The Effects Of Light Part 11

"I like the t.i.tle," Samuel said. "I'll be lucky if my first book is called Samuel Blake Thinks About American Culture. But enough about me. How does he launch his theory?"

"Well, his first a.s.sertion is pretty direct: he says that straight lines are a human invention. They're not visible in nature; the human mind made them up."

"Is that true?"

"Well, look around." She spread her gaze across the great vista before her. She had to admit that at least from this view, the only visible straight lines were those that edged the downtown buildings, or spined the bridges over the Willamette River, or tightened the telephone lines. Angles and lines were attached to the human. Messiness and unpredictability rose from the natural world.

"So what does he say next?" Samuel asked. "There are a lot of words there."

As the rain let up, they started walking the edge of the lookout, winding their way into the suburban village. Old trees towered up from the backyards of wooden bungalows. Myla was explaining: "He says that the straight line, or linearity, began to colonize architecture. Human s.p.a.ce began to be rationalized and regularized, and artists, naturally, depicted human s.p.a.ce the way it looked to them. Once you live inside straight lines, you begin to see along them. Which heralds the invention of perspective."

"Wait, so he's saying that before the straight line was 'invented' by some prehistoric man, people didn't see the same way we do? They didn't see the world with perspective?"

She shrugged. "It's not just about seeing. It's about a whole way of life. David argues that the invention of the straight line had a huge philosophical impact on h.o.m.o sapiens. He cites cave paintings as an example of how art worked before the straight line: early peoples drew the stories of their hunts with no depiction of the ground beneath their feet. They drew one man hundreds of times, moving from moment to moment. And David believes that points not to a lack of sophistication but rather to philosophical differences between their lifestyle and ours. He maintains that much of the philosophical s.h.i.+ft owes itself to the invention of the straight line." She paused. "Even today countless aboriginal artists favor a nonlinear perspective."

Samuel was smiling. "So David's seeing the development of art and the development of human consciousness as essentially the same thing. He sees them as inextricably linked."

"Yes," said Myla. "One example: he takes the idea of the single motionless viewer, gazing at a canvas depicting a single moment in time, and shows how Alberti used that concept to invent Renaissance perspective. That's the perspective we know and love-you know, the one with straight lines, lines we know are parallel, running from the corners of the painting back to a single point, the vanis.h.i.+ng point, right in the center of the picture. And that's where we come into it. I mean, essentially he's saying that we've based Western art on the idea of perspective, but that the concept of perspective is not a given. It's as much an invention as the straight line."

Myla watched Samuel as he wrestled with what she'd just said. "So he's talking about our desire for the real. He's trying to look at truth and how we see it. He's arguing that there can be no objective visual truth, because we're always looking through the filter of culture, and the filter of human consciousness, and probably a dozen other filters besides."

Myla wanted to rejoice. "Exactly! Exactly." She leafed through the pages she'd been clutching to her chest. "Listen to his ideas at the end of this section: "'This depiction of ideally organized s.p.a.ce was not inaccurate, but it discarded other versions of what, by seeming valid, seemed real. To see was to believe; the eye became the privileged arbiter of truth. The rule of the line determined what could be known. Reality depended on the line.'"

"It's certainly rich with implications," said Samuel, and he took Myla's hand. They'd been circling through the neighborhood and were heading toward the center of town. "The rule of the line determined what could be known," he repeated. Myla felt her father's ideas swirling around her. And Samuel's hand was warm.

DAVID TAKES ME TO THE Metropolitan Museum of Art, which is on Fifth Avenue. There are twenty-eight steps you have to climb just to get to the front door, and then you enter a place like a big marble ballroom. Once you've bought your tickets and folded the candy-blue metal b.u.t.ton over your collar, you walk up this fancy staircase with twenty-three steps, and then there's a place to rest, and then twenty-three more steps. It's like a palace inside. David tells me there's more art in this museum than he or I could even look at. And then he laughs and says, "Imagine that, Pru, imagine how many people for how many years have made all this art. And we're the luckiest people because we get to see it."

He takes me to the Nineteenth-Century European Paintings and Sculpture Galleries-that's what it says on his map. When we first walk in, there's this big painting of a lady, and her eyes watch you when you move. It's like she's in charge of making sure the right people can come in. Then David says, "Ooh, wait until you see this." He takes me to a little room that seems hidden away. Outside the door is a metal ballerina dressed in real clothes and with a real ribbon in her metal hair. She's so still that it makes me think about holding still for Ruth's camera. And then we go inside the little room and it's like being inside a wooden and gla.s.s box. The air is cool on my face. Behind the gla.s.s are all of these horses, small sculptures, running and jumping and prancing and standing still. It's funny, because I know they're just sculptures, and of course they can't move, but the horses look alive. They look alive and miniature, and I want to have one for my own, but I could never choose which one. I wish Ruth had come to the museum with us, because I know she'd like to see how they're alive in the same way that her photographs of horses are alive.

