When I was very young, there was a song that played often on the radio called “The Most Beautiful Girl” by Charlie Rich. The narrator had lost the love of his life through his own bad behavior and asked the listener to keep an eye out for her. If we saw her, we were to tell her he was sorry, that he needed her, and that he loved her. That song would come on, and I’d pummel my mother with questions: “What did he say to drive her away? Where did she go? Could that pretty lady over there be the one he’s looking for? Should we tell her?” My poor mom would say, “Don’t point at people, Teresa. Stop worrying. It’s just a song.”
In my room, my mother had hung prints of the Northern Tissue Girls, close-ups of cherubic darlings in sweet poses and soft lighting. I’d talk to those girls before I went to sleep. I’d named each of them, of course. I’d tell some or all of them my secrets, and they would share theirs. “They’re not alive. They’re just pictures,” my cousin would insist.
I watched a lot of TV with my dad. I’m sure he wished there was a way to pause shows back then, because my questions and outbursts ruined many a scene. When Charlotte died in Charlotte’s Web, I was inconsolable. “It’s okay, Teresa,” my dad would say. “It’s not real. It’s just a movie.”
He was wrong, of course. They all were. There is no “just” when it comes to art, because art is…
