Free Maddie's Tattoo by Katie Kacvinsky Page B

makes you think, he said. You haven’t even seen his crazy pieces yet.
                  “ I don’t think I want to,” I said. My mind was still swollen with feelings after the prints I just observed.
    Picasso’s a heavy artist to jump into , he said. That’s one thing I don’t like about this tour. It’s like they want to scare you away from liking art without giving it a chance.
    I narrowe d my eyes at his statement and felt my censor kick in again.
                  “This soup really is delicious,” I said. Keep the conversation light. Always keep it light. Turn everything into a joke. After all, this is all entertainment, no reason to let it bring me down.
    You should start with something lighter , he offered. Come on , he said. Did you look at the Impressionists yet?
    I moved my icon into the hallway and followed him into the Impressionist exhibit. His icon drifted away and gave me space.
    I walked around a few Monet’s and it wasn’t the color that stopped me, or the way the artist played with lighting and movement. It was the people that caught my attention. The outdoor scenes showed people together, enjoying each other’s company. They were laughing and touching—they weren’t guarded or suspicious.
    I stood in front of a painting of two girls outside, picking flowers together in a meadow. Their cheeks were rosy from the fresh air and exercise. Sunlight reflected off of their glowing eyes. I smirked at the unrealistic setting, as fictional to my world as a fairytale.
    I walked over to Monet’s painting Bathers at La Grenouillère . It featured a dozen paddle boats resting in a lake harbor and blurry images of people dotted the beach. The more I tried to peel my eyes away, the harder my eyes caught images: the color of the water, the energy, the people, the light. The details were blurry, so I couldn’t quite see any of the people. It was like looking at a dream.
    I frowned at the fictitious world on the canvas. These paintings were almost more depressing than Picasso’s because they showed me a world I wanted to jump into. Something inside of me broke open in that moment and I felt my mind stretching, pulling, and standing on its tip toes to peer over the edge.
    They yellow chameleon ventured over to me.
    Bored?
    “Not exactly,” I said.
    Moved beyond expression?
    I smiled at the screen.
    It’s a lot to take in, he said. It can make you feel like you’re sinking.
    I shook my head. It was more like coming up for air. But I hesitated to think out loud.
    “ This wasn’t what I was expecting,” I finally said.
    What did you come here to see? he asked, and I thought about his question.
    “ Something real,” I said. “I just wanted to see something real.”
    I looked at the other student’s feedback. Beautiful comparison, so lifelike, impressive depth and color, excellent representation. But it was all subjective. None of the reactions were personal. Was I the only one personally affected by these paintings? What was wrong with me?
    You don’t think any of this can exist? he asked.
    “ I don’t know,” I said, and he caught me trying to play it safe.
    Don’t say what you think you should say. Say what you want to say , the yellow icon dared me. His dare was like a push.
    “ It’s so fake,” I confessed and my voice was angrier than I intended. I was relieved he couldn’t hear me. Our voices give too much away. “It’s all a lie. This place is all One. Big. Lie.”
    Picasso said that art is a lie that makes us realize truth, he said.
    I looked at the words he wrote and reread them and reread them again.
    “ You believe that?” I asked.
    It’s why I’m here.
    I looked back at Monet’s boat painting and shook my head. I didn’t see any truth. “There might as well be fairies flying through the scene.”
    I smiled at the thought and it gave me an idea. I copied the painting into one of my design programs and used my finger and a paint software to draw three