Also in the room are these miniature dancers. But they aren't holding still like the ballerina outside. They have their legs in the air, and they're bending over, and they're stretching. And if you turn your head, it seems like they've moved when you weren't looking. David says all the sculptures are by Degas, even the ballerina outside, and it's funny to see how one man could make sculptures both so still and so ready to jump and move and play.

David says, "Let's go to my favorite room." He takes my hand and we go through room and room and room. We walk by a painting of a little girl named Marguerite and she has buggy eyes. I'm glad my eyes don't look like that, even though I know it's mean to think that. Then we get to the room David's talking about. He lets go of my hand like he can't hold on to anything while he's looking at these paintings, and that's how I know we've arrived. He makes a sound like a waterfall through his lips.

"It's called Cypresses, and it's by-"

"Van Gogh." I saw the sign, but I also knew it had to be by him just from walking toward it.

"Good eye," says David. The painting is thick, like it has hands pulling out to me, asking me to walk closer, to touch it. I know enough about museums to know that isn't allowed, but I also know enough about being David's child to know he's thinking the same thing I am.

"Pru," he says, "there are things you need to know about painting, and then there are things you need to know."

"What do you mean?" I ask him.

"You know how you thought those tiny dancers sculpted by Degas looked alive? That's the word: alive. And you're right; they do look as if they could leap and twirl right out of that gla.s.s case!"

He beams down at me and squeezes my shoulder. "Well, most art critics and historians use the word 'real' when what they really ought to be saying is 'alive.' I think just about every artist who ever lived is making art for one main reason: to show what it's like to be alive, what it's like to be really here."

He stops talking for a minute, and I think he's going to start saying things about van Gogh, because he's just standing in front of the painting and nodding at it. But instead he asks me a question. "Did you see anything else today that seemed particularly alive, Prudence?"

I nod because I'm thinking of a statue of a man, a big naked statue made out of marble, with a broken-off nose. I tell David, and he nods and laughs. "Good, good. He was Greek, and looked as if he could breathe or toss a ball. We're a lot like the Greeks." Then he asks another question. "What about the medieval church paintings, you know, the ones with Mary and the baby Jesus, the ones in that long gallery we walked through? Did they look real to you? Alive in the same way the dancer did?"

I think back to those funny pictures where the colors were bright and beautiful but everything was all the wrong size, and the tables all sloped the wrong way. "Not so much," I say.

David is excited. "Exactly, exactly. To us, those paintings don't look alive, don't look real. But I'll tell you a secret." He leans down and looks me in the eyes. "That's just because we have a different idea of what it means to be alive than the men who painted those pictures. To them, G.o.d was everything. Jesus was everything. Mary, Jesus' mother, was everything. So they're the biggest things in the picture. And the saints and other holy people, like the leader of the Church, are the next biggest. And then comes the man who paid for the painting. And then comes everyone else."

I can see how that makes sense. "But why doesn't the place look real? Why didn't they try harder?"

"Because to those men, no place on earth was ever as important as the reality of heaven. Their paintings are glorious because they show how important it was for them to love G.o.d more than the way they loved the look of the world."

"So what about van Gogh?" I ask.

"What about him?"

"How is he real? What does he believe in?"

"Why don't you tell me?"

He sweeps his arm in front of him, and the painting moves out to meet my eyes. It moves me. Moves me closer and moves me far away. Because it has thickness. The actual paint sticks out. It's a painting but a sculpture too.

I tell David that and he squeezes my shoulder. "Look, it's so simple. The trees are just there. Two trees in the middle of the canvas. So effortless. We know that one tree is farther away only because part of it is obstructed by the other one, not because van Gogh has forced perspective on the painting, not because there are some artificial rules imposed on the trees themselves."

David smiles. "The painting scatters your eyes-you don't know where to look. The gra.s.ses in front make you want to touch them, but also refer back into each other, so you're constantly moving over them like wind over a meadow. And the swirls of blue and pink and white in the sky have the same effect, making your eye move swiftly through the air like wind. There, in that corner, a cloud curls like a wave. And the purple mountain majesties loom in the distance. But there's no distance, really; instead, the trees are in the middle, and the color of the hills spreads out on either side. We only see a distance there because our reality insists that's where the hills must be. But that's our brains, not our eyes, not van Gogh's brushstrokes." I can only catch a few things that jumble out of David's mouth, but I don't stop him. I don't want him to stop. I watch him, watch the painting, and van Gogh's colors and David's words swirl inside me.

