
Just then Eva comes back. “All right. It’s showtime.”
The announcer then goes through the lineup. I’m going third.
I’m excited for the show, but still not one hundred percent with my energy levels. In some ways, I feel like LeFeber when I saw him. He wasn’t totally well either. A sick angel. Of course he was in worse shape than I am now. I can never forget him and what he did to inspire me and help me to learn so much about myself. I guess I thought art was just something that I was good at, but it’s so much more than that. Art makes life on earth more meaningful. It’s individuality. Self-expression. A way to understand the universe’s infinite complex
ity.
I peek around the corner as Eva opens the doors to the gallery. Everyone’s here. Mom, Dad, Sam, my brothers, Jasmine. The entire de los Santos family. Lola too, wearing all red. I recognize some students from AP art history who I would have never expected to come and support me. Ms. Day is here. And even Dr. Eleanor and my therapist in a distant corner with a handful of new friends from the treatment facility. I take a deep breath, concentrating on the music playing under the chatter of the crowd.
“Welcome, everyone, to the Wynn Gallery’s New Talent Showcase. This is our inaugural year hosting exhibitions where we not only discover young, new talent but also showcase them and their work. We have another event planned for next weekend at our sister gallery in San Francisco, and the week after in Las Vegas. In total there are twenty-five shows, culminating in the final major event at our New York gallery. We’re highlighting three teen artists today whose portfolios beat out dozens of applicants.”
I space out for a moment, staring at the murmuring crowd.
“How are you feeling, Liv?” Danny whispers. “You got this?”
Now I know why LeFeber didn’t want to be recognized at his shows. It’s hard to have people looking at and judging your work in front of you, but I have to own this moment. “I’m so lucky,” I say, letting out a breath.
Antonia winks at me.
Eva introduces the two other young artists featured in the show. Each of us has our own room filled with our work. With all the guests, the main room is nearly packed.
“Our next artist, Olivia Blakely, put together five paintings for her collection. Our judges loved what her art teacher had to say about her: ‘She’s always drawing. She not only understands the human form, Ms. Blakely understands how to plumb the depths of emotion and the necessity of transformation with her fantastic avian-inspired portraits.’ Please give a round of applause for Olivia Blakely and Metamorphosis!”
I exchange glances with Ms. Day.
She gives me a huge smile and thumbs-up.
I silently mouth, Thank you. I’m so lucky to have had people believe in me before I could believe in myself.
Antonia smiles. “Your turn,” she says. “Step up there.”
I’m terrified. But for the first time in many months, I don’t want to throw up. I don’t want to cut myself. I just want to be. I just want to exist in the moment, the unbearable moment, because I can finally accept who I am. I can be proud of what I created.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Eva says, gesturing me over to the center of the room, “Olivia Blakely.”
Now there’s no turning back. No running away. No hurting myself. I’m the creator, the translator of this vision that so many people have helped me to create in one way or another. I’m not alone. They’re here to see what I’ve done as me, as someone who matters in this world.
I walk to the front of the room. I don’t think about where my hands are, what my posture is, or whether or not I’m on the balls of my feet. I don’t have to be beautiful or sexy. I just have to walk. People are cheering, and I’m embarrassed, and I stop and put my hands over my mouth. It’s okay, I tell myself. It’s okay to do this, and I start walking again. Everywhere are people with dreams, and I think how we all have them.
I make eye contact, wave to my friends, and I blow kisses to Sam, and to my brothers, and Mom and Dad, because I love them so much. In front of the crowd, I listen to the applause and breathe and smile and wipe my eyes and laugh and spin around once, twice, and I can’t think of anything better in my life.
The crowd scatters out across the gallery to look at all the different pieces. I try not to pay attention. I’m worried that I could have done so much better had I been focused on pursuing my dreams all year. I could have put way more work into my paintings.
“You’re going to be okay,” Antonia says. It’s like she’s reading my mind. “Everyone’s going to love you. You went through everything so you could be here, so you could be stronger, so you could create this.”
She’s right. I breathe. She’s right. I can get through this.
Mom and Dad walk over and give me hugs.
“Congrats, honey,” Mom says. “I’m so proud of you.”
“You haven’t even seen the paintings yet,” I say, pointing to the other room. “They’re back there.”
While Dad’s talking, I spot Royce and Jasmine talking to each other. He does something to make her laugh and puts his arm around her. They seem like they might be getting back together. I hope they don’t let all the pressure of their future careers and Jas’s immigration status keep them apart. There has to be a way for them to chase their own dreams together. I wonder what Jas will think of the painting I modeled after her.
