She reached into her bag and pulled out a manila folder. It was the first time she’d used the Epson printer in the main studio, and she’d been excited to see how her photos came out. However, while the Epson printed her photos in perfect, crisp color, she missed the almost spiritual process of developing the black-and-white film in the dusky red light of the darkroom.
He sifted through the stack of photos, pausing to look at one or another, then slipping each one back in the stack. When he got to the end, he flipped them back and started over again from the beginning. As she waited for his reaction, she smoothed the bottom of her shirt, pressing it flat with her hands, then rolling the bottom edge in her fingers.
Her second week at the retreat had been drastically different from the first. She’d walked nearly every path, bridge, and sandy mound in the preserve, some with Gregory at her side but often alone. She stayed out all day, often forgetting to stop and eat, shooting until the dusk swallowed the light. Though she felt out of her element when she had first arrived at the retreat, unsure of her ability to capture anything meaningful from trees, leaves, and darting geckos, she now felt as adept shooting nature scenes as she did people. She felt electric, her creativity burning through her as it hadn’t since her time in Wyoming, alone and free.
She was beginning to think she could do this—could find a way to fit her art, her creativity, into her routine life of kids, work, bills, and housework. The task seemed impossible—her life at home was so tight, her free time doled out in such small chunks, she didn’t know how to add these new urges into her normal, day-to-day world. But her new sense of purpose was hard to ignore.
“Tell me about this.” His sudden words jolted her from her thoughts. He flipped through the stack and pulled one out. It was the shot of the canoe she’d rescued by the lake. Ugly and rusted, with a shaft of fuzzy sunlight beaming through the jagged hole. “When did you take it?”
“A few days after you took me to the waterfall and blasted me about my amateur photo skills.”
“Blasted? I prefer to think I inspired, but whatever I did, it was worth it if it pulled this out of you. The first images you took were bland. Then—wham—you come out with something like this.”
Relief flooded through her. She loved the shot too. “I was on my way to dinner when I saw it. I wasn’t even thinking about what I was doing.”
“That’s when the best stuff happens—when we’re not overthinking. It’s a good way to live, really. Don’t overthink, just do. Works in a lot of situations. It’s already working for you.” She inhaled, the corners of her mouth pulling up into an involuntary smile. “But you still need practice. Let me show you a few things.”
He spent the next few minutes dissecting a handful of photos, pointing out where she’d missed her angle or lost perspective. She was glad for the critique—to grow as a photographer, she needed the honest feedback—but it was hard not to hear his words as marks against her hard work. Against her.
“Do you agree?”
He was watching her, waiting for an answer, but she’d missed the question. “I’m sorry. Do I agree with what?”
He reached forward and dropped her photos on the low table in front of them. “All right. What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Please, continue.” She swallowed back the annoying lump in her throat. “You were talking about how I got the shadows wrong, I think.”
He sighed. “Jenna, this is your critique, just like if you’d been in the workshop. If you’re an artist, you can’t react like this.”
“I’m not . . . I’m not reacting in any way. And I’m not an artist.”
“Then what are you?”
“I’m a photographer, right? Isn’t that what you want me to say?”
He leaned forward, close enough that she could see gold flecks in his brown eyes. She looked down at her hands. “But what is a photographer if not an artist? Are you not creating something beautiful, something that will make the viewer feel, or escape, or dream? Something that challenges the way we see the world, or encourages someone, gives them hope or direction? That’s what art does. Isn’t that what you’re doing?”
“I’m trying to.” Her words were clear and as sharp as his, but she still couldn’t look in his eyes.
He reached forward and tilted her chin up with one finger, forcing her to look at him. “Don’t guess. Know it. You are an artist. Get it through your head now or when you leave this place, you’ll go right back home and pick up your life as if this experience were nothing more than a blip on your radar.”
He sat back in his chair and gazed at her photo on the wall. “Look, there will always be people who criticize your work. I’m trying to help you, to make you better than you think you can be, better even than you’re trying to be. But those people who truly criticize, who belittle—their words don’t matter. What matters is that you can’t be the one to drag yourself down, okay? You have to carry on, regardless of whether anyone—me, another mentor, or some idiot walking down the street—understands or appreciates your art. It is yours alone and your approval of it, your acceptance of it, has to come first.”
Outside, the world was alive with nighttime sounds, but inside, other than their breathing, it was silent.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?”
She nodded, buoyed by his intensity and the fire in his eyes. “I get it.”
“Good. You are a photographer, Jenna Sawyer. Even more than that, you’re an artist. A good one. And you have the potential to be even better.”
She waited for more, but he stood and
