The Mirror Project

By Lexi Jones

“Alright everybody, you all had to create a piece using a mirror. It’s time to present them. Who would like to start?”

Nobody moved. Everyone just fell more into themselves, attempting to look smaller so the professor wouldn’t call on them. But he proceeded.

“How about we start with… Paige.”

Paige groaned and rolled her eyes. But nevertheless, she got up from her seat and walked up to the front of the class while pulling down her mini skirt. It didn’t really do much.

“Okay, so my piece is about duality. It shows the differences between how people and maybe how society sees you, represented by this beautiful ornate frame, contrasting what we tell ourselves inside. The ugly words on the mirror are displaying that.”

Her piece looked like exactly how she explained it. An ornate frame surrounding the mirror with about five or six self-deprecating words on it. It was all very literal. Something I could never really get myself to appreciate as much as pieces that aren’t. I like to interpret them on my own, having my own feelings about them rather than it being displayed to me. Though, art is all subjective. So really, what do I know?

“Very telling, Paige. The words on the mirror seem to be written with a sense of exhaustion and desperation to be seen.”

My professor actually liked her piece. The guy who told us he went to SCAD where he submitted a video for a project where he injected black India ink into his arm to show a visual of how art runs in artists’ veins. How it’s not in the mind, it surges through the body and soul. Something so evocative it could’ve killed him, yet he praised her framed mirror with poorly written words on it? Again, what do I know. Art is subjective, remember?

“Thank you,” Paige said, walking back to her seat, smiling. Again, pulling down her mini skirt as she sat down.

“Next up is… Ivy.”

Me.

I know I criticized Paige’s art which might make it seem like I’m an egotistical know-it-all, but I’m really not. I may be opinionated, sure, but I’m also pretty critical of myself too. I’m a perfectionist. Especially with art. But of course, perfection is impossible. I have to be okay with that.

I got up from my seat and went to the front of the class, taking a deep breath.

“I chose my project to be about validation, transforming into violence and violation. The mirror is tilted, facing the floor enough for you to have to bend down to see your reflection, portraying how we worship validation,” I explained.

The other students looked confused. Shit, I don’t think they understood, so I continued.

“You basically have to bow to see your reflection.”

They nodded in what seemed like comprehension. I think.

“As you lower yourself further down, the mirror gets more and more cracked. We risk breaking ourselves the more we crave approval from others. At the bottom, the mirror is in pieces.”

I looked at my professor for his feedback. How ironic. Seeking approval while talking about how we shouldn’t have to seek approval. I never claimed that I don’t have those tendencies. I’m human. Imperfect.

My professor looked pleased, nonetheless. He told me that I took an idiosyncratic take on social stigmas with grace. I smiled and looked at my shoes. Happy and pleased with myself, right until I looked up and saw Paige raising her hand.

“So you think it’s pathetic for people to care about how they look?” she snarked.

“No. I’m saying mirrors don’t lie, but they don’t love you either.” I told her calmly.

“It looks like you really spent a lot of time on it. It’s intense. Do you always make stuff so personal?”

I paused for a moment, looking to the side.

“If you think personal is the problem, you’re not the audience I made it for.”

“And who would that be? The mentally ill? I mean, no offense, but your whole tortured-artist act screams unmedicated.”

Some students’ jaws dropped. Others laughed under their breath. My professor’s expression shifted.

“You’re not stable, Paige. You’re scared. You just have better makeup to cover it.”

“Okay, that’s enough. Both of you,” my professor said, getting up from his desk. He didn’t look too happy. “You want to act like children? Then you’ll clean up like them. Together after class. No exceptions. And this room should look spotless.”

Class breezed by after that whole dilemma. People shuffled out of the room while Paige and I stayed put. We stayed in our seats and avoided eye contact, silent for a while.

“I’ll wash the brushes,” Paige finally said, getting up and walking over to the sink.

I was about to get a broom to sweep away the mess when I stopped in my tracks.

“I didn’t want it to go like that. But I’m not going to let anyone disrespect me,” I said.

Paige turned around from the sink to face me.

“Okay, and I’m not going to pay a shit ton of money to be in a class where people are just going to make me uncomfortable.”

“Then maybe don’t take a class where the entire point is to feel something,” I told her.

“That’s what therapy is for, Ivy. I came here to make art, not unravel,” she said with confidence.

Is that what some people think? That it should just be a pretty picture? Sure, it can. But there are so many varieties of what art’s all about.

“Well then good for you, okay? I make visual breakdowns and you make Pinterest boards. We all have our thing.”

I continued to walk to the broom closet when, of course, Paige mumbled, “Whatever. At least I’m not a walking cry for help.”

We both silently cleaned up the classroom. Organized canvases, put materials in closets, and wiped down tables. About an hour passed. The silence became kind of deafening.

“Can I put on music or something?” I asked her.

“Sure,” she said.

I reached for my phone in my bag and went to Spotify, scrolling through my playlists, when I finally landed on the perfect one. I died inside, but fuck it I’m fried. I hit shuffle.

Paige’s face flooded with discontent as the music played.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” she said.

“What?”