Following Mom and Dad to the back room, I closely observe each of the five paintings. They’re large portraits that incorporate magical realism, showing the people who are most important to me in the process of transforming into a bird that represents their unique personalities and life journeys. I tried to make the poses as dynamic as possible to illustrate the energy and movement of the transformation process.
“This is stunning,” Dad says, standing in front of the first portrait.
It shows Jas posing with her back on the ground and her knees up in the air, tucked up by her chest and her legs pointing elegantly toward the sky like a dancer. She curves her arm, which becomes the swan’s graceful neck, up back over her head, representing true beauty and the power of self-love.
Dad glances down at me. “Your work’s impressive, Honeybee. Honestly. I didn’t know your paintings were going to be this professional.”
I almost pick a fight about how Dad has never supported my art, but I try to focus on the fact that he’s complimenting me. The truth is that I probably wouldn’t have shown him my work even if he had asked. It’s not like LeFeber didn’t have to face these kinds of trials either. I’m pretty lucky. His parents never believed in his work.
“Thanks, Dad. Does that mean I can go to art school for college?”
He smiles. “We’ll see. There’s still a year to figure things out.”
Pointing at the second painting, Mom interrupts us. “That’s hilarious!”
The portrait shows Isko looking happily surprised as he transforms into a chickadee. His shock of black hair juts out from his head like a fuzzy crown. He looks down at his hand, held up in shock, as it morphs into a wing. This painting’s tone is more humorous than the portrait of Jas and shows Isko’s cheerfulness and ability to express himself with joy.
Danilo comes up behind us. “You captured him perfectly,” he says. “That’s so his personality. He’s never been afraid to be himself around anyone.”
“I would have painted you too,” I say. “Maybe I’ll add your portrait next.”
“That’s okay.” He puts his arm around me. “You already gave me the idea to make myself into my own action figure. Nerdy Pinoy Art Boy!”
We all move to the next portrait, which is of LeFeber as a nighthawk, twisting his wings in a powerful movement as if to create a tornado, illustrating how his words awakened me to another realm of creativity and self-exploration. Following his is a painting of Antonia wearing a backless, pale blue, floor-length gown made of airy organza. Her back is to us, but she’s twisting her neck to look at the viewer knowingly, like she has a secret she can barely keep. Tiny blue feathers edged with gold sprout from her back.
She’s my phoenix. My symbol of hope and rebirth.
When I come to the last painting, I start to get emotional. It’s my double self-portrait. Each side of the painting shows my profile. One is a black heron. The other is a white heron. The white heron, my light side, throws up her feathered arm, reaching for her dark counterpart, my dark side. The black heron turns away, using its wing to shield itself from the light. They’re in a battle, a dance, a struggle for existence. One can’t live with or without the
other.
I’ll never get rid of the voice that tells me I’m not good enough. I wouldn’t want to. The depth of the darkness is as important to my story as the triumph of the light.
Feeling two arms wrap around my waist, I spin around, expecting to see Sam messing with me, but I find Jasmine. She squeezes me so tight and with so much love, I cry a little. Jas has been a sister to me for what feels like half of my life. I’ve missed her and our friendship so much this year.
“Look at you, Liv! You did the thing,” Jas says.
“I’m so glad you came! You’re probably cramming for finals.”
“I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
“Are you graduating this semester?”
“Yep,” Jas says, crossing her arms. “Then I have to figure out what’s next.”
“That’s scary.”
“It’ll work out. It’s just figuring out all the details.”
“Are you still applying to medical schools?” I ask.
“Yeah, but I’m trying to keep my options open. Royce convinced me to apply to some schools in the countries where he’s applying for reporting bureau jobs.”
“That’s great,” I say. “I didn’t know you guys were back together.”
“I’m practicing what Lola Cherry calls ‘flexibility.’ I’ve always been good at going for what I want, but sometimes that makes me blind to other parts of my life.” She turns her attention to the painting. “This one is my favorite. It’s so honest.”
I lean my head on her shoulder. “Thanks. Facing myself was the hardest thing I’ve done.”
Suddenly, Eva approaches me with another older woman at her side. She has completely white hair styled in a fashionable pixie cut and she’s wearing funky ruby-red glasses and red Lucite bangles around her wrists. “This is Phyllis Simonson,” Eva says. “She’s part of the faculty at CalArts and served on the selection committee for the show.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Liv,” Phyllis says.
“CalArts is such a great school,” I say. “Didn’t Tim Burton go there?”