"Ultimately, the painting insists that you'll never be allowed to settle on one still, stagnant point. Your eye is required to bounce and cascade about, like a breeze. You're tossed. There's movement everywhere. And what's brilliant about that movement is that just by looking, just by standing here in a museum, we get to feel what it actually felt like for van Gogh to stand in this field, looking at these cypresses. We look at this painting, and we're alive on this hill with van Gogh's eye. It's just breathtaking." David laughs and squeezes my hand.

"So I guess he's trying to tell us what it feels like for him to be alive?"

David is so happy, he can hardly hear me. "Yes, Prudence, yes. And if you lived with this painting, wouldn't you want to touch it?"

He's right. You always would, running your fingers through the gra.s.ses and hills and tall sharp pointy trees. Then I'm glad we're alone and Myla isn't with us. She'd never let us stand still like this for so long without moving. She wouldn't understand.

EMMA BOUNDED UP THE FRONT steps and threw her arms around Myla. "Surprise! I made Mom and Dad promise they'd keep me a secret." Myla had been in the kitchen when Jane called her out onto the front porch. Now, burrowing into Emma's familiar warmth, Myla believed that if she relaxed long enough, possibilities would keep on coming. First there'd been the notebook, then Samuel, then the ma.n.u.script, and now Emma-entirely herself but older. Safe.

Emma's head smelled like Emma's head. Her arms were longer, and her eyes met Myla straight on as they stood nose to nose. When Emma kissed Myla's cheeks, Myla realized that were Pru alive, she'd be even older than this woman standing before her.

"You're so short," said Emma, touching the top of Myla's head.

"I'm taller than you are."

"Barely. And anyway, not the way you used to be." Emma laughed. "I imagined you were eight feet tall or something. Like a giant."

Jane played with the ends of Emma's hair. "Well, the last time you saw Myla, you were, what? Ten? And Myla was eighteen? So that makes sense." Jane's words weaned Emma from Myla's arms for a few moments. Jane and Emma hugged briefly, and Myla watched the way they became one, their shoulders meeting each other.

Emma looked at Myla. "Let's get this out of the way. I know Mom told you. I'm in recovery. But that means I'm fine. I've gotten my life together. I'm with this great guy, Jake. I'm working for a nonprofit. And that pretty much brings us up to date, right, Mom?"

Myla could feel herself being pulled by sadness, by the knowledge that Emma's life had obviously been difficult, when Emma stopped her. "No. No one's allowed to feel sad about it. I made my choices, and that's that. I've made big changes in myself. And one of them is total honesty. Full disclosure. Which means we'll get along, because Mom told me you're on a big honesty kick too." Then Emma squeezed her arms around both Jane and Myla. Myla could feel Emma's body gripping toward something, could feel her own body Velcroing back.

They went inside, and Steve came downstairs. Emma unlatched Myla long enough to give him a bear hug. They were both forthright, up front with their bodies and emotions in a way Myla deeply admired. Emma said, "Jake says hi. He was going to come up, but he couldn't get off work."

Jane looked worried. "So you drove up all alone?"

Emma rolled her eyes, and Myla glimpsed the adolescent she'd never known, an impertinence she'd never witnessed. "I was fine, Mom. But can someone help me with my bags? I brought laundry."

Now it was Jane's turn to roll her eyes. "You packed the car with laundry again?"

Emma giggled. "It's my birthright."

Samuel came inside from the backyard, and looking at him, Myla realized that in all her excitement about Emma, she'd practically forgotten about him. Jane introduced Samuel as Myla's friend. Emma was having none of it. After they'd exchanged pleasantries, he headed back outside to help Steve with Emma's laundry. Before he was out of earshot, Emma couldn't resist saying, "He's hot, Myla. He's, like, really attractive. He's your boyfriend?"

"Something like that," said Myla, trying to shush her.

Jane smiled. "He's a lovely person. How about some tea?"

On their way into the kitchen, Myla asked, "So what're you up for tonight, Emma?"

Emma swiveled with a pained expression on her face. "Oh, that sucks. Mom told me you had plans, so I made plans too. I actually have a dinner party tonight-one of my best friends from high school's getting married." She made a face. "To a creep. But I'm here for the whole weekend. I'm not leaving until Tuesday."

Myla was disappointed. But Jane piped up right away. "Don't give me that look, Emma. Even Myla doesn't know about tonight." Myla noticed Jane's glance land on someone in the doorway, and Myla turned to meet Samuel's gaze.

"I'm taking you on a date," he said, smiling.

"Oh," said Myla.

