fish,” Lindsay said.
“So maybe you made it subconsciously,” Sally said. “That’s what art is, you know. ‘The conscious use of skill plus the surrender to the subconscious, blah-bitty-blah-blah.’ I’m quoting my mom, and knowing her, she was probably quoting the dead aunt I’m named after. Sounds good, though, doesn’t it? It’s amazing how far bullshit can get you.”
Lindsay had no idea what Sally meant. “Did you know that the sunfish has no caudal fin? In order to swim it has to work the dorsal fin really hard. That’s why people sometimes mistake it for a shark. They bask in the sun. If you’re out on a boat and conditions are right, you can see them lying flat right near the surface of the water.”
“Cool. Have you seen one in the regular ocean?” Sally asked.
Lindsay pictured herself standing by Cousteau’s great-grandson, charting the Monterey Coast, finding a new species of jellyfish and naming it Allegras Oceanus, after her grandmother so that when she died, a part of her would live on. “Not yet.”
“Here’s what you do to save your project,” Sally said. “Paint him gray, but not just one gray, a bunch of different shades of gray. Especially on the ossicles. Do tone on tone, like Mr. Hiller is always saying. Do the body first. When it’s dry, give it orange spots.”
“But a sunfish doesn’t have orange spots.”
“So? You think Hiller will go over to the Aquarium and check? If he asks, say this one has a sand rash. Or it swam into a poison anemone, or ate a bad shrimp and lived to call the health department. Just make it weird enough and he’ll be all happy you were creative and he’ll give you an A.”
“How do you know to do that?” Lindsay said, dipping the paintbrush into the white paint and making a pool of gray on her plastic tray.
“Duh. I live with artists. They mess up all the time. My mom says to just go for it when you do. She calls it having a ‘happy accident.’”
Sally went to the supply cupboard and returned with an array of paper, colored, marbled, and the heavyweight water-color rag that Mr. Hiller got mad if you wasted.
“What’s your grandma’s style?” Sally asked. “Is she a get-her-nails-done-every-week grandma? Does she wear those expensive sweaters with dogs embroidered on them?”
“She wears long skirts and weird jewelry that my mother says is a leftover from the sixties counterculture.”
Sally laughed. “Omigod! A hippie! Definitely we’ll go with the marbled paper. It’ll remind her of paisley, acid trips, and groovy happenings. I know all about that stuff from going through my aunt’s scrapbooks. Man, grandmothers from then are so cool! Mine wears nurse’s shoes and a girdle and she won’t eat tacos. She says tacos are ‘ethnic food.’ Can you imagine life without Mexican food? It’s my favorite. I probably get that from my dad. How do you spell your grandma’s name?”
“Just like the allergy medicine,” Lindsay said, and then dipped her brush into the main gray color. She painted carefully, afraid she’d ruin the fish with one badly placed brush-stroke. She was into shade of gray number two when Mr. Hiller came by to check on them.
“Will you look at this,” he said, as if the two of them were inventing some miraculous new technique that would give the old masters a run for their money. “Lindsay, I think this just might be the breakthrough you have been waiting for. I’m adding ten points to your grade.”
“Thanks,” Lindsay said, shocked. The only difference between her failures and this mess was she hadn’t given up.
Behind Hiller’s back, Sally rolled her eyes. As soon as he was out of earshot, she said, “Ten points for trying! God, don’t you ever wish they’d let us fail sometimes?”
Just the image of a C on her report card made Lindsay break out in gooseflesh. “No. Why?”
Sally was gluing what looked like comets to the card. “Because what if we’re not really that smart? What if
“So maybe you made it subconsciously,” Sally said. “That’s what art is, you know. ‘The conscious use of skill plus the surrender to the subconscious, blah-bitty-blah-blah.’ I’m quoting my mom, and knowing her, she was probably quoting the dead aunt I’m named after. Sounds good, though, doesn’t it? It’s amazing how far bullshit can get you.”
Lindsay had no idea what Sally meant. “Did you know that the sunfish has no caudal fin? In order to swim it has to work the dorsal fin really hard. That’s why people sometimes mistake it for a shark. They bask in the sun. If you’re out on a boat and conditions are right, you can see them lying flat right near the surface of the water.”
“Cool. Have you seen one in the regular ocean?” Sally asked.
Lindsay pictured herself standing by Cousteau’s great-grandson, charting the Monterey Coast, finding a new species of jellyfish and naming it Allegras Oceanus, after her grandmother so that when she died, a part of her would live on. “Not yet.”
“Here’s what you do to save your project,” Sally said. “Paint him gray, but not just one gray, a bunch of different shades of gray. Especially on the ossicles. Do tone on tone, like Mr. Hiller is always saying. Do the body first. When it’s dry, give it orange spots.”
“But a sunfish doesn’t have orange spots.”
“So? You think Hiller will go over to the Aquarium and check? If he asks, say this one has a sand rash. Or it swam into a poison anemone, or ate a bad shrimp and lived to call the health department. Just make it weird enough and he’ll be all happy you were creative and he’ll give you an A.”
“How do you know to do that?” Lindsay said, dipping the paintbrush into the white paint and making a pool of gray on her plastic tray.
“Duh. I live with artists. They mess up all the time. My mom says to just go for it when you do. She calls it having a ‘happy accident.’”
Sally went to the supply cupboard and returned with an array of paper, colored, marbled, and the heavyweight water-color rag that Mr. Hiller got mad if you wasted.
“What’s your grandma’s style?” Sally asked. “Is she a get-her-nails-done-every-week grandma? Does she wear those expensive sweaters with dogs embroidered on them?”
“She wears long skirts and weird jewelry that my mother says is a leftover from the sixties counterculture.”
Sally laughed. “Omigod! A hippie! Definitely we’ll go with the marbled paper. It’ll remind her of paisley, acid trips, and groovy happenings. I know all about that stuff from going through my aunt’s scrapbooks. Man, grandmothers from then are so cool! Mine wears nurse’s shoes and a girdle and she won’t eat tacos. She says tacos are ‘ethnic food.’ Can you imagine life without Mexican food? It’s my favorite. I probably get that from my dad. How do you spell your grandma’s name?”
“Just like the allergy medicine,” Lindsay said, and then dipped her brush into the main gray color. She painted carefully, afraid she’d ruin the fish with one badly placed brush-stroke. She was into shade of gray number two when Mr. Hiller came by to check on them.
“Will you look at this,” he said, as if the two of them were inventing some miraculous new technique that would give the old masters a run for their money. “Lindsay, I think this just might be the breakthrough you have been waiting for. I’m adding ten points to your grade.”
“Thanks,” Lindsay said, shocked. The only difference between her failures and this mess was she hadn’t given up.
Behind Hiller’s back, Sally rolled her eyes. As soon as he was out of earshot, she said, “Ten points for trying! God, don’t you ever wish they’d let us fail sometimes?”
Just the image of a C on her report card made Lindsay break out in gooseflesh. “No. Why?”
Sally was gluing what looked like comets to the card. “Because what if we’re not really that smart? What if
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