Page 63 of House of Clouds


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Ethan looked up, shook his head and smiled widely. “Amazing. What you’ve done. You are so incredibly talented.”

The basic image was the one she’d taken with him that time when he pointed out the reference to the poem “House of Clouds.” She’d blurred the image a fraction, added a filter to increase the surreal quality. And now, using sepia gall ink, she’d threaded phrases of the poem in and around the clouds and through some of the trees, both in the image and in the reflection, a counterpoint of reality and mirage. She’d thought she still had a few more phrases to weave before she would consider it done, but now, looking at it with Ethan’s words ringing in her ear, she wondered if she would just leave it as it was, with an uncertain ending. A suggestion or questioning of the existence of dreams and the places they’re stored.

“This is beautiful, Kate,” said Ethan, his eyes intense on hers.

She flushed under his praise. “Thanks,” she said softly.

He placed the piece flat on the table. “Your gallery owner is going to be thrilled.”

“I hope so. Though I’m not sure she’d be happy with my pace.”

“How many pieces does she want?”

“Fifteen at least.”

“How many have you done?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Five?”

“You’re not sure?” he asked, grinning.

“Well, five counting this one. I mean, they all have to be framed.”

He nodded. “So, you have two-and-a-half months before the exhibition.”

“Well, I have to get them framed, and they have to be hung, so I have probably six weeks at worst and seven, eight weeks at best. Probably less. And there’s Christmas in between. Plus I don’t even have all the images I need, yet. And I probably could do with another poem.”

He started laughing at her. “You sound like me. Worst case scenario, always. The song is crap. It will go nowhere. The music is cliché. And on it goes in my head.”

She widened her eyes. “Really? But you’re so good.”

He shrugged. “You’re so good.”

“But you’re experienced. You’ve been writing songs for a long while. All the time I’ve known you at least, and that’s been ten years.”

He looked at her silently, searching her face. “Doubt can still happen. I don’t think it ever goes away. Just comes and goes.”

“Is that what’s giving you the problem, then? The doubt has come back?”

He sighed and looked away, toward the fan window. “Doubt, questioning and a bit of frustration.”

“Frustration? Questioning?”

“Frustration with myself, mostly. Questioning if this is what I really want to do.”

She gave him a puzzled look. “You don’t want to write songs?”

“It’s not that so much as who I’m writing for.” He glanced at her and looked down. “It’s complicated.”

“Is this to do with your dad?” she asked softly.

He raised his head slowly, nodding a little. “In part. You could say that one of the reasons I’m here is for some self-examination.”

“And is what you’ve found causing some of the songwriting block?”

He nodded slowly again. “Yes. Probably. I’m supposed to be writing songs I really don’t want to. For a sound that really isn’t me.”

She gave him a sympathetic look, reminded of Giancarlo and Paloma’s insistence she create pieces about Dante’sInferno.“I get that,” she said, sighing.

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