1 Then I first saw Mathilde through the little oval window of her studio space. She looked so small beneath the trees that towered over her that it took a moment for me to find her, and to notice what was off about the scene: trees are not often indoors. She caught me looking, her lashes flicking upward in a gesture of annoyance, as if my very presence outside her door was a distraction. I smiled. She didn''t. We were both freshmen at the Berkshire College of Art and Design, and though everyone else in our class was always barging into one another''s studios, pretending to look for this brush or that color while sizing each other up, no one dared to assume that kind of intimacy with Mathilde. Rumors swirled about her. She was Carolee Schneemann''s assistant for a time.

Maya Lin had included one of her early works in an anthology of young women who would change the future of art. Fabrice Hybert was allegedly her godfather. There were whispers that she was one of the Guerrilla Girls. She hadn''t even applied to BCAD. When the first buffers-alleged art pieces-began sprouting up overnight, she received international attention for a series of protest performances against them. She was among the first to grasp the true purpose of those silvery sculptural lines that wove through cities, with screens on either side. They were barriers, insidiously designed to separate communities of different means. By creating eruvim, ritual halakhic enclosures, and basing them on inequality maps, she showed how the boundaries were the same, proving her hypothesis to be correct.

This even though she, as an enclave kid, wasn''t adversely affected. BCAD had practically begged her to enroll. In classes, it quickly became clear that not only was she supremely gifted in any medium of her choice, but she also knew more about art than anyone, particularly in critical theory and history. In our first class with Professor Thomasina, we were asked to introduce ourselves and name our current favorite artist. It was meant to be a fun icebreaker, but I watched as we went around the room and students, with a sheen of sweat, grappled for the most impressive obscure artist they could think of-all of whom were known or cliché, even to me. As soon as a name was said, everyone snapped their heads up and down compulsively as if to say, Yes, yes, I know that artist. I''m familiar with their work and, in fact, their entire oeuvre. It was the first day of four years of classes, and everyone wanted to prove they had nothing to learn.

Only Mathilde mentioned a name that invoked a surprised and momentary stillness. "Remedios Varo?" She repeated the name again, hoping to elicit recognition. "Vagabond? Creation of the Birds?" A slight shake of the head and some murmuring from other students. One boy surreptitiously typed on his phone under the desk. "What do you like about his work?" Professor Thomasina asked. "Her work," Mathilde said. "Right now, I''m inspired by the specificity with which she used tools to achieve exactly what she wanted. Sand, Masonite, decalcomania, soufflage .

even quartz crystal sgraffito . nothing was off-limits. And instead of diluting her artistic language, this fluency of technique created it." Professor Thomasina nodded slowly. "I remember her works now, yes. So original." "Yes, exactly." Mathilde seemed happy to hear that someone else knew this artist she loved.

But looking around, I thought that, like me, no one believed Professor Thomasina. As one of the only non-enclave students, I had been worried about a lack of knowledge when I got to BCAD. During orientation week, I spent every night at the library, trying to catch up on all of the education I had missed. But it was impossible to grasp the entire history of our ancient field in that short amount of time, let alone familiarize myself with new artists and exhibits. Mathilde knew so much more than everyone, however, that it had an equalizing effect. Compared to her, we were all inexperienced. Instead of the panic my peers felt at her omniscience, I felt relief. Outside of class, she was so introverted as to be unfriendly.

The way she brushed past people, never noticing or acknowledging anyone, led us to believe she was hostile and competitive. Certainly she was as friendless as I was, although her loneliness was a choice. She seemed to recoil from human interaction, but that didn''t stop me from being drawn to her. If I''d had a sister, I imagined she would look something like Mathilde. An intense gaze amplified her small, pointed features. She would have looked severe if not for the sweet fullness of her cheeks. When she passed me in the hallways, I had the urge to reach out and touch her. There was a surprising solidity to her slight figure, as if she created her own gravitational force.

Anyone who got too close was in danger of falling into her orbit. Or maybe I was just so insecure that anyone with a strong sense of identity could destabilize me. Although the BCAD campus sprawled across fifteen acres and had 1,703 students, there were fewer than twenty buildings, including dormitories. The student body was like a stack of unused canvases, grating against each other as we hoped to be the next masterpiece. It was impossible to exist without breathing in another artist''s paint fumes or wading through their oversized ego. I always pinched myself as I admired the expansive green lawns dotted with clean brick buildings and gothic stone arches. It was the first time I was among other young artists, some of whom already had followings and pieces in prestigious galleries. They were all from enclaves, and many of them came from famous art families and were already minor celebrities.

I found myself altering my history when I arrived. Little things, like saying I was from Miami instead of Gainesville. It was still miraculous to me that I had made it into BCAD, that I was walking in the footsteps of so many beloved artists. But no matter what I said, or how much I embellished, I couldn''t shake the feeling that our lives had already been determined. I could see the way my classmates'' careers would spin out over the next few years and decades. I could see the legacies they''d leave behind, eventually having their own golden art children-equally rich, talented, and connected. Comparatively, I was a nobody who came from nothing. Without my scholarship, BCAD wouldn''t have been an option.

In my sophomore year of high school, the first buffers were erected in my neighborhood. We watched with eager anticipation as the sleek linear sculptures, reminiscent of silver snakes, were constructed. We felt lucky to be recipients of such beautiful public art pieces until my family was suddenly carved away from the rest of our community and every aspect of our daily life changed. Overnight, we were all assigned a designation. You were either an enclave kid or a fringe kid, and that title meant everything. As a fringe kid, I had to move schools, and my parents had to take such circuitous routes to work, they were eventually fired for persistent tardiness. Not only was upward mobility made impossible, but swimming in place wasn''t even an option. It became too much of a hassle to see our old friends, and anyway, we didn''t want to see them once the shame crept in.

Presumably, these buffers were being erected all over the country, preventing contamination everywhere, but it was hard to even know if that was true. Normally, we would have found solidarity or solace online, but the new designations also dictated our online activity. Invisible buffers had been established on the internet so that websites were either enclave or fringe. Algorithms were no longer even vaguely related to our choices-they now corresponded to our IP addresses. I watched the possibilities of my life and self shrink to fit the algorithms, governed by these new limitations. The internet stopped being a place to connect to others or to exchange knowledge, and became a way to perform belonging in the world you had inherited. Some people who were relegated to fringe status became obsessed with getting to the other side, something facial and gait recognition made impossible. But most, including my parents, began to indulge in a nasty snobbishness against anything cultural.

If our lives were to be defined by inaccessibility, we could recontextualize that definition as a choice. A distaste for the interests of those who could afford to have interests. Art, which had never been truly democratic to begin with, was now an unattainable interest. My parents were first bewildered, then disturbed by my continued interest in it. They made it clear that they wouldn''t spend a dime of their hard-earned money to support any of my artistic endeavors. I suppose it made them feel better to refuse, rather than to admit they didn''t have anything to offer me. Separated from any art store, I''d been forced to steal supplies. But there are so many colors you can make with just three.

So many strokes to be taught from one brush. I made scarcity a good education. And even though I had so little, I had to hide it all for fear of my parents'' ridicule, disappointment, and occasionally their wrath. As much as I disliked them, I also felt sorry for them. I couldn''t have been the daughter they''d been conditioned to want. When I got to BCAD, my mind couldn''t help seeing a future in which all of my fellow students were stars and I alone a failure. I understood that if I wanted to ascend in this world, I would have to pull myself out of a warm, unrelenting sludge that perpetually sucked me down. I could feel the fringe on me, like a scent or shadow I couldn''t shake, and I was worried everyone else could see it, too.

As a re.