Page 4 of Crystal Iris #1

Three

“Art is not what you see, but what you make others see.” – Edgar Degas

I should be packing , I think, as I look around my apartment. Aaron has been asking me to move in for years, but I’ve always loved having my own space. Of course, things will have to change now with the wedding.

I run my fingers through the floral bedding on my bed, knowing it won’t match his apartment.

I survey the room—nothing here will fit there.

Not the paintings, not my green antique lamp, and definitely not that wooden statue.

My love for art goes beyond just paintings; the objects in my home have stories.

I consider keeping this place. I honestly don’t want to hurt Aaron’s feelings, but he would never understand.

He buys his home décor from a catalog; I buy mine from antique stores.

Everything here, I’ve slowly curated, like my own personal collection.

Many things were purchased needing repair, and I paid to fix them.

I’ve brought them back to life. It’s not so much the attachment to each piece, but the feeling that I’m about to move into somewhere without a soul.

His furniture is modern, sleek, cold. I like my things a little broken, a little odd, a little complicated—like me.

As I’m clicking to purchase the boxes I need, I get a message from Akira.

Another one. She’s been texting me all weekend since our.

.. incident at the club. I know someone we can talk to, someone who can clean it.

She was going on and on about the prism needing to be…

baptized, for lack of a better word. Not only do I not believe in whatever she’s trying to convince me of, but I also like my prism the way it is.

It’s not like it’s hurting me. I can’t help but wonder.

.. What if it’s Mom who is still… around?

Not that I believe in those things. Whatever it is, it’s not evil—that I can feel for sure.

I text the only thing I know will calm her down: I’ll think about it.

I put my phone away and start searching for one of my childhood tapes. “ They have to be here somewhere,” I say to myself as I pull another photo album from the closet. Good thing I’m moving soon; this place needs some serious organization.

I get distracted twice during my search.

First when I find an old sketch of me, lecturing; a student from last year gave it to me.

He was a much better artist than historian, if his grades were any indication, and I haven’t seen him since.

The second distraction is almost laughable: my attempt at writing a novel.

The manuscript is covered in dust. A few years ago, I tried to write my life’s story on the recommendation of my therapist. I never finished it, though—I didn’t want to add an end to my story.

Somehow, I always felt like my life hadn’t really even begun.

I almost fall off the step stool when I pull down the cardboard box that holds the four tapes. I just need to hook up the old VCR. If only I could find the cables. How did I let this place get so messy?

I sit on the couch, replaying the scene over and over, of my mom dancing.

She was beautiful, her hair very much like mine.

I have my father’s hazel eyes; the rest—it’s all her.

The footage is shaky, but I love seeing her smile.

I always want to picture her like this… joyful.

She was spinning around, and when I got closer, she took me by the hands and twirled me. I looked just as happy.

I watch until I finally fall asleep on the couch.

I’ ve had a constant headache for weeks now.

I’m more than ready for the holiday break.

November flies by in the blink of an eye—between packing my old apartment, grading the final papers, enduring wedding plans, and dodging Akira’s questions.

I’m craving solitude, and a visit to my favorite museum is long overdue.

The MFA museum is home to more than five hundred thousand works, and no matter how many times I’ve been here, I’m always surprised.

There are prints by Dürer, Degas, and Rembrandt, drawings by Goya and Gauguin, Peruvian and Roman textiles, paintings and more paintings.

A few of my favorites are by Van Gogh and Monet…

enough to keep someone like me in a dreamlike state.

I remember the words I gave to my students this season: Take your time.

I find myself standing in front of an artwork by Eugène Cicéri, from 1852.

It’s a painting of a forest, where its uneven terrain and massive trees surround a man with a walking stick.

The heavy bag on his back is filled with sketching supplies, as I learn from my phone.

It’s a depiction of an artist’s journey, I imagine.

The painting shows a beautiful golden light filtering through the trees.

