Читать книгу Same Difference - Siobhan Vivian, Siobhan Vivian - Страница 12

Six

The Philadelphia Museum of Art is an enormous building on top of a grassy hill. Almost a hundred steps lead up to the front entrance, carved in stone. Behind the building stretches a winding river, like one you might find in the country, but this one has skyscrapers rising from its banks. Long, skinny crew boats filled with shirtless frat guys from Penn slice through the dark water in unison, making lots of frothy splashes with their oars. Their chants of Row, Row, Row give it a pulse.

Four yellow buses drop us off at the base of the stairs. Robyn and Fiona are on my bus. Robyn has on gray leggings, a blousy yellow tank top that could almost be a dress, and a pair of saddle shoes. Fiona wears a pair of skinny frayed jean shorts cut at the knees, a cropped navy vest buttoned tight around her chest, and these vampy open-toe red heels. I think the vest might have come from a little boy’s Catholic school uniform or something — it fits her like a corset. A tangle of long, thin gold chains hangs from her neck. It’s the kind of outfit that belongs in a magazine, the sort of thing that you can’t imagine anyone would wear in real life. But there she is, in real life, wearing it.

Fiona and Robyn have made a new friend. A boy I’ve never seen before is dragged down the aisle behind them. He mumbles “Excuse me, excuse me” to the kids they push out of their way. His voice is very Southern and sweet, and it rolls past his lips real slow. He looks quiet, shy, and freakishly skinny. He’s got on a black T-shirt with a white spiderweb on it, thick black glasses that keep sliding down his nose, green army shorts, and black Converse. His floppy brown hair hangs in his eyes and he keeps thrashing his neck to fling it to the side, but it just falls back down a few seconds later. They walk past me on their way off the bus, talking about who knows what. But Fiona stops and ducks her head so she can peek out my window. Something outside has caught her attention.

“Every time I see that thing, I want to yak.” Fiona swats her pink hair over her shoulder and points.

I can’t help but look, too, since they are talking right over my head, but I try to make it not obvious. A large block of cast bronze perched on the top museum step reflects the sun back in our faces. Probably by a famous artist I’ve never heard of before.

The boy shrugs his shoulders. “Is that a Rodin?”

Fiona rustles a hand through his hair. “Are you kidding me, Adrian? You of all people should know who that is.” She throws up her hands like she’s going to punch him out. “Yo, Adrian! Adrian!” she calls out in a fake deep voice. “That’s Rocky. Rocky Balboa. From those dumb Sylvester Stallone boxing movies that were filmed in Philly. You know, the ones they play on channel eleven on Sunday afternoons.”

Robyn laughs. “Eww. What’s Rocky doing at the art museum?”

“Because there’s this part in the movie where Rocky is training and he runs up the steps of the museum, and throws his arms up when he gets to the top.” She shakes her head. “Just watch,” she says.

Sure enough, not one minute later, two touristy men start to race each other up the stairs. One of the guys is fat, in a Santa way, with a belly that shakes underneath his shirt. His taller friend passes him, even though he’s smoking a cigarette, and when he reaches the top, he throws his hands up in the air and twirls around slow. Then he slings his arm proudly over the statue’s neck and waits for someone to take his picture.

I guess Fiona’s been here before.

Fiona shakes her head, and continues to walk off the bus. “These people don’t even go inside the museum. They just pose with the statue like morons. I mean, go to Universal Studios if that’s the kind of culture you care about.”

I know they aren’t talking about me specifically, but I let my hair hang in front of my face as if they were. My dad loves the movie Rocky, though I’ve never watched it. It won Best Picture, I think. I remember seeing the gold foil sticker on the DVD case. Not that it makes it any better.

I hang toward the back and follow the rest of the students inside the museum. Chatter instantly turns into whispers, as if we were in a library. The room is cavernous, dark brown stone and lit low and soft. It’s cool, very cool inside, like a tomb.

Yates comes up next to me. “Do you have your sketchbook, Emily?”

“Umm . . . don’t I have until next Tuesday?” I keep blowing every opportunity to look cool in front of Yates. I sound like I don’t care.

Yates shakes his head and tsks me. “Here,” he says, and carefully rips some pages out of his own book. “Make sure you get your own today. You don’t want to make Mr. Frank think you’re slacking. He takes these summer classes very seriously, and if he decides that you don’t, there’s no changing his mind.”

I appreciate how nice Yates is to me, even if it’s his job. “Thanks.”

“Don’t forget,” he warns.

“Okay, students,” Dr. Tobin says. “We’re going to enter into the main wing as a group. The professors will all engage you in discussion, but you should for the most part use this time to sketch and to contemplate the pieces. Please do not wander off.”

Everyone shuffles up a wide staircase into the main hall. On the landing, there’s a big iron statue of Diana, goddess of the hunt, with bow and arrow pointed directly at us. It’s like she’s guarding the museum. I catch myself ducking out of her aim.

We enter into the first gallery room, full of colorful paintings in gilded frames. Dr. Tobin gathers us around van Gogh’s Vase with Twelve Sunflowers. I recognize it right away. Ms. Kay has a poster of it hanging by the slop sink.

“So who can tell me the artist of this painting?”

I check to see if anyone raises their hands. But no one does. Could I possibly know something the rest of the kids here don’t? My hand tentatively leaves my pocket.

“Who painted this picture?” Dr. Tobin repeats, frustrated.

My arm is just about over my head when the entire room says “Van Gogh” in the most bored, tired voices.

It’s not that I was the only one who knew the answer. It’s the obvious one everyone knows. I run my hand through my hair to play it off, but I’m sure my red cheeks give me away.

“Now, let’s talk quickly about the Expressionist movement. Who can explain it?”

Robyn’s hand shoots up. “That’s when artists play with color and texture to express emotions in personal ways.”

“Exactly,” Dr. Tobin says. “I want you all to please look at the textures of this piece up close as we move along. Van Gogh was famous for his impasto style. Can anyone tell me what that is?”

At least five kids raise their hands.

I feel so completely ignorant. I have no idea what these words and terms mean.

Once everyone moves to the next room, I stop and stare at Sunflowers. I get close enough that my nose almost touches the canvas, so I can see the brush strokes and the energy, stuff you could never ever see on a stupid poster. Instead of feeling inspired, I feel daunted. I’ll never be this good. Why even try?

After looking at a bunch more nineteenth-century paintings, we make our way into the modern art wing.