LAC-Arts, Saturday During the Day
Across L.A. County from where Cal was exploring the funeral home, Claire sat in an uncomfortable chair in the hallway outside the office of the woman she had to impress to get into LAC-Arts.
She turned her walkman up louder, trying to stop thinking about her stupid dream. She didn't even own a leotard, okay? She'd think about something different. World peace. Global Warming.
... How much she wanted to get into this school. She wanted it even more since her tour of the campus and workshops that morning. "It's cool to think about going to a college where welding is an option," she had told the sophomore abstract painter leading her tour through the metalworks area, positively gushily for Claire.
"It's required," he said. "The vision of LAC-Arts is that students try everything. You're trying for photography, right?"
Claire nodded.
"So you'll have time in the darkroom, but also welding, sculpture, painting from live models, puppetry ... It's cool. But you work hard." He glanced over at Claire. "So were you like the weird artsy kid at your high school?"
"Uh ... in L.A., yeah," Claire said, still watching the welders. "I went to a boarding school back East senior year and that's kind of weird on a different scale. Do all the arts freaks in California end up here?"
"A lot of them try," he said, snorting just a little at the notion of boarding school. "But it's not just about being weird. To get in you have to have a good portfolio, an interview, letters from artists -- but you're a late application so you must already have gotten all that in, right?"
"Well, yeah, everything but the interview," Claire said. "That's like an hour after the tour." And the sweat stains under her armpits were growing by the second as she thought of it.
"Good luck with it," he said. "C'mon, we can see the end of a performance art practice session if we hurry."
... and now here she was, waiting for her interview.
Desperately, she almost wished it really was a dance audition. That felt more finite, easier. You either fell on your ass or you didn't; they wouldn't be ripping your art apart.
But there was no more time for that, as the dean was already calling her in for her interview. The photographs in her portfolio were spread between them like tarot cards, and, a few stammering moments of questioning later -- it felt like too few -- the woman seemed to be wrapping up by scrutinizing her transcripts. "Was there a reason your grades took a dive in your junior year?"
"Bad boyfriend?," Claire said, trying to cover her grimace with a smile. It was a sad attempt.
"But just in the spring..." she mused, to Claire's answering shrug. She made a little mark in her file. "All right. Then that's it, Claire, unless you have any questions, or anything else you'd like to add?"
"No," Claire said, first, then hesitated, "I mean, not that it matters -- this isn't an excuse or anything or any -- whatever, but -- my dad died last winter. Not that that's, like, some huge -- I don't want to sound like I want you to pity me."
The woman looked concerned. "But it explains the grades. Or it would if it were me."
"Um." Claire looked at her lap. "I -- I guess. It's -- I have a hard time talking about it." To her absolute horror, her eyes were starting to well up. The woman silently passed her a Kleenex, and Claire found she could not stop talking. "I always liked making things, presents for people, whatever. But after my dad died, and -- and nobody would talk about, and I couldn't talk about it? I just started making all of this stuff, just ... because. It's like it gave me this way to talk about things."
She had just fucking blown her interview, and that was half of why she kept crying.
"Thank you for letting me know that, Claire," the woman said warmly. "We'll be in touch soon."
Claire rubbed her eyes, hard, a final time and rose from the chair, crying and cursing herself all the way to her car. Damn it. She'd come all the way to California and the dream was dead. No way would they let her in after she blubbered all over the place like some freak.
East Valley Community College wouldn't be that bad.
[OOC: NFB due to distance. Semi-shamelessly adapted from SFU episodes "I'll Take You" and "The Last Time." Canon, I will miss you.]
She turned her walkman up louder, trying to stop thinking about her stupid dream. She didn't even own a leotard, okay? She'd think about something different. World peace. Global Warming.
... How much she wanted to get into this school. She wanted it even more since her tour of the campus and workshops that morning. "It's cool to think about going to a college where welding is an option," she had told the sophomore abstract painter leading her tour through the metalworks area, positively gushily for Claire.
"It's required," he said. "The vision of LAC-Arts is that students try everything. You're trying for photography, right?"
Claire nodded.
"So you'll have time in the darkroom, but also welding, sculpture, painting from live models, puppetry ... It's cool. But you work hard." He glanced over at Claire. "So were you like the weird artsy kid at your high school?"
"Uh ... in L.A., yeah," Claire said, still watching the welders. "I went to a boarding school back East senior year and that's kind of weird on a different scale. Do all the arts freaks in California end up here?"
"A lot of them try," he said, snorting just a little at the notion of boarding school. "But it's not just about being weird. To get in you have to have a good portfolio, an interview, letters from artists -- but you're a late application so you must already have gotten all that in, right?"
"Well, yeah, everything but the interview," Claire said. "That's like an hour after the tour." And the sweat stains under her armpits were growing by the second as she thought of it.
"Good luck with it," he said. "C'mon, we can see the end of a performance art practice session if we hurry."
... and now here she was, waiting for her interview.
Desperately, she almost wished it really was a dance audition. That felt more finite, easier. You either fell on your ass or you didn't; they wouldn't be ripping your art apart.
But there was no more time for that, as the dean was already calling her in for her interview. The photographs in her portfolio were spread between them like tarot cards, and, a few stammering moments of questioning later -- it felt like too few -- the woman seemed to be wrapping up by scrutinizing her transcripts. "Was there a reason your grades took a dive in your junior year?"
"Bad boyfriend?," Claire said, trying to cover her grimace with a smile. It was a sad attempt.
"But just in the spring..." she mused, to Claire's answering shrug. She made a little mark in her file. "All right. Then that's it, Claire, unless you have any questions, or anything else you'd like to add?"
"No," Claire said, first, then hesitated, "I mean, not that it matters -- this isn't an excuse or anything or any -- whatever, but -- my dad died last winter. Not that that's, like, some huge -- I don't want to sound like I want you to pity me."
The woman looked concerned. "But it explains the grades. Or it would if it were me."
"Um." Claire looked at her lap. "I -- I guess. It's -- I have a hard time talking about it." To her absolute horror, her eyes were starting to well up. The woman silently passed her a Kleenex, and Claire found she could not stop talking. "I always liked making things, presents for people, whatever. But after my dad died, and -- and nobody would talk about, and I couldn't talk about it? I just started making all of this stuff, just ... because. It's like it gave me this way to talk about things."
She had just fucking blown her interview, and that was half of why she kept crying.
"Thank you for letting me know that, Claire," the woman said warmly. "We'll be in touch soon."
Claire rubbed her eyes, hard, a final time and rose from the chair, crying and cursing herself all the way to her car. Damn it. She'd come all the way to California and the dream was dead. No way would they let her in after she blubbered all over the place like some freak.
East Valley Community College wouldn't be that bad.
[OOC: NFB due to distance. Semi-shamelessly adapted from SFU episodes "I'll Take You" and "The Last Time." Canon, I will miss you.]