The art teacher tells us about negative space. “Draw what is not there”, he instructs and we all follow suit, Conte crayons in hand. A big part of art we learn, is capturing light and shadows, using the contrasts of light and dark to define shapes. I start to see this everywhere.
I see the light and dark while I cross the bridge over the lake, headed back to my dorm room. It is the dead of winter in Minnesota. The cold defines things here. Everything is a gray scale. I could paint this picture using titanium white, payne’s gray, and a touch of cobalt blue, I think.
My day starts cold and early with thick sock-clad feet hitting the floor. I bundle up and head down the hall to the restroom where cold porcelain insults my skin. I head back and bundle up some more. Hat scarf, gloves, boots, parka. Time for practice.
Heading outside it is still dark. The snow squeaks reassuringly as I trudge back across the bridge and up the hill. I breathe out and a cloud of mist freezes mid air. I breathe in and ice crystals form in my nostrils. I look up at a sky that is still night. It is full of stars that appear so close I cannot tell where they end and the hoar frost begins. I feel very alive and alone walking up the hill.
I get to the rec center and head down the stairs to the locker room. I remove the bundles and don the cold and slightly damp swim suit hanging outside my locker. My legs are dry and covered in goose bumps. I head through the showers for the cobalt blue pool. Its cool but the steam meets the air and it will feel warm. We don’t talk much at first. Three or four of us in a lane. I sit on the edge with legs immersed and put on my cap and goggles, stretching my arms, my morning ritual.
The first 50, I jump in and swim fast, my arms moving, legs kicking, breathe right, one two three, breathe left. Warming up. At the cross I give a dolphin kick into the turn, tuck and push off to the left. I make sure my arm is not too hooked as my teammate goes into her turn behind me. We swim in circles and I follow the six beat kick in front of me. Practice begins.
The workout is posted – it’s 3000 yards and we had better get going. Near the end, The coach tells us to try for negative splits and then we do sprints. We cool down, stretching for the wall. Practice started at 6:00 am. My first class begins at 8:30 am. We all shower, dress, gossip, complain, laugh, and try to dry our hair using ineffective wall units. There’s a tunnel to the breakfast place so our outer bundles can be carried and not worn. We carry backpacks with a day full of books. There’s a test today and a swim meet in Bemidji tomorrow. The temperature outside is in single digits. If we venture outside our hair turns to icicles and we joke that we look like Minnesota Medusas.
We swim every morning. Two days a week, we’ll return to the pool at 4pm for a second workout. Our classes are hard. I am studying Geology, Math, Physics, and Art. I swim, eat, attend classes, eat, attend labs, study, swim, eat, study, draw, sleep. I dream in negative space, looking for missing strata, gazing at imaginary numbers while swimming negative splits.
Art class has taught me a new and interesting way to look at the world. Everything is light and dark or somewhere in between. On long van rides across Minnesota I gaze out the window, holding my index finger on front of one eye, squaring off a picture to draw: a rust red barn against a white back drop with light brown stalks in the foreground. The hills are flowing and the swim team van bounces along. Idle chatter mixes with quiet discussions and some people are studying, always studying. I go back to my flashcards – memorizing mineral formulas.
Our suits are dark blue with yellow stripes on the sides. The other team arrives and they are wearing red suits with white stripes. We are swimming the Saint Circuit. Most of the teams are from Catholic or Lutheran colleges named after Saints. They have God on their side, and we have our Books. The National Anthem plays and bounces incoherently around the natatorium. There are windows along one side. Outside the wind is howling and the snow drifts are piled up. The pool lanes start less than ten feet from the frosty scene. We all wear our sweats until our race. The first one off the blocks usually wins. The space we occupy in the pool fills quickly behind us. We kick harder into the turn and fight our own wake. The shouts from our teammates echo off the ceiling and plop into the water, their encouragment time-delayed. Don’t watch the other lane our coach says, you will lose the race if you are not staring straight ahead. Swim your race.
At night the van makes its way home. We pick up radio stations from as far away as Arkansas. We are followed by snow drifts. We see the northern lights. Outside there are trucks driving on the lake headed to fishing shacks. We sleep with our hats on over wet hair. My teammates will be doctors and lawyers and accountants and psychologists and teachers and mothers. We are first generation Title IX female student athletes. We are learning to get up early and stay up late and fill each day with ambition and energy and goals. We have icicles in our hair. Our shirts say “I swim therfore I. M.”
Tomorrow we will study and swim again. Tomorrow I will stare at beautiful minerals in a microscope. I will flip the switch to see the mineral structure in polarized light. Negative birefringence. It reminds me of the light dancing off the frosty trees. The light defines the structure. I am acutely aware of what is not there, of the space and light that provide hints about objects. Tomorrow I will stretch my way through blue water reaching for a negative split. I will be alive and alone walking up the frozen hill in the early morning. It is winter in Minnesota, and I am on my way to practice for the race ahead.
(🏊♀️ lwr 10/22/2017)