FICTION  -  
​      With a Theme of Time      

"They were to meet in the foyer with their sketchbooks and graphite pencils,
choose a painting, and sketch it for 30 minutes, any art piece they liked."

                                        Photo by Weebly.com                                    

---

FMA
by Vera Jacobson

Excited. Yes, that was precisely the feeling June had that cool grey Thursday morning. Excited. Her art professor had scheduled their lesson at the de Young Museum. They were to meet in the foyer with their sketchbooks and graphite pencils, choose a painting, and sketch it for 30 minutes, any art piece they liked. Yes, June would be one of those art types—hypnotized by sketching paintings in the museum, in another world, doing their art thing.
 
Excited was the word.
 
Recently, June decided to return to school and pursue an art degree, which is commendable considering she is in the 70-year-young-plus club. Continuously the oldest in her many endeavors, she invented the catchphrase "For My Age," aka FMA, meaning exactly what it says. "For My Age," she looks, acts, talks, walks, and thinks like her younger self, yet her body has somehow aged, slowing her down a bit. Yet she continued on, approaching life with the same enthusiasm she always had–determined to live her best life—FMA.
 
The class was required to stay in the museum for only one hour. After that, they were on their own. Since June was a member of the de Young, she figured she would allow time to enjoy a lovely little bite in the museum cafe while sipping an espresso, reflecting on all the magical art around her. After lunch, she would journey into Paul McCartney's Photo Exhibition. Although she was eternally in love with Ringo, it turns out that Paul was not only a musician but also a photographer. Who knew? He had captured Beatlemania from his point of view. June had seen them perform live in 1964 at the Cow Palace and loved them to the moon. Sketching art in the de Young, having a bite, and witnessing the Beatles' photo exhibit—what a perfect day.
 
June chose her outfit carefully that morning. Being the oldest in the class, she was never invisible. Most of her fellow students were not even of drinking age. They treated her with a rare curiosity that was reserved only for the very old or circus performers. She chose a pair of cool jeans, an Eileen Fisher shell with a black blazer, and her arty copper earrings. With her hair up in a chignon and her new rock-star sunglasses, she was ready. If one is to be stared at as the elder of the class/circus, she could at least indulge their gaping by wearing dignified clothes. One more glance in the mirror-FMA—not bad.
 
Realizing that her art supplies would be awkward to carry, she switched to a purse that accommodated them. Her tiny black bag was too small, so she chose her giant red polka-dotted thrift store treasure. It was a one-of-a-kind bag that would work with the arty-carnival effect she was going for. 

---

1

---

---

Relieved that she had satisfied the bag dilemma, she deliberately and mindfully set the purses side by side, ensuring a successful transfer of objects. Let's see, June pondered:  lipstick, hand sanitizer, keys, sunglasses, pens, art supplies, hair brush, Kleenex, hair bands, band-aids, nail clippers, wallet—yes, all good. Since the professor had prepaid admission to the general museum, all she had to do was show the admission clerk her museum membership card. She placed it at the front of her wallet for effortless admission to the Paul McCartney show. June had thought of every detail. She was all set.
 
Off she went, strategically allowing an extra half hour for traffic, arriving in plenty of time. June, punctual as always, could now relax and saunter to meet the group in her sophisticated attire. Coming into the garage to park the car under the de Young, she found it dark and creepy, with low ceilings and narrow underground ramps—June always got creeped out in public, hollow, lonely garages.
 
Shaking that feeling off, she returned to the happy plan, including meeting with the class and searching for the perfect art piece to sketch. Her professor explained they could check out a free portable chair at the coat check room. All they had to do was leave their driver's license with the clerk. June was happy because standing and sketching a painting for 30 minutes was a "no;” the elder vertebrae spoke loud and clear to her. FMA does have some limits.
 
As she was getting out of the car, June efficiently made a mental list of all her goods–phone, keys, glasses case—and quickly glanced into her giant red purse to ensure her art supplies were still there.
 
 In doing that, June noticed something missing.
 
Something. . . wait . . . what? Where is my wallet? Oh, c'mon, it's got to be here . . . wait, no, wait, where is the damn thing?!
 
She dug and dug . . . in that giant bucket-shaped purse—the kind that is easy to lose stuff in . . . . frantically digging–nope—damn! She did not have it. NO WALLET. WTF!,  she screamed inside her head.
 
That means no money, no ID, no membership card to the museum to see the Paul McCartney Exhibit, no lunch in the museum café . . . And no getting out of the garage without any money. Oh-oh, brother, I'm in a bit of a pickle.
 
Her stomach curled up inside itself. Adrenaline raced through her body, prickling her simultaneously. Her breathing was heavy and scary. The whole thing was terrifying in that creepy garage that seemed to swallow her whole.

---

2

---

---

In that full-blown panic state, June tried deep breathing and tapping her forehead as her therapist had taught her for anxiety. Yeah right. That was a joke. She needed her wallet. C'mon. How could she not have taken it??? She had been so deliberately mindful. So careful. And now she was stuck in the garage and would have to beg for money from the group. It didn't matter that she had her oh-so-sophisticated outfit on. She would appear as that little old lady who forgets stuff. And they would be right. This was not good. In fact, it just plain sucked.
 
Then she remembered! Diving into her glove box and pulling out her registration envelope, she found her lucky $20 bill. Whew! She kissed that little red envelope, a wisp of light within the deep bowels of this dark, horror-filled, isolated garage. At least she could retain a sliver of dignity with the students.
 
June spotted the parking station and ran to see how much time $20 would buy her. On weekdays, it was $10 an hour. She had arrived a half-hour early, so glancing at her watch, she only had 90 minutes to meet up with the group and sketch a painting.
 
