The Portrait of Emma

“Just when I thought my life could not get any worse than it already is,” I thought to myself as I wailed into my pillow, “How could Mrs. Johnson assign us this project? A self-portrait! I don’t want to draw myself. I hate my own face." Everyone at school calls me ‘pimple girl’ or ‘bunny nose, Nancy’ 

Only I could have this kind of luck, especially in what used to be my absolute favorite subject at school. All the last semester, I couldn’t wait until I got to go into Mrs. Johnson’s art class. Some kids don’t even call her Mrs. Johnson, but Mrs. J. Everyone loves her. At school, there has always been a waiting list for kids trying to attend her classes. Every semester, Principal Harvey has to draw names from a hat to see who made the cut. I had to wait 2 semesters to get my name called. Finally, I thought my luck was turning around. I had never even heard anything about her handing out stupid assignments like this. If I had known about this before, I would never have even tried to get into her art class. 

Everything had been so fun until today’s assignment. Playing with different color combinations, painting on real canvas and doing fun charcoal sketches. She’d even stop by my desk and compliment me on my work. BUT today, today, she told all of us that we have to draw ourselves. Her instructions actually said, “Get a hand mirror and study your face! Once your self-portraits are done, you all will get a chance to come up to the front of the class and explain your drawings.” I just about died right there, in 7th period art class. My ex-favorite class with my ex-favorite teacher. Not only do we have to work on it for 2 weeks, we have to explain it, out loud, to the entire room!

I don’t want to study my face, I want to go back to sitting in my chair and working on my own projects. Who wishes to draw themselves and then do an actual presentation! Art isn’t about talking! Art is about creating. How could she do this? My tears rolled silently down my face, right until I heard my mom call us for dinner.

“What’s up, squirrel?” my brother says right when I walk into the dining room to sit down. Perfect, another nickname. And squirrel? Do I look like a squirrel? Obviously, he wasn’t waiting for a reply, especially after mom told him to cut it out and to be nice. Mom kept looking at me during dinner and asked if everything was ok. I lied and said my allergies were bothering me, but I could tell she didn’t really believe that excuse. Probably didn't believe it because who has allergies when it’s 30 degrees outside? I decided to play along with it a bit, thinking maybe I could stay home from school tomorrow, but then that still leaves me 9 other school days until I have to turn in my portrait of a ‘squirrel face’. Ugh. Staying home was only going to put me behind in every class, and I knew I couldn’t miss any more periods. Being in 8th grade was hard enough, I can't fall behind now. All I ever really wanted was to get great grades, especially in art, so I could go to a famous art school. I pictured my paintings being shown in every gallery, all over the city, and everyone admiring my work. But what was going to happen now?

“ Emma", I hear coming from my mom, “Earth to Emma. What in the world has you so distracted tonight?” she continued. I mumbled, “nothing, I’m just tired...may I be excused?” She looked at my plate then at me and sighed, “Emma, honey, you have barely touched your food. You need your protein.” “Yeah, chimed in Sam, “don’t you want to finally grow some boobs?” He laughed at his stupid joke, mom got mad at him, and I tried to swallow one last bite of meatloaf.

“Obviously, you’re done, Em,” mom finally admitted, “Carry your plate to the kitchen and go finish your homework.” I tried to smile at her and then when she wasn’t looking, I stuck my tongue out at Sam and carried my dish to the sink. A small victory for me, even though I knew it wouldn’t last.

The next morning, I asked mom if she had a hand mirror. Being mom, she had to ask me a hundred questions about why I would need one when I had a full-length mirror in my room. I guess she never noticed that I try to keep that covered the majority of the time by hanging clothes from it. I told her that it was an art assignment, but I did not go into details. I didn’t want to even mention the project, that’s how upset I was about the whole thing. Mom went to look for a hand mirror and found one that could sit on my desk without even having to hold it. No excuses now for me, I was stuck doing this art chore. It couldn’t even be classified as an exercise, it was a chore, like taking out the garbage or sweeping the rug.

All day I dreaded 7th period. I had never been tardy to Mrs. Johnson’s class, but today I was the last one in, and I just went directly to my chair. I got a weird look from Sage, my only friend in class, but I pretended I didn’t notice it. I was trying to listen to Mrs. Johnson go on about all these well-known artists who had done self-portraits: Vincent van Gogh, Pablo Picasso, Rembrandt and then my ears perked up when she mentioned an Italian woman named, Artemisia Gentileschi. What a great name to start with, and when I heard that she created powerful portraits that depicted herself as strong and assertive. Wow. Ok, here’s this lady from Italy that started professionally painting at 15 years old. Just 15 and during a time when women were not supposed to be artists, according to the men who witnessed her works. Mrs. Johnson went on about how Artemisia would often portray violence in her pieces. When Mrs. Johnson presented one of Artemisia’s self-portraits, I almost gasped out-loud. The colors were striking, she appeared as she was looking at her spectators through the canvas. I felt her eyes land on mine. It was breathtaking. Later, at home, I googled Artemisia Gentileschi and found out about her tragic early days of being raped and then having to go to trial against her rapist. No wonder her eyes looked wounded. She was afraid, but then she proved to be amazingly resilient and strong. She had painted herself as a martyr, a saint and even a musical instrumentalist. Her paintings showed her pain but also her determination. Maybe I could actually do this assignment. I delved into Artemisia’s artwork and decided that she was a true hero and needed more people to understand her. I needed people to understand me! Perhaps this was my chance to show my classmates that “Emma Margaret Turner” could be just as courageous as a woman from the 17th century. I was going to draw me in this new light. I could be just as strong as my new heroine.

That night, I took the hand mirror out and really studied myself. Ok, yes, my nose was tiny, but maybe it could be classified as “cute as a button” instead of a little speck in the middle of my face. My eyes were just brown, but when I looked closer, I saw tiny bits of gold in them. My lips were always a little rosy, I never wore anything but Chapstick, but people have asked me what color lipstick I used. My hair, it wasn’t curly, and it wasn’t straight, but it was thick and wavy. Mom always said, women paid good money to have their hair done like mine in every salon she has tried. And, although I’ve been called a ginger, my hair is more auburn than bright red. 

I took out my colored pencils and my hand seemed to have a life of its own. It started flying across the paper. I couldn’t believe this portrait was coming out of me, that I was drawing a beautiful girl. There were no pimples, no constant shine across my forehead, just a girl with a little crooked smile on her rosy lips and a little nose that was more than just a pinpoint. This girl was becoming a real person with every mark of the pencil. I stayed up way past my bedtime for the next week, perfecting an image of myself that I never knew existed. When it was time for presentations, I was no longer dreading getting up in front of the class. I stood tall and pushed my shoulders back and pictured Artemisia standing next to me cheering me on. I found my voice, and it was stronger than I had ever imagined it could be. I told the class about me. That I loved art and that sometimes ugly ducklings turn into beautiful swans. When I was finished, Mrs. Johnson started clapping and the class followed her lead. I received lots of praise from classmates and teachers about my piece. Mrs. Johnson even put it up in the hallway for the whole school to see. Kids I didn’t even know came up to me and told me that I was gifted. I knew then that I was a true artist, if I could paint a shy, timid mouse of a girl and transform her into a hero, I could do anything. Every night I would go to bed thanking Artemisia for giving me strength. One night I swear I heard her reply, “It was all you, Emma, you are beautiful in every aspect”. I was, and I am, and then I went and into Sam’s room and stuck my tongue out at him and walked proudly away, cute button nose and all.