elevator tohelp Fred—even though he said I didn’t have to, I felt kind of guilty about it—I went home and ate. I took a bath in a hurry and went to my room and snuggled into the covers with a glass of Pepsi and four chocolate chip cookies that Emma had made and opened the book.
It was hard to read and the first part was all reading. I thought it would be wrong to skip it, but the letters were very small and there were lots of dates and French names so that I had trouble keeping focused on them, and I decided to move to the back of the book for a while where there were colored plates of his paintings.
“Oh.”
I actually made a sound. I couldn’t help it. The pictures were so good, so pretty.
There was a painting of racehorses and the colors seemed to jump off the page; you could see the muscles moving under their skin, hear the pounding, smell the sweat.
Another of a woman standing by a door, just that, but the colors and the light made it seem as if she had just walked in and was going to say something to me.
But even with that, even with the beauty, I was still trying to work, trying to see the colors and the way Degas had drawn things until I turned the page and just stopped, stopped dead.
It was a painting of a group of young women practicing ballet, called
The Dance Master
. The wall in the room was green and there was a big mirror on one side for the dancers to see themselves. In the background there is a raised platform or bleachers for people to sit and watch and dancers are everywhere, practicing, stretching, fixing their costumes. On one side there is an older man leaning on a cane—an instructor—and he is watching them, studying them, and still I would have been all right except for one girl.
She was standing to the side of the dancers but almost in the middle of the painting and she is watching them, worried about something, with her hand to her mouth, and I looked at her and started to cry.
She looked like me, or sort of like me, but that wasn’t it—at first I didn’t know why I was crying. Then I thought of what they were, all ofthem, dancers, and that all of what they were was gone.
The painting was done in the late eighteen-hundreds. They were all gone. All dead. I wanted to know the girl, wanted to watch them practice. I wanted to see the dresses move and hear the music, wanted to know which ones the dance master picked for performance and if the girl who looked a little like me was one of them. I wanted to talk to them and ask them how it was to wear the costumes and dance and dance and dance without one stiff leg. I wanted to know their dreams and hopes and all of them, all the girls in the drawing and the dance master and the people sitting in the bleachers and the light and maybe even the building were dead and gone. I would never know their names or their favorite colors or what kind of music they liked or what they thought of school or what they had for supper. Gone, gone, gone.
So I cried, thinking of it, and must have made a sound because the door opened and Emma came in and sat on the bed.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“The picture,” I said. “They’re all gone and I want them to not be gone.” And I explained what I meant while Emma sat there and nodded and pushed the hair back from my face and smiled and wiped my cheeks where the tears went down.
“Just gone,” I said, finishing. “They’re all gone.”
Emma shook her head. “But they aren’t, don’t you see? There’s still the painting, isn’t there? You have that. You will always have the picture, won’t you? So they can never be gone.”
And of course she was right.
The painting.
There was still and would always be the painting. Emma turned out the light and I lay back on the pillow with the book on the stand next to the bed and went to sleep thinking I would find Mick in the morning and tell him what I had learned from the book on Degas.
The painting. There would always be the
It was hard to read and the first part was all reading. I thought it would be wrong to skip it, but the letters were very small and there were lots of dates and French names so that I had trouble keeping focused on them, and I decided to move to the back of the book for a while where there were colored plates of his paintings.
“Oh.”
I actually made a sound. I couldn’t help it. The pictures were so good, so pretty.
There was a painting of racehorses and the colors seemed to jump off the page; you could see the muscles moving under their skin, hear the pounding, smell the sweat.
Another of a woman standing by a door, just that, but the colors and the light made it seem as if she had just walked in and was going to say something to me.
But even with that, even with the beauty, I was still trying to work, trying to see the colors and the way Degas had drawn things until I turned the page and just stopped, stopped dead.
It was a painting of a group of young women practicing ballet, called
The Dance Master
. The wall in the room was green and there was a big mirror on one side for the dancers to see themselves. In the background there is a raised platform or bleachers for people to sit and watch and dancers are everywhere, practicing, stretching, fixing their costumes. On one side there is an older man leaning on a cane—an instructor—and he is watching them, studying them, and still I would have been all right except for one girl.
She was standing to the side of the dancers but almost in the middle of the painting and she is watching them, worried about something, with her hand to her mouth, and I looked at her and started to cry.
She looked like me, or sort of like me, but that wasn’t it—at first I didn’t know why I was crying. Then I thought of what they were, all ofthem, dancers, and that all of what they were was gone.
The painting was done in the late eighteen-hundreds. They were all gone. All dead. I wanted to know the girl, wanted to watch them practice. I wanted to see the dresses move and hear the music, wanted to know which ones the dance master picked for performance and if the girl who looked a little like me was one of them. I wanted to talk to them and ask them how it was to wear the costumes and dance and dance and dance without one stiff leg. I wanted to know their dreams and hopes and all of them, all the girls in the drawing and the dance master and the people sitting in the bleachers and the light and maybe even the building were dead and gone. I would never know their names or their favorite colors or what kind of music they liked or what they thought of school or what they had for supper. Gone, gone, gone.
So I cried, thinking of it, and must have made a sound because the door opened and Emma came in and sat on the bed.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“The picture,” I said. “They’re all gone and I want them to not be gone.” And I explained what I meant while Emma sat there and nodded and pushed the hair back from my face and smiled and wiped my cheeks where the tears went down.
“Just gone,” I said, finishing. “They’re all gone.”
Emma shook her head. “But they aren’t, don’t you see? There’s still the painting, isn’t there? You have that. You will always have the picture, won’t you? So they can never be gone.”
And of course she was right.
The painting.
There was still and would always be the painting. Emma turned out the light and I lay back on the pillow with the book on the stand next to the bed and went to sleep thinking I would find Mick in the morning and tell him what I had learned from the book on Degas.
The painting. There would always be the
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