Rebecca Nemser

“It’s unful­filled long­ing. It’s being young. Meet me at 20. I don’t know what I want to do. I kind of want to write. You want to be a artist, to express what’s going on in your life. It’s a way to lose your­self in your dis­con­tent. Oth­er­wise you’d just go out and shoot and van­dal­ize. Art is more internal.” 

The can­vas curled back like a white wave. The light turned red. Sil­hou­ettes of dancers moved through the white space like brush­strokes mov­ing across a pic­ture plane. The light turned white. The ceil­ing rip­pled and bil­lowed. Silence. White light. I was tak­ing notes, and the only sound I could hear was the sound of my own writ­ing. It was over.