Page 16 of Goode Vibrations
“Really? Like how?”
“Well, this one time, I was between assignments for Nat Geo and sort of just bumming around the Eastern Bloc, this was…two years ago? My editor is friends with the editor atTimemagazine, and there was talk about trying to do a feature on some of the super remote places special forces operators get assigned to over in Afghanistan. Like, places where they’ve likely never seen a white person before, and then suddenly it’s all a big shootout with the Taliban. There was a team of guys from the British SAS and the American Army Rangers going way deep in country, right, like leaving Germany that week and it was gonna be the last opportunity to get someone embedded for the story. All ofTime’sbest photographers were on assignment in places where they couldn’t get to Germany in time to make the embed, and I was already in the Ukraine, so it was a no-brainer when my boss told theTimeeditor I was available. So I got loaned out and sent to Afghanistan with this mixed squad of SAS and Rangers, these blokes who were just the most badass humans I’ve ever met. I spent three months with them, and I was either bored out of my mind, exhausted, or scared spitless. I can’t really say what their directive was because number one they didn’t tell me, and number two they’re still over there doing it and I’m sworn to secrecy. That part sounds bullshit, but I swear it’s not. I can say they were hunting Taliban, but that’s generally it. I think they were after someone in particular, but I don’t really know. It turned out a mint piece, though. Some of my most brilliant shots, if I do say so myself.”
“So you’ve done literal, actual war stories?”
I shrugged. “Yeah, I guess you could call it that. There were times I thought for sure I’d catch one. Mainly because the only way to get the good shots was to ignore my handler and put my head up when he was telling me to put it down. I learned bullets make different noises depending on how close they get to your face. I learned mortar shells don’t whistle before they land. I learned you don’t get thrown backward when bullets hit you. I learned you may not even notice your mate’s been hit until he’s already bled out beside you.”
Shit. Too heavy. Way too fuckin’ heavy. Stupid ass, Errol. Stupid.
She was quiet a while.
“Sorry, Poppy. Went a bit too far into the sad bits, there.”
She eyed me. “You know, I think I’d rather you be real than feed me just the cool stories.”
“Why don’t you tell me a story, now?”
She rolled her eyes. “I got nothing that can compete with actual war stories.”
“Ain’t a competition, though.” I grinned, hopefully winningly. “Hit me with one.”
“I’m actually more of a painter than I am a photographer, that’s the first thing to know. I discovered in, like, fourth-grade art class that I just sort of…got…oil painting. My hand, my eye, my brain, they all just…do things and I go along with it. Give me a canvas, palette, and brush, and I’m in my happiest place.”
“What style do you do?”
“Oh, I’ve tried them all. If I’m going to just do something for fun, I’ll probably veer into Van Gogh’s world. I like the not quite abstract, you know? Smears, lots of paint. If I want to spend a few days or weeks on something, I’ll do a reproduction of a classic. Vermeer is the hardest, by far. Everyone knows he’s a master, one of the greats, but until you understand technically how good he was, you just won’t get it.”
“Sort of like black-and-white photography and Ansel Adams.”
“Exactly. You know his prints are just…sublime. Anyone can appreciate that. But go get a black-and-white camera and stand in the exact spot he stood and take the same photograph, and you’ll be like, ‘ohhhh, shit, now I get it.’”
“Because your shot will be shit, which is why he’s famous and you’re not.”
She laughed. “Yes, exactly. But with trying to paint like Vermeer? It goes deeper. He could do things with light and depth that are just…you can’t explain them.”
“And you can paint like Vermeer?”
She shrugged. “I mean, you won’t mistake mine for his, no. I’m no van Meegeren, that’s for sure. But it’s fun to try.”
“I got no clue who van Meeg-whatever is, but what you’re saying without saying is that you’re a talented as hell painter.”
“Ididget a full ride to Columbia University’s art program on the basis of my portfolio alone.” She smirked. Nottoohumble, then. “Van Meegeren was famous for forging Vermeer. It’s a whole art history thing. A cool story, but not the point.”
“What’s the point, then?”
“It was my second semester at Columbia, and I was still trying to cram my homework, classes, my own painting projects, art department projects, and a social life into twenty-four hours. Basically, not sleeping hardly at all. Like, three or fours a night, and I amnotthat person. I need eight hours or I’m a serious bitch. So, I was doing classes, going out partying with friends half the night, then cramming for tests till four in the morning, and waking up for an eight a.m. class.”
“Yikes. That doesn’t usually last long.”
“No, and it didn’t. I’d met some friends way the hell uptown at this stupid hoity-toity Upper East Side bar, a real swanky place where everyone dressed up all fancy and the drinks were like fifteen dollars a pop. Not my scene, but they’d been invited by these guys they’d met and they dragged me along. So the night wears on, I’m getting sloshed—”
“Wait, wait, wait,” I cut in. “You said you’re not even nineteen, and I know for a solid fact the drinking age here is twenty-one.”
She looked away, shrugged, hiding a smirk. “I don’tlookeighteen, and I have an ID thatsaysI’m twenty-one, and it’s nearly perfect.”
“I see. Naughty, naughty.”
“I didn’t use it much. Mostly one of our friends whowasof age would buy for us and we’d hang at someone’s dorm or apartment. But sometimes my friends would go out and the hell if I’d let something as pesky as my age keep me from the fun.”