Lost and Found: An experiment in mixed media juxtaposing two found objects--the crumpled newspaper clipping and plastic bottlecap--with a patchwork of earth tones tendered in oil. The artificial and the natural, tied to the canvas, and to each other, with a homemade tar of honey and liquid polymer, exist in a symbiotic relationship, the balance maintained by the empty strip along three edges symbolizing boundless--but not unbounded-- possibility.
Blue 6: The sixth in a series of color studies investigating the emotional qualities of light, the two-dimensional quality of the blue sphere, with its flat colot and sharply defined edges, exposes the fragility at the core of the human experience while reveling in the strength of purpose to be found in the embrace of that fragility. The black outline and the white background offer a geometrical explication of
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human companionship, while the salt particles glued across the canvas reflect both the bitterness of interconnectivity and the ascetic purity of an ocean devoid of life.
While Max had supplied the necessary interpretive support, Clay himself had created the "art." One afternoon, six pots of paint, ten canvases, three brushes, one half-full kitchen trash can . . . and an artist was born.
Also included in the thick portfolio were photographs and clippings from the Bishop Gallery show, as well as an authentic and glowing recommendation from Arik Stella, the Wadsworth High art teacher, an embittered Rhode Island School of Design drop-out who found Clay's work to be: "A welcome respite from the normal high school dreck, dominated as it is by the assumptions and strictures of the Western art hegemony. Demonstrating a remarkable openness to Eastern ideas and a welcome willingness to attack the status quo with his subvetsive message of alienation and connectivity in the modern Western world, while eschewing the mundane representational efforts more typically seen among the brainwashed high school masses, Clay Porter demonstrates a talent and vision well beyond his years."
Days later, on the forceful recommendation of Maxwell Kim (Clay's "artistic managet"), the owner of the Bishop Gallery paid Arik Stella a surprise visit. Stella just so happened to have his work assembled for display. He was--again on the recommendation of Maxwell Kim and the unsolicited opinion of two anonymous "collectors"-- offered a weeklong showcase of his mural-size works, each featuring a variety of leaves and feathers glued to the canvas with a glue made from birdshit.
But surely that was just a coincidence.
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Personal Statement
Objective: Heartwarming, tear-jerking, awe-inspiring, chees-erific chronicle of a significant life experience"
"So what now?" Clay asked as he finished with his life story and Eric turned off the digital recorder.
Eric shrugged, trying not to meet his eyes. "I'll write it up, pretty much like you said. Except, you know, smooth it out a little, make it more inspirational, and, una . . . tack on a happy ending."
"Like I saw the error of my ways and cleaned up my act and all that shit?" Clay rolled his eyes, stretching out on the Roths' new sofa and kicking his legs up on the glass coffee table. "And now my life is all rainbows and ponies?"
"Pretty much." Eric didn't know where to aim his eyes. He didn't want to look at Clay, but everywhere else he turned, he was staring at some overpriced electronic gadget, whether it was the flat-screen TV, his father's BlackBerry, or the five-hundred- dollar electrostatic germicidal air purifier his mother had just ordered from The Sharper Image. Nor did he want to look toward the kitchen, where his mother was heating up some leftover takeout while Lissa complained that they never got a home- cooked meal.
Instead he stared down at his hands. "Sorry about ... all this. Schwarz checked through the archives, and statistically, this kind of essay's going to give us the best shot. We just figured, you know, when in doubt, honesty's the best policy and all."
"Honesty?" Clay snorted. "Sounds like you're gonna turn it into some happily ever after bullshit." He pulled out a lighter;
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Eric didn't say anything. There was some air freshener stashed under the couch that would take care of the smell. "Whatever. You do what you gotta do. But you're not gonna make it sound like I'm whining, right? Because that's not what I'm about."
Eric shook his head. "No whining."
They sat in silence for a moment, both of them watching the floor.
"So . . . maybe we should try rehearsing for the interview again?" Eric suggested.
The Binder of Power contained a series of scripted answers. The plan was for Clay to memorize three of them each week, in the hopes he'd be ready by February. But Clay had already fallen behind.
"Clay, can you tell me why you'd like to attend Harvard?" Eric asked, dropping his voice a register in imitation of Samuel Atherton.
"I, uh, yeah. The thing is--"
"Make sure you look up when you talk," Eric said. "Eye contact, remember?"
"Yeah. Right. Forgot. Okay, so I want to go to Harvard because . . . the educational opportunity that it offers would be . . . uh . . ."
"Superior to . . . ," Eric prompted him.
Clay gripped the edges of his chair. "Superior to, uh, anything else. I want a, uh, athletic challenge--"
"Academic challenge."
"Academic challenge, and also a, you know . . . those people in
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the, uh, community that I can, uh, commune with. Artistically. And immerse, also. With the people."
The line was: As an aspiring painter, I'm eager to immerse myself in such an artistic community.
Eric smiled tightly.
"We'll just do a Cyrano, wire him for sound and feed him the answers," Max had said, but once again, Eric had insisted on doing things the hard way.
