Page 2 of Frost
Ihave always hated winter. The way the air suddenly turns cold, the crispness biting at my lungs with every breath filling my insides with dread. People outside are frolicking in the snow, their mittened fingers reaching out to grab at the powder. A scowl pulls at my upper lip as I watch them. It’s not the cold that bothers me really, it’s the impending, all-consuming disgust for the holidays that I hate. Fucking Mariah Carey chipper holiday bullshit. Christmas time only holds bad memories for me—ones I’d rather forget. The worst part is that everyone seems to have this asinine need to compare cozy traditions.
“Does your family do anything fun for Christmas Eve? Mine always watches a Christmas Carol!”
“My mom makes us special hot chocolate and we watch Elf as afamily. Does your mom do anything like that?”
“We have a whole reindeer parade and light show, complete with the lighting of twelve motherfucking giant trees. Is your family not as obnoxiously over the top as mine?”
No, Karen. My family is dead, and I spend the holidays eating shitty leftovers and drinking enough wine to drown my sorrows.
But of course, I never say that. I always make up excuses, change the subject, keep the urge to snap and unleash on everyone tamped down. It’s exhausting. The only positive of this winter weather is that I look extra cute bundled up in chunky sweaters. Girls with curves like mine were not made for the sticky heat.
“As long as your final portfolio has been submitted, then you are good to go. Have a very merry Christmas everyone,” Professor Stanley calls from the front of the room.
She’s your typical art professor—wild silver curls swept up in a messy bun, framing an angular face. Her dark eyes are rimmed by hot pink-framed glasses. She’s wearing some type of flowy outfit that consists of an unreasonable number of layers and several strands of long beaded necklaces. Her lithe, long fingers are adorned with an array of glimmering rings. She is exactly who I’d like to be one day—confident, smart, independent, and a little wild. She seems like the quirky type that spends the holidays drinking mulled wine that she made herself in a bathtub in her garage. I wonder if she needs a drinking buddy.
I’ve never been good at making friends, though. Surprisingly, once people find out that you’re an orphan with a chip on their shoulder, they tend to pull away. Sympathetic acquaintances? I have a shit ton of those. True friends? Those are few and far between. You can’t get hurt if you never let anyone in and I’ve had enough hurt for one lifetime.
“Are you ready to head out?” Chloe, my art class acquaintance and occasional coffee companion, says as she throws hercashmere scarf across her delicate neck.
A lock of soft blonde hair dislodges from my braid and falls across my forehead. I swipe it from in front of my eyes, tucking the golden strand behind my ear.
“No,” I tell her, eyeing my piece. “I want to sit with this one just a bit longer.”
The mixed media piece is almost complete but there’s something missing. It’s good but not perfect. I need to get it just right and then I can head out to Winter Break without this hanging over my head.
“Okay, call me later? Let’s grab a drink or coffee or something before you leave, okay?” Chloe says, grabbing her bag.
“Of course! I don’t leave until tomorrow afternoon,” I reply before she turns and heads for the door.
Tomorrow I leave for Norway. A few months ago, I passed a sign in the hallway advertising a Winter Break excursion program through the Study Abroad Office. It’s definitely not a free trip, but it is a heavily discounted one. “Immerse Yourself in a Scandinavian Celebration,” the poster had read. Essentially, it’s a mini-exchange program, I learned when I inquired at the Travel Abroad office, one where I spend the holidays in a small Norwegian town having a traditional Scandinavian holiday experience. There was something about the idea of escaping the holidays this year—running away to somewhere where no one knows me, that called to me. Plus, there was something about the image on the flyer that intrigued me—the snow covered mountains, the dark fjords, the breathtaking colors of the Northern Lights above the snow packed landscape. Everything just looks so… alive there. Nothing like the cold, dead, dreadful winter we have here. I had to save up for months in order to buy the ticket. Even with the scholarship I received from the art department in exchange for the promise that I would return with award-winning caliber photographs, it wasn’t exactly cheap. Ipretty much drained my savings in order to get the round trip flight half way across the world. But it’ll be worth it. It has to be worth it.
“You’re the last one left,” Professor Stanley says from behind me. She appraises the piece from over my shoulder.
“It’s missing something,” I tell her without taking my eyes from the piece.
It’s a combination of different pictures I’ve taken from around campus, cut and collaged into a mural that I’ve overlaid with acrylic and oil paints. The contrast of high exposure black and white photography mixed with the vibrant primary tones I’ve pulled for the paint is supposed to create a surreal mood—expressing the falsities of reality. What we see versus what we want to see… I think.
“It’s nice. But it’s missing heart,” Professor Stanley comments, prompting me to spin on my stool.
“Heart?” My stomach twists at her critique. “I put heart into it.” My words nearly die on my lips as they slip from my mouth.
“You put thought, effort, interest, yes. But the emotion is flat,” she comments. “Your art is good, dear. But if you’re going to find your true artist, you need to stop being nice and making nice pictures. Nice doesn’t sell.”
And with that, she turns on her heels and floats across the room as if she didn’t just crush my dreams in a single blow. I have one semester left after this. I’ve dedicated my entire college career to art, a degree that I thought would help me heal but has brought more struggle than success. What if I’m just a silly girl with a hobby and not a true artist?
Throwing my paintbrush down, I rub at my eyes. Everything is just out of control. I feel lost. With only a single semester left in college, I’m left wondering what exactly it is I’m doing with my life. Maybe I’ll figure it out over break. Maybe I just need an escape.
TWO
ELISA
“Flight 219 to Oslo is now boarding,” the PA system thunders overhead.
It hits me then that I have no fucking clue what I’m doing. Most college girls are headed home for the holidays right now. Curling up in their childhood beds while pretending they’re not relieved to be back home with their parents. Most of my classmates are probably safely tucked into their safe little suburban homes. And I’m flying halfway around the world to a country I know nothing about, where I know no one except one random stranger who’s apparently expecting me.
This is probably a really fucking bad idea.
But every time I start to second-guess myself I think of my photo professor’s critique of my end-of-semester portfolio. She claimed that my pictures “lack any real truths. While nice andwell shot, they are boring, dull, and safe. Strong art evokes strong emotion in both the artist and the audience. This does not.”