"Well jeez, Myla, don't sound excited or anything," said Emma.

Myla was standing still in the middle of the room. She couldn't switch gears. Emma's being here changed things. She could feel herself kicking into sister mode and ached with the realization that Samuel was going to serve as a distraction from that, from what she needed to make up to Emma for all those years of being gone. But Emma nudged her into a smile. "Yeah, okay. A date."

"A date," said Samuel.

"You know, dates aren't really a big deal, you guys. Especially when you're already seeing someone," said Emma.

"Of course they aren't," Myla said, trying to look excited. And then Jane made tea.

WHEN WE GET BACK TO PORTLAND, we don't talk about New York that much. We show Steve and Jane the snapshots from our trip, and I give Emma a miniature snow globe with the Empire State Building inside. But then we all have our lives to get back to. I have fifth grade, Myla has high school, and David has his cla.s.ses, so I think less and less about our time in New York.

Then one day Myla comes into the bathroom looking like she has a secret to tell me. She says, "In The New York Times, there was an article about our pictures."

I don't know if this is a good thing or a bad thing. I don't even know what The New York Times is. I say, "Really?" and Myla doesn't even have time to act annoyed.

She says, "Yeah, and it didn't say very nice things."

"What did it say?"

"It just said all this . . . all this stuff." She's waving her hands around in small circles, and she looks upset. "Just stuff about us and Ruth and the pictures."

"Bad stuff?"

"Yeah. Bad stuff." She looks at me suddenly, like she sees me. "Never mind. Forget I said anything."

I shrug. I say, "Okay."

Myla looks like she's going to leave, but then she stays instead. She says, "No, you know what? If they aren't going to tell you, then I am." She's saying this more to herself than to me, and now I'm curious what this bad stuff could be.

"There were protests," she said. "Some people think the pictures are obscene. That they're p.o.r.n."

I know this word, but I don't know exactly what it means. I just know it makes me feel creepy, makes me want to not think about it. I'm embarra.s.sed to ask what p.o.r.n is, because if I wasn't such a baby I'd already know, and I'm afraid that hearing what it is will change the way I think about things, will turn what is creepy and shadowy into fact. But I don't have to ask, because Myla tells me. "p.o.r.n means s.e.x pictures. Pictures of people doing it."

I giggle a little bit. "But the pictures of us aren't pictures of people doing it."

Myla looks serious, which makes me want to stop giggling but also makes my giggling harder to control. Every time I look at her makes me giggle harder, and thinking about pictures of people doing it makes my stomach flip into more laughing.

Myla rolls her eyes. "Do you want to talk about this or not?"

"Yes," I say, "yes I do." I try to make my face serious. "What are we supposed to do?"

"Nothing," she says. "I was waiting to see if David would say anything, but he didn't. And Ruth didn't either."

"So are you going to ask them?"

"No," says Myla. "Maybe." She looks at me. "Do you want to?"

I can see why she brought this up. "No," I say. I remember that talk David and I had about the picture of the Great Wave, but I don't know how to explain it to Myla.

After that, she leaves. I look in the mirror and try to figure out what exactly a picture of people doing it looks like. I get close to seeing it, but I can't see it all the way. It makes me feel weird, trying to imagine it, and I try not to think about people mixing up pictures of that with pictures of me.

I stay in the bathroom for a while. It feels easier to be in here, where things are white and clean and sorted.

chapter fourteen.

they were on an official date now. Chicken and fish had been ordered, and they were sipping expensive wine. It was strange to be here with Samuel across a table, discussing Northwest regional cuisine. Across this table swathed in linen, in the soft light emanating from a candelabra, surrounded by the gentle tones of cla.s.sical music, sat a man whom Myla barely recognized. He'd held her chair for her when she sat down. He was wearing a tie. This was Oregon; real men didn't wear ties here. They didn't need to. She felt irritated with herself for wanting Samuel to know something he couldn't possibly know.

She was trying to enjoy herself. But what she really wanted was to be at home-at Steve and Jane and Emma's-immersed in the world of her father's thought. She felt guilty about that desire, telling herself she should appreciate Samuel's effort instead of finding him trivial for wearing a herringbone tweed jacket and making small talk. And then she felt guilty about sharing the ma.n.u.script with him in the first place. Oh, he'd been great at the time. Very supportive. But wasn't she somehow betraying Steve and Jane and Emma by keeping the book a secret? Why had she wanted to tell Samuel about it and not her family?

His voice came across the table. "We can leave if you want to."

"No," she said. "That's okay."

"This is supposed to be fun. Remember what Emma said? We're supposed to be having a good time here."

"I just wish you'd told me you were planning this."

"It was a surprise."