"Shit!" Clay smacked the end table, hard. "I got this, man. I know I can."
"There's still time," Eric said. "Take a break for the rest of the day. We'll get it."
"I'm not an idiot," Clay growled.
"Yeah. I mean, no. Of course not."
"I can get this. I can do it."
And Eric suddenly realized Clay wasn't angry at him. "I know you can," he said, hoping it was true--and not just because he wanted to prove something to Max. He stood up and pocketed the digital recorder. "But not today. I've got to type up the essay. There's plenty of time to get ready for the interview. The important thing this week is the application."
Clay stood up, too, and followed him to the stairway, his fists still clenched.
"You want to see it?" Eric asked, hoping he would say no. "The essay? When we're done writing?"
"What? See the way my life could've turned out, if this was some kind of fairy tale?" Clay shook his head. "All I want to see is the cash. You just do what you got to do to get it."
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Personal Statement
By
Clay Porter
In 1,000 words or less, describe an experience in your life that has shaped the way you view yourself or the world around you.
I never knew my father. According to my mother, I'm probably better off that way. Mom and I were on our own, and that's the way we liked it.
It wasn't quite a trailer park we were living in, but it was close. I slept in the "master" bedroom, which was about the size of an SUV I complained about that once, after I slept over a friend's house, but my mother just told me I was lucky we weren't living in her car. After that, I didn't complain anymore. I also stopped going to sleepovers. Mom slept on a fold-out couch in the living room, her feet pressed up against the tiny stove and mini-fridge that served as our kitchen.
She wasn't an alcoholic, like the woman who lived next door, and she didn't have a boyfriend in prison, like the woman two doors down. I wasn't afraid to come home, like the two kids across the street who always hung out on our front steps until their stepfather passed out for the night. And even though I didn't see her that much--she never held a job for more than a few months, but she always had a job, and she always worked the graveyard shift--I got along with her. I knew she
was doing everything she could to give us a life. I knew I was lucky.
I just didn't feel lucky.
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I couldn't invite friends over. It was too embarrassing. I couldn't tell anyone at school where I lived, or why my clothes were always the wrong size. I couldn't tell my teacher that my mother hadn't paid the electricity bill that month, and I couldn't do my homework because it was too dark. I couldn't stand up for myself with my mouth ... so I did it with my fists.
I was seven when I got suspended for the first time, and the second. It happened again when I was eight. Fourth grade I got sent home for fighting six times. In fifth grade, they told me if it happened again, I wouldn't be allowed back.
I said I didn't care, and I meant it. That's when the principal closed the door to his office. And then, instead of sitting back down behind his desk, he came over to me and knelt down on the ground in front of my chair.
I laughed in his face.
"No one's watching," he said. "You don't have to act tough for them. And you don't have to act for me, either--because I can see through it."
I would have laughed again if I hadn't been so close to crying.
"You think you don't have a choice," he said. "But you do." Then he told me about where he'd come from and what he had accomplished, and where I would end up if I didn't start to change. He told me about the value of education and what I was throwing away. I wasn't listening to any of it. But then he said it again.
"You have a choice, son. Things can go on the way they are now, forever-- or you can choose to give yourself a future."
No one had ever called me son before.
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And no one had ever told me that I had a choice.
He didn't think I was too stupid to learn, and he didn't think I was too undisciplined to teach. He didn't think I was lazy or violent or hopeless. He just thought that no one had ever explained to me what I was passing up--and he was right.
My mother never went to college and, according to her, my father didn't either. But / will. That fight in fifth grade was the last one I ever had, just like that was the last year I got an F, the last year I skipped a class, the last year I got sent to the principal's office. I never even spoke to him again, since the next year I went off to middle school. So I never got to thank him for showing me the truth: I didn't have a father. I didn't have any money, or nice clothes, or a big house.
But I had a brain, and I had a choice. I chose the future--and I never looked back.
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December 31 APPLICATION DEADLINE/NEW YEAR'S EVE
Objective: Completion. Submission, Celebration. Inebriation
Take a deep breath and celebrate! . . . It's been a long haul, but you're almost there.
--Sally P. Springer and Marion R. franck, Admissions Matters
December 31, one p.m., and the packet was in the mail. The four of them lay on the floor of Eric's den, the shag rug tickling their necks.
"I'm too tired to move," Max complained.
"You've done nothing but sleep since Christmas," Eric reminded him.
"Too much sleep makes you sleepier--it is a scientific fact," said Schwarz, who had given up on his new "tough" wardrobe after getting scabies from a thrift store leather jacket. He was back in polo shirts.
"This shit is pure," Clay drawled, taking another deep pull off his joint. "You sure you don't want some?"
"You sure you'll be able to get the stink out before my parents come home?" Eric asked, even though the last time his parents had
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ventured down to the den, it had been to make sure a six-year-old Eric hadn't changed the channel from Barney to Crossfire. Again.
"I'll try some of that." Max raised himself up on his elbows. He reached out, but Eric gave him a swift whack in the ribs before he got very far.
"My sneakers still smell like puke from your last trip to the dark side," Eric said. "You want to experiment, take it to your house."
