Immaculate Conception

1

Then

I first saw Mathilde through the little oval window of her studio space. She looked so small beneath the trees that towered over her that it took a moment for me to find her, and to notice what was off about the scene: trees are not often indoors. She caught me looking, her lashes flicking upward in a gesture of annoyance, as if my very presence outside her door was a distraction. I smiled. She didn't.

We were both freshmen at the Berkshire College of Art and Design, and though everyone else in our class was always barging into one another's studios, pretending to look for this brush or that color while sizing each other up, no one dared to assume that kind of intimacy with Mathilde. Rumors swirled about her. She was Carolee Schneemann's assistant for a time. Maya Lin had included one of her early works in an anthology of young women who would change the future of art. Fabrice Hybert was allegedly her godfather. There were whispers that she was one of the Guerrilla Girls. She hadn't even applied to BCAD. When the first buffers-alleged art pieces-began sprouting up overnight, she received international attention for a series of protest performances against them. She was among the first to grasp the true purpose of those silvery sculptural lines that wove through cities, with screens on either side. They were barriers, insidiously designed to separate communities of different means. By creating eruvim, ritual halakhic enclosures, and basing them on inequality maps, she showed how the boundaries were the same, proving her hypothesis to be correct. This even though she, as an enclave kid, wasn't adversely affected. BCAD had practically begged her to enroll.

In classes, it quickly became clear that not only was she supremely gifted in any medium of her choice, but she also knew more about art than anyone, particularly in critical theory and history. In our first class with Professor Thomasina, we were asked to introduce ourselves and name our current favorite artist. It was meant to be a fun icebreaker, but I watched as we went around the room and students, with a sheen of sweat, grappled for the most impressive obscure artist they could think of-all of whom were known or cliché, even to me. As soon as a name was said, everyone snapped their heads up and down compulsively as if to say, Yes, yes, I know that artist. I'm familiar with their work and, in fact, their entire oeuvre. It was the first day of four years of classes, and everyone wanted to prove they had nothing to learn. Only Mathilde mentioned a name that invoked a surprised and momentary stillness.

"Remedios Varo?" She repeated the name again, hoping to elicit recognition. "Vagabond? Creation of the Birds?"

A slight shake of the head and some murmuring from other students. One boy surreptitiously typed on his phone under the desk.

"What do you like about his work?" Professor Thomasina asked.

"Her work," Mathilde said. "Right now, I'm inspired by the specificity with which she used tools to achieve exactly what she wanted. Sand, Masonite, decalcomania, soufflage . . . even quartz crystal sgraffito . . . nothing was off-limits. And instead of diluting her artistic language, this fluency of technique created it."

Professor Thomasina nodded slowly. "I remember her works now, yes. So original."

"Yes, exactly." Mathilde seemed happy to hear that someone else knew this artist she loved. But looking around, I thought that, like me, no one believed Professor Thomasina.

As one of the only non-enclave students, I had been worried about a lack of knowledge when I got to BCAD. During orientation week, I spent every night at the library, trying to catch up on all of the education I had missed. But it was impossible to grasp the entire history of our ancient field in that short amount of time, let alone familiarize myself with new artists and exhibits. Mathilde knew so much more than everyone, however, that it had an equalizing effect. Compared to her, we were all inexperienced. Instead of the panic my peers felt at her omniscience, I felt relief.

Outside of class, she was so introverted as to be unfriendly. The way she brushed past people, never noticing or acknowledging anyone, led us to believe she was hostile and competitive. Certainly she was as friendless as I was, although her loneliness was a choice. She seemed to recoil from human interaction, but that didn't stop me from being drawn to her. If I'd had a sister, I imagined she would look something like Mathilde. An intense gaze amplified her small, pointed features. She would have looked severe if not for the sweet fullness of her cheeks. When she passed me in the hallways, I had the urge to reach out and touch her. There was a surprising solidity to her slight figure, as if she created her own gravitational force. Anyone who got too close was in danger of falling into her orbit. Or maybe I was just so insecure that anyone with a strong sense of identity could destabilize me.

Although the BCAD campus sprawled across fifteen acres and had 1,703 students, there were fewer than twenty buildings, including dormitories. The student body was like a stack of unused canvases, grating against each other as we hoped to be the next masterpiece. It was impossible to exist without breathing in another artist's paint fumes or wading through their oversized ego. I always pinched myself as I admired the expansive green lawns dotted with clean brick buildings and gothic stone arches. It was the first time I was among other young artists, some of whom already had followings and pieces in prestigious galleries. They were all from enclaves, and many of them came from famous art families and were already minor celebrities. I found myself altering my history when I arrived. Little things, like saying I was from Miami instead of Gainesville. It was still miraculous to me that I had made it into BCAD, that I was walking in the footsteps of so many beloved artists. But no matter what I said, or how much I embellished, I couldn't shake the feeling that our lives had already been determined. I could see the way my classmates' careers would spin out over the next few years and decades. I could see the legacies they'd leave behind, eventually having their own golden art children-equally rich, talented, and connected. Comparatively, I was a nobody who came from nothing.

