Reading practice 3
Growing up, I was surrounded by art. Paintings, prints,1 pottery, even rugs and blankets—nearly everything in the house was decorated with some kind of design or image. My parents were both first-generation immigrants, and they said that the art reminded them of home. Anytime we went to visit the family still living in Mexico, my parents would stop at roadside bazaars, searching for new treasures, while I waited impatiently in the car, playing a video game or listening to music. Back in Los Angeles, they would proudly show their new purchases to friends, and all of the adults would reminisce about2 their childhoods in Mexico.
In college, I found that this early exposure to art had affected me profoundly. I entered a fine arts program, with the eventual goal of working as a curator at some major museum, like the Getty. The more I learned about the European masters, the more enamored of them I became. Every visit home, I brought with me a print for my parents, something by Rembrandt or Titian, in order to expose them to what I considered "true art." In my eyes, these European artists were the true masters of the form, and I saw my parents' collection as almost shameful3. It seemed so primitive—the colors too bright, the figures too stylized. Whenever I tried to express this to my parents, they would smile and listen, then hang the print I had brought in my bedroom.
During my second year of college, a friend and I decided to go on a road trip during our spring break. We planned a route from Phoenix, where we attended school, down into Mexico, then on to Los Angeles. Spending a few days on each leg would allow us a couple of days to drive back to Phoenix before school started with only one day to spare, so4 as soon as our midterms ended, we headed out.
The first few days were filled with the usual road trip misadventures—a flat tire, a long walk to the gas station after our car ran dry on the highway, and a late night spent looking desperately for a motel. By the time we arrived in Santa Ana, Mexico, and found my grandmother's house, we were both exhausted, furious with each other, and ready to break down crying. My grandmother, seeing the state of affairs written across our faces, sent us off to bed almost as soon5 as we arrived.
The next morning, we woke to the smell of fresh coffee,6 eggs, chorizo, and tortillas. As I ate, I thought of my parents and past breakfasts at their home. Maybe that's why, when we went for a walk in the downtown area, I wandered into an artist's studio situated just off the central square. I had a vague idea of picking something out for them, to present upon our victorious arrival in California. As soon as I entered though, I realized this wasn't a studio in the sense that I had expected. There was art for sale on display, but there was also a man sitting at an easel, painting. Curious, I wandered over.
As I looked over his shoulder, my shadow fell across his canvas, but he paid me no mind. His body was slightly hunched over, to help him stay balanced on the small stool he used as a seat. His eyes were squinted almost shut and his attention didn't appear to be on the canvas at all. He seemed instead to be seeing7 something else entirely, something that wouldn't quite come into focus. The half-finished picture on the canvas was of a girl, maybe eighteen years old, standing with her back to the viewer, looking over her shoulder. Her hair was in a long braid that fell down the length of her back with hairs coming loose, as if in the wind. The braid itself was painted as a solid, gleaming, black mass, but the stray hairs were each painted with an individual life, seeming about to blow out of the painting. Her face was still unfinished, along with the backdrop. As I stood watching, the artist suddenly launched himself at8 the canvas, adding details to the face at a furious pace. Under my gaze, the girl's expression took shape. Her eyes looked straight at the viewer with a look half wistful, half angry, as though reproaching the viewer for something.
Once the eyes were done, the artist leaned back and sighed. I wanted to talk to him, ask him about this girl, whether he had known her, but the look on his face seemed to rule out any conversation.9 It wasn't that he looked unfriendly so much as that he looked like he was otherwise occupied, his thoughts on some past time, approachable to a stranger only through this painting. I slowly, quietly, walked out of the studio, as anyone would when leaving the presence of a master10.
