The June Paintings

by Maggie Shipstead

You can’t change where you’re from.” “That’s actually exactly what I’m trying to do.”

I’d started to worry I might not have anything to say with my art, but I assumed the solution was living more life.

Growing up, I had always found myself perched uncertainly between anonymity and consequence: not quite a nobody, not quite somebody.

When I decided to leave for New York, I’d believed, like so many before me, that I would come into my own there, shine more brightly.

There was one other ironclad condition, Fritz told me. I was absolutely not to make any art while I was there.

You couldn’t have a romance with someone like that. You could make an offering of yourself, but that was all.

Lammergeier had seen the void in me. He had painted a question with no answer except the question itself.

“I wonder if I’m really that blank,” I said, “or if that’s just how you see me.” “Maybe it’s how you want to be seen.” “No,” I said. “It isn’t.” “Then you should try to be more interesting,” he said, going back to his work.

I didn’t think whether a person was interesting depended on effort. In fact, I’d always had a sense that trying to be interesting was one of the least interesting things a person could do. I supposed I’d been trying in a way—by moving to New York, by coming to the island—but I’d never pretended to be someone else. I was just putting myself in the way of experience.