Running back to the car, a bit shaky and freaked, she walked to the lower level of the museum entrance. The agent said the tickets and entrance were upstairs. Trying to compose herself because she did not want to portray the creepy old lady/circus freak who lost her wallet in front of all those darling young art kids, she ducked into the restroom, calming herself down. Washing her hands and doing a few yoga breaths, she couldn't help but overhear two ladies of similar age talking to each other.
 
"Can you see it? The new wrinkle that just jumped on my upper lip. I swear it wasn't there when I went to bed last night," the shorter lady sadly said.
 
"Oh, Madge, cheer up. I mean, what can you do? It is what it is," the taller lady resolutely said with a sigh.
 
June couldn't stand it. She had to help. "Ladies, you sound just like my girlfriends. But we came up with a new one.” The ladies took a step back, sheepishly eyeing this stranger, embarrassed that she had overheard them talking personally.
 
June leaned into them as if sharing an intimate secret, and in a hushed tone, she imparted her pearls of wisdom: "We call it FMA--For My Age."
 
They took a moment and then began repeating, " FMA . . . hmmmmm, for my age, yes, FMA . . .”
 
June knowingly commented, "From now on, whenever you look in the mirror or try that dress on before going out, look at yourself and say, 'FMA Not Bad--FMA.”
 
They squealed with delight and chanted, linking arms as they left the restroom, "FMA–FMA–FMA. . ."

---

3

---

---

June soon followed behind them, hearing them tell their husbands in the garage, "Guess what? We met this lady in the bathroom, and she told us about a new saying. It is called FMA." June couldn't hear after that, but she was pleased. FMA has gotten her through many elder image crises. She could patent it. She regained some confidence by sharing her pearls with fellow aging gals. She was June, the Circus Freak Art Student, who was in a bit of a pickle but was up for it.
 
Climbing up the stairs to the entry level, she spotted her professor, who held the group entrance tickets. She pulled her aside quietly, telling her the predicament she was in. Casually leaning close to her, she whispered, "Have you ever changed purses and forgotten to take your . . .?"  The professor gave her an empathetic smile and began her woeful tale about her deadly dilemma of changing her purse, making June feel like it was a universal problem, not just a June-specific one.
 
The professor gathered the students, reminding them of their assignments. They were to choose a painting and sketch for 30 minutes straight. Rentable stools were available downstairs.
 
June, remaining cool in front of the group, knew there was no getting a chair for her that day—no ID meant no chair. Saying goodbye to the class, she quickly ran through the art rooms on the lower level and spied a bench. Aha! A spot. She became territorial about that spot, that room, and she didn't care what art was in it. She claimed her spot like it had her name on it and spread out her supplies. When she finally settled, picking up her pencil and pad, she glanced up. With mixed emotions, the painting before her was an enormous, colorful, modern oil painting of a naked man.
 
As June began to sketch, she thought, Yikes, what have I done? She quickly dismissed her apprehension about the difficulty of drawing a nude, seated man with legs spread and arms folded under, over, and between. She had no time for fear. She only had a $20 bill, and the garage was expensive. Tick tock on the clock. Glancing at her watch, she had only 45 minutes left. She'd be damned if she would have to beg money from anyone.
 
Here was this enormous male begging for her to sketch him. She had not enjoyed experiencing all this male wonderfulness for quite some time, but like riding a bicycle. . .
 
Big giant head. Big giant hands. Big giant groin. But where was IT? How could she lose IT? An artist's job is to observe—to draw what you see, not what you know. And then, there it was. Decidedly so. Winking at her. OK then. She decided to wink back and passionately dove into the moment.
 
Lines and shapes are how professors taught her to see art. So, June did precisely that. Legs were not legs but vertical or horizontal lines. Chins were not chins but shadow and light. The grass was not grass but a series of perpendicular lines. Man parts, well, they were man parts, and they were talking to her fold by fold, crease by crease.

---

4

---

---

Her professor stopped by, glanced at her sketch, and said, "Not bad, OK, you got it." This meant a very good thing, as her professor was economical with praise.
 
Thirty-five minutes later, she finished. She packed up, raced to her car, paid the ticket, and still had $5 left. Yes! Disaster averted, and she had a respectable sketch.
 
Driving home, she began to thaw from the drama of the day and felt like an old damn fool. Women her age are home cooking a pot roast for their husbands (she doesn't have one), taking their grandchildren to their baseball game (she doesn't have any), or doing jigsaw puzzles (she doesn't have the patience for it). What the hell was she doing? 
 
Pursuing an art degree while firmly ensconced in the 70-year-young-plus club. Really. She ought to be more like those ladies. Cooking, caring for others, and jigsaw puzzling. What the hell was wrong with her? 
 
She then began to smile, which led to a laugh, which in turn led to a new thought: she had accomplished her goal—made a a respectful sketch—powering through all the fear and panic despite the age-related shit that seemed to surface more and more these days. Yes, she sat up taller while driving home listening to Bob Dylan, who was mighty fine—FMA.
 
No matter how hard you try, how deliberately you plan, how slow you go, or how mindful you are, you still forget stuff. Still, at least she knows that all her experience, maturity, chutzpah, and wisdom have given her the fortitude to soldier on despite the impediments of age; June thought, Yeah, not bad. FMA.

---

5

Vertical Divider

​​Dr. Vera Jacobson was a teacher and administrator for 30 years. She is happily writing short stories, watercoloring, and doing pencil sketching. If she is not at home, you would probably find her sailing on the San Francisco Bay. She lives in Brisbane with her dog, Peter.

Vertical Divider

We Welcome Comments