"You want me to beat him up for you?" Clay said.
"Him or me?" Eric and Max asked at the same time, then burst into laughter.
Clay shrugged, as much as it was possible to shrug when you were lying on your back, stoned out of your mind. "Whichever."
"Just turn it off," Max complained, when Schwarz's phone began ringing for the third time.
"It could be important." Schwatz picked it up.
"Schwatz! Thank God, where have you been?" It was Stephanie, sounding desperate.
"Urn, hello. I am kind of in the middle of--"
"I need you!" she screeched. He held the phone away from his ear.
Eric rolled his eyes. "Is that her?"
"Just remember, dude, be tough," Clay advised him. "The bad boy with a little hurt inside."
"Or you could just hang up on her," Max suggested. "That's tough."
"What is it, Stephanie?" Glaring at his friends, Schwarz got up and huddled in the far corner.
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"Well, you know I came back to town for the big New Year's black-tie thing at the Pudding?"
Schwarz hadn't known--hadn't been invited, and couldn't keep Harvard's million and one black-tie events straight. It was only December, and there had already been four tuxedo-required freshman events . . . although Schwarz, dateless as always, had attended none of them.
"And Tyler promised he'd take me, but he totally flaked, just like always, and now I'm totally screwed, Schwarz, and I can't go to this kind of thing without a date--"
Be tough, he told himself. You are not her backup plan.
"Come on, there's going to be all this ballroom dancing, and you can help me practice my salsa, you know I can never get the footwork right--"
Schwarz winced, glancing over at his friends and hoping they hadn't overheard. The last thing he needed was for Max to find out that he'd been accompanying Stephanie to her weekly ballroom dancing lessons, after her original partner had backed out. It was humiliating, but it was also an hour each week that he got to spend with Stephanie's arm around his waist and her hand lodged in his. Plus, she had begged.
"So will you?"
"Will I . . . ?"
"Be my date tonight? Come on, Schwarz, it's New Year's Eve, I have this awesome new dress, you have to come."
"I do not have a tux."
"Not a problem. I already checked, and there's a rental place that's open till eight."
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"I kind of have plans. ..."
There was a long sigh. "Yeah. Of course you do. It's New Year's Eve. It's just. . ." She sniffled. Stephanie was an amazing crier. Most of the time she was loud and confident and sure of herself--some might say too sure of herself--and then, without warning, tears would explode out of her and she would crumble. "It's New Year's Eve," she got out, in between whimpers and gasps. "Who am I going to kiss at midnight?"
"What time should I pick you up?"
"It's ten to midnight," Eric said. "You want to shut this off and catch the ball drop?"
Max paused Empire Strikes Back and switched to NBC.
"You could've gone with Clay on that pub-crawl thing, you know," Eric said, stuffing a handful of popcorn in his mouth. "I wouldn't have minded."
"What, and miss all the excitement?"
"It's a Star Wars marathon in my parents' basement," Eric pointed out. "Not exactly an explosive way to ring in the New Year."
Max tipped the popcorn bowl to his mouth and guzzled down the remaining kernels. "Doesn't matter. It's tradition."
The clock ticked down. A series of lame one-hit-wonder bands played to the Times Square crowds, their hands too frozen to hit the right notes and the crowd screaming too loudly to notice. The announcers made annoying small talk, and everyone stared at the sparkling ball, waiting for the drop.
At five minutes to midnight, there was a knock on the door.
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Schwarz was shivering, his tuxedo jacket dusted with snow, his shoulders slumped.
"Don't tell me," Max said. "The boyfrien
d showed up at the last minute. And she waved bye-bye to her backup date."
"Max." Eric quieted him with a glance. "Come on in, Professor. It wouldn't be the same without you."
"How far did you get this year?" Schwarz asked.
"Halfway through Empire? Max said, handing him a fizzing glass of cheap champagne. "But we fast-forwarded through most of Episodes One and Two. Of course. How far did you get? Under her shirr? Into her--"
"Max." Eric shook his head. "It's okay, Schwarzie. Who needs women when you've got Jabba the Hut? Maybe it's time to accept that this is it for us. New Year's Eve 2058, we may still be sitting here, with our walkers and our colostomy bags, watching Star Wars, Episode 107."
"Speak for yourself," Max said. "I plan on spending my golden years with a harem of lovely ladies. And said golden years begin the day after graduation."
"How much are you budgeting to pay these lovely ladies for the honor?" Eric asked, smirking.
"Just because you already have a girl--"
"Shut it, Max. I haven't even talked to her in weeks." And you know why, he wanted to add, but didn't. Not when they were celebrating. It was New Year's Eve, maybe the last one he would celebrate with his two best friends, clinging to old traditions in his parents' basement. Next year they would still be in Boston together, but high school would be over, everything would be different--and even the strongest of traditions didn't always last.
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He didn't want to think about it, but he also didn't want to fight. Not with them--not tonight.
"You should call her," Max said. He reached for the phone. "Or maybe I should--"
Eric smacked his hand away. "It's not going to work, okay? We don't fit."