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I nodded. The piece in question was a bit of a monster. All watercolor. A ten by ten canvas. I wasn’t entirely sure what my subject was; was there such a thing as abstract watercolor art? If there was, I was doing it. I was pleased, mostly, with the progress of the work, but I had no real frame of reference for what I was doing. It made me a little nervous. In moments like this, I had to remind myself that it was okay to just let the art materialize however it wanted. Sometimes it didn’t have to have an intentional direction. Sometimes you only really figured out what it was about after you’d done the work.
This one definitely felt like that.
I frowned. “If it’s not ready by the end of the night, you can just—”
“Nah. It’ll be ready,” Alex said with a sure smile.
Jeremy squeezed my shoulder as he went to pour them both coffee. “I’ve seen your work; it’s all stunning. I’m sure whatever this piece is, it’ll come to you.”
* * *
I’m sure it’ll come to you, Jeremy had said. That was one hundred percent easier said than done.
I stood in my room at the studio, staring at my canvas. A splash of warm reds and yellows, the creeping hint of cool blue to chill out the heat. A subject was there, in the center. A man’s face, with hauntingly black eyes done in acrylic to stand out against the softer, more translucent layered tones of water color.
It was the expression I didn’t think I could nail. What was his face trying to tell me? Was he full of sorrow? Was he angry? I couldn’t find the expression, even if I had found the face. Even if I knew exactly who he was.
“What the hell do you want from me, Walker?”
Art didn’t speak, not in the conventional way. Not with words and inflection, but with the subtlest use of color and turn of lines, with the way you laid down brushstrokes or played the medium to its best advantages. Art was a language all of its own, and I’d always been able to speak it.
Until that moment.
I had started this piece with the intention of it being my final… farewell, I guess. Goodbye? Whatever you want to call it.
It was positively juvenile of me, like those emo grimdark drawings that used to populate my sketchbooks when I was in high school and feeling extra moody. But what I’d been attempting with this painting wasn’t happening the way that I’d thought it would. His face wasn’t speaking to me. I couldn’t tell if it was too soon to do a piece like this, or if I was trying to force it.
Whatever the case, there was a ten by ten in front of me, in desperate need of being finished. And if you couldn’t nail a face, you might as well not bother at all.
Fucking hell.
There was a knock at the door, and I glanced behind me. Jeremy peeked his head in.
“Alex and I are going to go grab some subs. You wanna come?” he asked quietly.
I shook my head. “Nah. Trying to get this done.”
He gave me a sympathetic smile. “I’ll get your usual and bring you back a drink, too.”
I gave him a thankful nod and turned back to the work at hand.
What are you trying to say to me, you asshole?
Times like this called for music. I pulled out my tablet, plugged it up to some speakers, and cranked up bass-heavy rock.
Hm… no. Not the right tone. Classical? No. Punk? A wry smile quirked my lips. Even less suitable.
I sighed. Nothing I was choosing fit with what… whatever I thought I was trying to accomplish here.
Ugh. Maybe I should’ve been an accountant after all. I shook my head, turned on a random playlist, and stared once more at the catastrophe in front of me.
I’d painted Walker subconsciously, initially. I had just let the paint do what it wanted. When I’d realized what it wanted was to show him, I’d accepted that. What I didn’t understand was why. If I understood why, then maybe I’d be able to figure out what his expression was supposed to be. Was he trying to tell me goodbye? That he was sorry?
As I stood there, contemplating what the fuck I was supposed to do with my own brain, which had apparently decided to torment the shit out of me, a song came up on the playlist. It started with piano; a familiar beat.
The laugh I let out was incredulous. Really. A love song? And that one, of all the love songs in the world. Walker and I had danced to it at junior prom, when we were both so sure there was no one else for either of us. We’d been each other’s everything.
Was that what this painting was trying to tell me?
