RELEASE DATE: 01 October 2020
Young Sophie dreams of being an artist. Of painting her mother’s dreary, monochrome existence with color. But art? It’s the one thing forbidden by her mother.
Can clandestine art lessons lead Sophie to finding her dream—and her true self?
A whimsical story about longing for your place in the world, not matter what the cost.
The Artist as a Young Girl
Mother never liked the museum.
I didn’t ask why when I was younger, only accepted it the same way I accepted my gray eyes, tumbling blonde hair, and my mother’s refusal to let me wear purple. She hated the color.
I never asked why.
Piper, my brother, joined the family a few years after me. I don’t remember him ever being a baby, but I was adopted.
At the very ancient age of seven, I knew all about how children came into the world.
Sometimes children were created, my mother said, and then abandoned. Left all alone. Hanging around, forgotten by the world.
My mother said that when she first saw me, she had to take me home. She knew it the same way she knew how to breathe. She knew it the same way I knew she was my mother.
She indulged my every whim.
Almost.
At seven I didn’t notice. At twelve I barely thought to question the matter.
At fourteen I was properly infuriated.
I wanted to take an art class and Mother forbade me. That was the word she used. She stood in front of me and my best friend Liza and the guidance counselor and said, “I forbid you to take art class!”
I very nearly cried that night.
But Liza texted me and promised that she would take art class for the both of us while I joined choir. We had math and language together, so there was a perfectly good reason for us to meet a few hours after school each day and trade information.
It seemed like a glorious plan. Wondrous and freeing.
Mother was very pleased I wanted to join the choir. She said I sang like a dove. It was our little joke because my name is Sophie Dove Amberg.
After school each day, I went to Liza’s house and drew and painted to my heart’s delight. It made returning home each day so bleak.
There was no art in the house. Mother said it didn’t go with the decor.
White. Black. Gray. That was the palette of home.
The only bright spots were Piper’s toys scattered across the snow white carpet. His red fire engine the bright spot on a blank canvas.
That fire engine was still in the living room collecting dust the day I finally defied Mother.
Piper was playing music—instruments were his favorite toy—and I’d just gotten my driver’s license.
“You should take your brother somewhere,” Mother said. “Somewhere unexpected and fun.”
“I could,” I said as my mind leapt to the art museum. There was an exhibit of flutes and wind instruments from around the world that I knew Piper would love. We could play music, look at the great pieces of art, and pose with portraits we matched. “I know just the place!”
“Somewhere safe,” Mother said, as if she guessed I had mischief in mind. “Somewhere I’d approve of.”