Without my scholarship, BCAD wouldn't have been an option. In my sophomore year of high school, the first buffers were erected in my neighborhood. We watched with eager anticipation as the sleek linear sculptures, reminiscent of silver snakes, were constructed. We felt lucky to be recipients of such beautiful public art pieces until my family was suddenly carved away from the rest of our community and every aspect of our daily life changed. Overnight, we were all assigned a designation. You were either an enclave kid or a fringe kid, and that title meant everything. As a fringe kid, I had to move schools, and my parents had to take such circuitous routes to work, they were eventually fired for persistent tardiness. Not only was upward mobility made impossible, but swimming in place wasn't even an option. It became too much of a hassle to see our old friends, and anyway, we didn't want to see them once the shame crept in. Presumably, these buffers were being erected all over the country, preventing contamination everywhere, but it was hard to even know if that was true. Normally, we would have found solidarity or solace online, but the new designations also dictated our online activity. Invisible buffers had been established on the internet so that websites were either enclave or fringe. Algorithms were no longer even vaguely related to our choices-they now corresponded to our IP addresses. I watched the possibilities of my life and self shrink to fit the algorithms, governed by these new limitations. The internet stopped being a place to connect to others or to exchange knowledge, and became a way to perform belonging in the world you had inherited.

Some people who were relegated to fringe status became obsessed with getting to the other side, something facial and gait recognition made impossible. But most, including my parents, began to indulge in a nasty snobbishness against anything cultural. If our lives were to be defined by inaccessibility, we could recontextualize that definition as a choice. A distaste for the interests of those who could afford to have interests. Art, which had never been truly democratic to begin with, was now an unattainable interest. My parents were first bewildered, then disturbed by my continued interest in it. They made it clear that they wouldn't spend a dime of their hard-earned money to support any of my artistic endeavors. I suppose it made them feel better to refuse, rather than to admit they didn't have anything to offer me.

Separated from any art store, I'd been forced to steal supplies. But there are so many colors you can make with just three. So many strokes to be taught from one brush. I made scarcity a good education. And even though I had so little, I had to hide it all for fear of my parents' ridicule, disappointment, and occasionally their wrath. As much as I disliked them, I also felt sorry for them. I couldn't have been the daughter they'd been conditioned to want.

When I got to BCAD, my mind couldn't help seeing a future in which all of my fellow students were stars and I alone a failure. I understood that if I wanted to ascend in this world, I would have to pull myself out of a warm, unrelenting sludge that perpetually sucked me down. I could feel the fringe on me, like a scent or shadow I couldn't shake, and I was worried everyone else could see it, too.

As a result, I preferred to work late at night when most of my classmates had gone home. It felt safer to keep my nascent projects from prying eyes. I would have a late dinner before heading to my studio space, that sanctuary of solitude, at eleven p.m.

One night, I noticed Mathilde's studio lights were still on. I looked in through the window quickly and saw that she wasn't there. I pressed myself against the door to better smell the delicious earthy aroma emitting from the large tree logs. I felt as if I were intruding on a deeply private moment, so at the squeak of an old window casement being closed in the building, I straightened and went down the hall to my own studio. I spent the next few hours drafting preliminary concepts for the upcoming Freshman Exhibit. For a while, I had been planning a work that would expose technology's limited ability for representation, but my new school affiliation changed the online spaces I could access, and technology was now an infinite resource rather than a constraint. I would have to change my initial idea, and I wasn't sure where to begin. I considered making a piece that would link so-called technological advances together. Something that drew a correlation between the invention of bullets and buffers, which I saw as an elongated bullet made static, forever blasting through cities, creating ruptures and boundaries. But I worried about the attention I would receive from creating an anti-buffer piece. Most of my classmates were antiestablishment, and would no doubt be suddenly interested in befriending me if they knew I had grown up fringe. I couldn't decide if that would make feel more or less like an outsider. I was distracted by these thoughts, and a vague guilt pursued me the entire time, as if I'd seen or taken something I shouldn't have.

By three a.m., I was tired, unfocused, and unable to stay upright for more than a few minutes at a time. I packed up my things and went to the bathroom. I washed the dark charcoal off my hands with multiple pumps of soap and checked my face in the mirror for marks. I gasped-the stall door behind me was partially open, and a body was slumped on the toilet. Mathilde. I rushed in and grabbed her by the shoulders, righting her body. Her eyes flew open. She twisted away from me as if singed by my touch. I backed away, realizing how invasive I had been, even though I had acted out of concern.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"It's OK," she mumbled, waving a hand at me.

Drunk? I looked at her for a moment longer. No, not drunk. Sad. Her face was blotchy and swollen from crying. Her hands and arms were bleeding from different points. That explained her violent reaction to my touch. Pinpricks, maybe. Self-harm? But then I remembered the logs in her space. Splinters. "Do you need me to call someone?"

She shook her head without looking at me. "I just need to be alone."

"Mathilde, right? I'm Enka. We're in the same year, and my space is down the hall. Are you sure there's nothing I can do? Do you want me to stay with you? Or walk you home?"

She shook her head again, forcibly this time.


What else could I have done but leave?

I kept waking that night, startled by the appearance of her crumpled body. Each time I dreamed of her, I saw the expression on her face more clearly. The look in her eyes when they opened in surprise. How quickly that surprise became sadness. As if she were disappointed to find that she could still open them.

In the morning, I visited my studio as an excuse to pass hers. She was there, in the same clothes as the night before, looking lost as she stood among her logs. The blood had dried from the splinters, polka-dotting her arms. I stood in place until she noticed me. When she looked up, I watched my hand move up to her window, my palm filling up the entire space. I let it rest there for a moment, not sure what I was conveying but somehow certain it was significant. When I pulled back, I saw my handprint smudged on the glass and decided I liked it there.

From that day forward, I always pressed my hand to her window whenever I passed. It became a habit, and eventually, it didn't feel like I could go to my studio without the ritual. I would do it even if she wasn't there. She never gestured for me to come in or stepped out to speak to me. Mostly, she looked away. Maybe embarrassed for me.

A few weeks into this, I saw a handprint on the little window of my door. It was small and faint but unmistakable. My heart let out an erratic flutter.