“This shit is so ass. Put, like, Sabrina Carpenter on,” she said.

“Dude, I’m not skipping The Strokes to listen to Sabrina Carpenter.”

“How is your music depressing too? Like, fuck. Take a break.”

I tried to tune her out but reluctantly changed the music to something more neutral. Men I Trust. Doesn’t scream heartbreak or bubblegum.

Paige didn’t say anything for a bit. She just bobbed off-tempo to the beat for a couple seconds.

“Better,” she said. “Still a little weird, but whatever.”

The music played in the background while we kept cleaning. Paige was on the opposite side of the room, spraying cleaner like it was pepper spray. I took over rinsing materials in the sink.

“Fucking watch it,” she said aggressively when I splashed her sneakers.

“Watch your attitude. It was an accident,” I snapped.

“Defensive for no reason.”

“You’re the one acting like I spilled bleach on your fucking shoes.”

I turned back to the sink when Paige continued, “They’re new.”

I didn’t respond. I just kept scrubbing stupid palettes and cups. I kept silent until I couldn’t hold in what I’ve been wanting to say all this time.

“I don’t think you hate my art or my music, Paige. I think you just hate what it makes you think and maybe even feel.”

It made me feel a little better knowing she could possibly have something to think about, if she does think at all. But of course, she had a response.

“What I think is that shit is intolerable, and what I feel is secondhand embarrassment.”

“You might be confusing embarrassment with discomfort,” I explained, keeping my voice even as best I could. “It’s not the same thing.”

“Okay, therapist,” she rolled her eyes.

I ignored that.

“Embarrassment means you care how it looks. Discomfort means you care how it feels.”

“Oh my god. Can something just suck without it meaning anything to you?” She stopped wiping things down. Things that didn’t need to be wiped.

“Sure,” I said, stopping what I was rinsing, “but most people don’t get so irritated at things that suck unless they feel something deeper.”

Paige looked away, brows furrowed.

“People forget about things that are meaningless to them. I hope you figure out why you reacted the way you did.”

We were almost done tidying up the room. Thank God. I just wanted to go home. But apparently Paige wanted to continue the conversation.

“I don’t know. Like,” she started, still not looking at me, “you’re not terrible at what you do. It’s just… a lot. It’s like watching someone bleed on purpose and calling it a masterpiece.”

I leaned on the edge of the sink and crossed my arms.

“I’m just honest. Is that so bad?”

“No, but there’s a time and place. Art is supposed to be fun.”

“Of course it should be fun too. Just not in the way karaoke and clubbing are fun. Art should also serve a purpose. Because it’s necessary.”

Paige looked a mix between baffled and confused.

“Breathing is necessary. Food and water are necessary. Putting some paint on a canvas and giving it a name is not necessary.”

“It is when the alternative is keeping everything in your chest until it curdles.”

Her jaw tightened and she stiffened, like I hit a nerve.

“For some people, it’s the only way they are able to say something without choking.”

I looked at the paint splatters on the floor.

“The result may look visually unappealing to some people, maybe not even evoke any emotion at all. But to feel uncomfortable just looking at something? Yeah. That means something.”

Paige stayed quiet, then turned her head toward my mirror project that I left in the corner.

“Your work kind of overwhelmed me,” she said, her voice lowered now. “With how… exposed it felt.” She turned her whole body to face it. “It was like I walked in on someone’s thought. Something I wasn’t supposed to hear or see. But you wanted and chose to share it. I don’t understand why. Aren’t you scared of what people see?”

“I’m more scared of not being seen at all,” I told her.

She blinked, seeming to get what I was saying a little.

“I guess I thought art was just supposed to be beautiful.”

I smiled. Not because that point of view is stupid, but because it’s true. Beyond true.

“It is. My mirror piece may not be as glamorous as yours.” I giggled a little, kindly. “Don’t get me wrong, yours is beautiful and has a great message behind it. My style may just be different. One that you’ve seen but never really seen.”

I paused for a second, trying to find the right words.

“It’s a blessing and a privilege to feel any type of emotion from what may just look like some paint on paper or a shattered mirror. That feeling, even if it’s weird, sad, or confusing, means your brain and your heart are still awake.”

“It didn’t feel like a blessing,” she said softly. “It felt… like someone touched a bruise I didn’t know I had.”

“Exactly,” I said. “That’s how you know it’s real.”

And for once, she didn’t argue.

The room felt quieter now, even though “Show Me How” by Men I Trust had been playing on repeat for a while. It was like the space between us had started to heal. Not resolved, but started to.

“So, if I made a piece that wasn’t perfect, you wouldn’t laugh at me?” she asked.

“Not unless it was supposed to be funny,” I said with a smile.

She smiled too.

We finished cleaning the last of everything in silence, while the weight of the room lifted just enough for us to breathe again.

As we packed up our things and headed toward the door, she glanced at me one last time.

“I think I’m starting to get it.”

“Yeah,” I said, grinning a little. “I think you are too.”

We went our separate ways and even said goodbye.

It felt like I left without leaving anything behind. I didn’t fix anything. I didn’t try to change her. But maybe I cracked something open.

And that’s all I ever wanted art to do.