CHAPTER 18 – The Gift of Giving (2)

Thanks to the work of her Media Manager, almost every student at LAPA now knew that a Sophomore had created a song that briefly touched the rare rank of top 20 on MySpace. Everywhere she went now, there would at the very least be smiles and nods, and glances from strangers as they tried to discern if this tiny, jogging blonde was indeed the girl in the dark, singing in the parking lot.

Week 5, much like the prior weeks, came and went like a flash in between assignments, essays, flash quizzes, and ever more intensive hours spent either prepping for the auditions, practising the guitar with Zara, and working on the evolving techniques taught by Dr Cooper, Costello and Miss Seyrova.

From their instinctual acting, they moved into the heavy theories of Rudolf Laban, categorising their deliberation of actions into the Eight Efforts, acting out the cornerstones of body theatre in ways she never knew existed. For Eppie, the application of Laban Movement Analysis (LMA) gave language and dimension to something that had previously been vague and ambiguous. Though complex, it allowed Costello to give exact instructions to the student actors struggling to perceive the physical dimensions of immaterial expression, such as that of emotions.

The theory was a complex, ongoing process, though Eppie had a memory like no other.

With her newly acquired [Noblisse Oblige], Eppie’s ambitions once more turned to old connections and familiar faces. She had not seen Armand for weeks. Rumour has it that he was obsessively painting, but now it just seemed that the boy was avoiding her.

Considering that he had recorded her singing Starry Starry Night, there was most definitely a piece of the pie reserved for his artistic self—but she had also expected Armand to seek her out by now.

The principal reason was that Eric had called and asked if she had anyone she wanted to bring with her. Her very first thought was to bring Zara, but Eric had said that Antonio would be her guitarist, and there was no way Sony’s execs would risk having a student play her backing track live, especially when the host was Juliana Vaughan.

Nonetheless, she had a “spare ticket”, and it was a very good opportunity to give a young artist an unforgettable night at the Met.

Of course, her guest had to pay for their own airfare and accommodation, unless they wanted to share a room with Eppie.

On Wednesday, when the theatre was done, Eppie decided it was time to visit the arts rooms.

Unlike the dance, music and theatre kids, Fine Arts had their abode in the underbelly of the old school building. Armand, however, was a selected talented senior, meaning the school had hired more roomy, artistic spaces for seniors with Showcases in Fall and Spring.

This would be the Whitman Hall complex, a beautiful Art Deco building of salmon sandstone, with neo-classical columns made in postmodern styles to accentuate CSULA’s heritage of the arts.

Using the power of the smile, she asked security where she would find LAPA Seniors, then made her way down into the interior of the gallery. She wandered past the massive Sculpture Lab and the Kilns, the heavy presses where the print makers experimented, and arrived finally in a white, sterile display space. Presently, there was nothing sterile about it, because the corner assigned to Armand was covered with tarps and dividers, with a smell of turpentine so thick that Eppie could taste it.

“Armand!” She called out toward the canvas-strew barrier. “Guess who’s here—”

“NO!” the artist sounded like he had leapt out of his skin. “Don’t come in!”

Her whole body froze.

“Are you naked?” she asked. It was a very sensible question. Artists, even Persian ones, could be very strange.

“… I am not,” Armand’s voice replied. “I just… It’s not finished.”

“Okay… okay…” Eppie stood on the edge, her curiosity burning a hole in her frontal lobe. “So er… I have a thing for you…”

She explained that in three weeks, on Saturday the 6th, she would be flying out to NYC, staying the night, and then performing at the Met. There will be Van Goghs, and there will be Madam Juliana Vaughan. Unfortunately, Sony will not be paying for the flight and accommodations of her one allocated guest.

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“I asked Eric, and he said that cattle flights should be around $340, $600 for return, and the hotel he can subsidise with corporate, so it’ll be $300 a room. You have a passport, right?”

“I do.” Armand’s voice reverberated around the room. “And I’ll do it, I got money saved up.”

Finally, her painter friend emerged from behind the tarps. The man was covered in oil, and his eyes were bloodshot. “Thanks, Eppie. I don’t know what else to say.”

“Well, what else needs to be said?” Eppie tilted her head and flashed the boy a golden grin. “I am somewhat partial to people who pull me out of the sea.”