Take a Bow

There hasn’t been a single moment that I’ve regretted walking out of CPA’s doors. I’ll admit that the headline CARTER HARRISON: HIGH SCHOOL DROPOUT made me cringe, but taking those weeks off with my mom in Italy was exactly what I needed. I was relaxed, I was inspired, I was plain old Carter.

But the vacation is over. I thought I’d come back and finally be able to support Emme for once as she gets ready for her college auditions. But she’s been in lockdown rehearsing and I’ve found that trying to accomplish years of work in a few months is a lot harder than I ever imagined it would be.

I’m watching my tutor look through my practice GED test. She keeps marking things up and nodding her head.

TUTOR: Okay, it’s not awful.

Well, that’s just fabulous news.

TUTOR: You did really well on the language arts sections, both the writing and reading. I guess all those years of reading scripts have paid off. What you’re having problems with is the math section, particularly with the algebra questions. You technically passed the math section, but we need to get that number up higher so your overall percentage doesn’t suffer.

She pulls out these bulky math workbooks from her bag, flips through the thin pages, and begins to mark sections with Post-it notes.

TUTOR: I want you to work on these five sections for our next meeting.

I look at the hundreds of algebra problems facing me in the next three days.

And here I thought I’d figured out the equation to my happiness.

I start going through the problems as my mom shows her out.

MOM: Do you want to get an algebra-specific tutor?

I shake my head.

MOM: You know you can take your time; you don’t have to take the exam right away.

ME: I know, but I want this to be over so I can move on to art school.

Mom sits down and pinches the upper bridge of her nose. I’ve only seen her do that a few times. The last time was when I was no longer a Kavalier Kid. That seems like a lifetime ago … probably because it was.

MOM: Honey, I’ve been doing some research and I think you’re going to have to wait until next year to apply. Most schools aren’t accepting any more applications for fall.

ME: I know.

MOM: Oh.

My mind races as to what to say. I’ve spent so much of my life hiding my feelings, it’s been harder than I thought to open up and not keep things a secret any longer. I know I don’t have to do this alone. I know that Mom is trying to help me.

And I know that I’ve got to get over it already.

ME: Yeah, sorry, Mom. I realized that when I saw I missed National Portfolio Day.

Mom looks at me blankly.

ME: Yeah, it’s this really cool thing I found online. It’s a day where representatives from colleges all over the country meet with prospective students and review their portfolios. It’s supposed to help you get a stronger portfolio for colleges. They take place in the fall, so I figured, if it’s okay with you, that I’d spend the next year taking some basic classes and get a portfolio ready for next year. I’m kinda behind as is and need the catch-up time.

Mom smiles as me. She gets up from the table and hugs me.

MOM: Of course. You’ve been working your entire life. You deserve to have a break.

I don’t know how much of a break it’s going to be. I’m going to be competing against people who’ve been studying art their whole lives. I might not have what it takes, but I’ve at least got to try. I owe myself that much.

How many times have I sat in a hallway waiting for my name to be called?

But this is entirely different. My legs shake as I sit in the office of the Museum of Modern Art in Manhattan. I’ve never had anybody but my mom and my friends look at my art. I’ve never had anybody critique my work who knew what they were talking about — someone who wasn’t required to praise me out of the unspoken rule that you support your son or friend no matter how bad they may suck at something.

This is a stupid idea. Why on earth didn’t I go to some community art school to hear what a teacher thinks of me? Why am I about ready to enter the offices of one of the top art museums in the world to get a curator’s opinion? I know it’s something most artists could only dream of, and it’s because of who I am, and a favor from Sheila Marie, that’s gotten me in the door.

I’m shocked I don’t jump out of my skin when my name is called.

I follow a young woman in a suit down a narrow hallway. Her heels make a clicking noise as I follow her and realize that my heart is pounding in unison. She gestures to me to enter an office, and Mr. Samuels gets up from his pristine desk.

MR. SAMUELS: Mr. Harrison, so glad to meet you.

ME: Thank you so much for having me here. I don’t want to take too much of your time.

I thought I was done with acting, but I’ll need to take out everything in my bag of tricks to pretend that I’m not terrified at this very moment. I think back to the first time I was interviewed on a live morning show when I was eight. I had to get up at five in the morning to make it to the studio in time for hair and makeup. (Yep, even an eight-year-old boy needs hair and makeup early in the morning.) I remember Mom told me to smile although I was terrified. She said it would fool my brain into thinking that I was happy and relaxed.

I wonder what Mr. Samuels must be thinking of the stupid grin on my face now.

MR. SAMUELS: I don’t know if Sheila Marie told you, but my daughter is a huge fan of your Kavalier Kids movies. I can’t tell you how many times we watched the first movie during the summer last year.

Mr. Samuels picks up a framed photo from his desk and hands it to me. He continues to talk about his daughter and family while I politely study the smiling face of a ten-year-old girl.

MR. SAMUELS: Listen to me going on and on. What can I do for you today? I see you brought your portfolio.

ME: Yes.

My voice cracks. I cough a couple times to recover.

ME: Sorry, yes. I’m hoping to apply to art schools next year, but I haven’t had any formal training. I’m going to take some basic classes starting this summer, but since I haven’t really been critiqued by anybody, I just needed to know …

The words scare me. The thought of what I could hear frightens me.

ME: I just need to know if I have any promise at all. If there is any hope for me. And I really am looking for an honest opinion, Mr. Samuels. I understand that my art is going to be amateurish at best compared to what you see on a daily basis.

I motion toward the framed posters lining his office walls, of different exhibitions he’s curated.

ME: I’m sure you can imagine that I’ve had a lot of people sugarcoat things for me because of who I am. But none of that has helped me, so I’d really like to hear what you think of my art, where I need to improve … and if there is anything here that could possibly get me into an art school.

Mr. Samuels nods his head and unzips my portfolio. One by one he lays out my sketches and paintings on his desk and examines each piece. I decided to give him a mix of what I’ve been working on: pencil and charcoal drawings, paintings in different styles. But mostly the portfolio is filled with my sketches. Since I kept my passion for art a secret, I didn’t have the courage to really set up a painting studio until a few months ago.