I can almost hear the silence of the woods; only the man’s heavy breathing breaks it. I crave that kind of peace.

I’m moving toward the next painting when a little girl’s voice draws my eyes across the room.

The sign above her directs to the jewelry collection.

That’s probably the section of the museum that I visit the least. I’m less drawn to the riches of the aristocracy, though they’re as beautiful as one could imagine.

I follow the sign, my eyes blinking as they adjust to the dimmed lights. I pass a Roman cameo, worn to advertise the wearer’s taste and profess devotion to gods or political forces. I’m amazed by all the details as I stop to look at an Italian medallion set into a silver-gilt case.

The next row holds a French beaded ring, along with brooches and a gold wreath of oak leaves and acorns. I let myself daydream about what it would have been like to live in a time when such accessories were worn.

I’m looking around when my eye catches the next object—a British tiara.

The hair ornament, created by Cartier in the early twentieth century, is lit by focused light, setting the crystals to dance.

It’s not the tiara itself that delights me, but the idea that it sparks.

I should be looking into jewelry making, not math books.

It’s not the shape itself that matters, but perhaps who created my necklace, or if other jewelry pieces were made with prisms. My specialization is in Renaissance paintings; I don’t know much about the history of accessories. Though, I do know someone who does.

I pull out my phone right there to check if I still have Elena’s email.

She’s a costume historian whom I helped with a research project a year ago.

She had come to Harvard to finish a paper, and my colleague George introduced us.

She was writing about certain costumes and accessories worn by Henry VIII and wanted help with viewing books in the private section of the school’s library.

George knew I had access, so he introduced us at lunch.

Elena was quiet, kept mostly to herself during our visits, and was an expert in the subject.

It won’t startle her if I ask about this.

I can’t even wait to get home. I stop at a coffee shop, order my usual latte, and sit down to write the email. It turns out to be harder than I thought. I have to be detailed enough to get the information I need, while also vague enough to avoid hinting that I’m in possession of such a thing.

Hi Elena,

I hope you’re doing well. I’ve found myself a bit lost in my research for a project and was wondering if you could point me in the right direction.

Have you ever encountered any jewelry myths in your past research?

Perhaps folklore mentioning magical jewelry?

Something involving diamonds? I figured if anyone would have insight, it would be you .

Thanks in advance! Let me know if I can return the favor.

Iris De Loughery

Harvard is bustling with a conference—too many egos per square foot. The students are beyond distracted today.

“What is the difference between balance and symmetry?” I ask, only to receive blank stares.

“Symmetry is a way to achieve balance,” I continue. “It’s when a portion of an image is mirrored. Many cultures have associated it with beauty. Let’s take a look at this Greek temple—both sides are completely symmetrical. And here’s another example in architecture.”

“What about in a painting? You don’t mean when artists just copy and paste half of a painting, right?” Isaac asks, his attention more on what’s happening outside the window.

Influential names are supposed to be here today; everyone wants to shake hands with everyone.

“There are different types of symmetry. Let’s take a look at this plate. What we have here is called radial symmetry. It’s when an image is created around a central point. All around the plate, we see rows and rows of flowers.”

“Can you show us an example… in a painting?” asks Paul.

“Sure.” I pull up an image of Christ Giving the Keys of the Kingdom to St. Peter by Perugino.

“Here, this is a fresco from the Sistine Chapel. There is a building in the center, and two more on each side. The symmetry in this case not only gives us a sense of balance but also a sense of formality. Now, we don’t always need symmetry to achieve balance. ”

“Symmetry looks boring,” says Mila.

“Perhaps. Asymmetrical balance can feel more natural or more interesting. In this case, we are talking about balancing with the same visual attention—maybe the same colors or amount of detail, keeping the eye at rest.”

I’m about to bring up the concept of eye direction when someone mentions that Robert Fletcher is outside. Everyone stands up to look; even I, who don’t care about technology, make my way to the window. I dismiss them. Whatever I say next won’t be able to compete with this.