At the end of my last post, I wondered if there might be a third triumph to come to one of my charges. I did not think that it would be to Shannon that it came, but so it seems, and I am gladder than I might have known to see the change in her.
I dropped in on her this morning on her way to the subway for work. Her path takes her through a tunnel, and usually she makes the walk in a haze, half-awake and grouchy. This morning, however, something was different, and in the tunnel she and I both stopped short, staring at one wall that had been radically changed.
It was a painting, but nothing like those that the museum keeps. Those are bounded by frames, and though each is beautiful in their own way, they are also limited. This work sprawls, spinning and turning with color and fire, stretching all long the wide white way of the tunnel wall. There were faces and eyes in its twists and curls, hints at words like destiny and future, and at the center a little well of peace where a tiny figure curled, asleep, or perhaps stillborn.
It slammed into Shannon with a force that astonished me. She could not take her eyes off it, and everywhere she looked she saw more in its lines and shapes. I, in turn, was astonished and amazed by the change in her, the softness of wonder and the humble admiration that sprang up for the creator of this work. She did not look like herself, or perhaps she looked more like herself than she ever has.
This lasted until she saw a team of men at the end of the tunnel, armed with rollers and cans of white spray paint, beginning to erase the work.
“Hey!” Shannon shouted, and her voice echoed in a roar. She charged for the men, who cringed back from her as if she were an angry bull. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Hey, easy, lady,” one of them said. “We’re just doing our jobs.”
Shannon stared at him, then looked back at the master work. I, too, was stunned that anyone might want to make this beautiful work vanish. She then looked around her, seeing that the other commuters gave the artwork only a passing glance, and it made a cold, righteous anger settle into her stomach.
One of the men, seeing her distraction, stepped back towards the wall and lifted his paint roller.
“Hey, stop,” Shannon protested.
“Come on, lady, we gotta get this done before nine,” he complained.
Gritting her teeth, Shannon jerked her phone out of her bag. “Then you can wait a fucking minute,” she said. She took pictures of the entire wall, taking her time and making sure that she got every detail she could, barking at the men when they tried to creep back to their work. I did what I could to add force to her aura—she and I have never been so in accord.
At last she walked away, forced to cede to the harsh realities of the world. Art will disappear, and work must go on. Still, her soul bore the pressure of that art, and she spent several hours at work ignoring her usual tasks, carefully piecing the pictures together back into a whole.
When she didn’t run off to lunch, her superior came to see what she was doing. She looked up as he approached, her eyes snapping fire. “I know I said I’d have the Haviland collection done by this afternoon, but I have to get this done,” she said.
“Easy, kid, I’m just curious what you’ve been hammering away at for hours.” Jace Drummond is a clever, calm man not much older than Shannon, with a quiet passion for art and a brilliant eye that got him his job right out of college. He handles Shannon well, much better than many of her professors did.
Reluctantly—she didn’t like to share her find with anyone—Shannon pushed her chair back and let him look at the screen. “They were just going to cover it up. It might have taken the artist all night. And just look at it.”
“It’s good,” Jace murmured, scrolling across the screen. Then he shrugged and straightened up. “But it’s public property. The authorities have every right to cover it.”
“Isn’t that part of art, though?” Shannon demanded. “Art is resistance, pushing boundaries, demanding to be seen. Isn’t that as worthwhile as anything we might put together in this building?”
Jace studied her. “You feel pretty strongly about this, don’t you?”
Shannon met his gaze. She was confused about her own fierceness. “Yes. I do.”
Tapping the desk thoughtfully, Jace said, “You have something here. Maybe something we could make into an exhibit—but you’d have to put together a strong proposal.”
Shannon stared at him. A knot twisted in her stomach as she realized how much work would be involved in such a project—looking for statement pieces around the city, compiling them together and trying to find out who painted them, writing the proposal itself. Suddenly she wanted to give up and go back to her lists.
“No,” I said, leaning over her shoulder. “Look at that masterpiece. Remember how it made you feel when you saw it. Don’t you want to give that feeling to other people? Do you not want to feel it again?”
For a moment, I thought that I had lost her. In desperation, I said, “Jace doesn’t think you can do it. Prove him wrong. Prove to him that you are strong enough, good enough to do this. I know that you can.” And I was a bit surprised to find that this last wasn’t a lie; I do believe in her, just as much as I do in Pamela and Jonathan.
Shannon looked up, her jaw tight. “All right. I will.”
Jace smiled, and I could see that he liked the initiative and passion in her face. “On my desk next week, Kilkenny. And don’t leave everything else to waste while you’re at it. I still want the Haviland list today.” He sauntered away.
Shannon glared at him, then looked back at the tunnel art. She set it as her desktop background, took a deep breath, and went to work at the list at top speed.
She is inspired, and so am I. This passion, this pride, can be turned to good things, and it is the best I have seen of her. It will be my task to feed the flame, to keep her at it, whether by stinging her pride or by reminding her of the feeling that woke in her when she saw that tunnel wall. I will take it on and gladly, if it means I can give Shannon shape and purpose to her life. Wish me luck, oh, wish me luck, my brothers and sisters. I will need it.