JAMES MAMANA I a perfect circle I

Icreate boundaries. Its what I do. Jackson Pollock said his paintings didn't have a beginning or an end; he didn't create boundaries, he eluded boundaries. I hate Jackson Pollock. They say Giotto could paint a perfect circle without using a compass; Giotto was a Shepherd boy, and likely a fool, but he painted a circle so precise that Giorgio Vasari, the greatest artist in Italy, quit painting altogether when he saw it. Giotto could paint a perfect circle because he understood boundaries, but I am a perfect circle, because I create boundaries. It's not that Mimi was asymmetrical—nay, I adored her for her symmetry, for her even blue eyes and chin-length brown hair, her skinny legs, thick calves, and metered, ballooning breasts equal in both size and purpose. It's not that Mimi annoyed me in particular, and it's not that we didn't have a mutually beneficial relationship—we did. But when I love somebody—and I loved Mimi, truly—I do so with subtlety and grace. Regardless, I refuse to be suffocated. I need to come up for air sometimes. With Mimi, there was no air, or at least not enough air. She loved me, but it is possible to love someone too much. I loved Mimi because she was nearly symmetrical—she was sketched symmetrically. And that's where I came in and tried to fill in the missing lines. I leant her the boundaries that she didn't have yet. Part of me knows that Mimi fell for me because I'm good—and I don't want to say great, though that's what my professors tell me—and because, at RISD, I get quite a bit of recognition for my work. I was a junior, she was a freshman, I had my own studio apartment, she had a dorm room; I had a lot to offer her. But Mimi was a mistake. She was pretty and sweet and caring, sure, but she was naive. If I could have just scrubbed out that naivete and replaced it with some refinement, she'd be more than a sketch. She'd be a perfect circle. Like me.