ARTGIRL 19: asleep (take two)
"the world gives you so much pain and here you are making gold out of it. –there is nothing purer than that." –rupi kaur
zoey willow hunter
I HAD SO MUCH ART GROWING INSIDE OF ME, I was afraid that it would crush my lungs when it blossomed out.
The piles and piles of unused paint had finally exceeded their limit and ended up spilling all over my body; tainting it so deeply that even my blood was a swirling hurricane of colors. Blue, red, black before it crossed my heart, and lilac, red, yellow afterwards. I woke up before the sun did, made a cup of chamomile tea and decided to challenge the sky; whichever one would create the most colors in the least amount of time would win.
I won, over and over again.
My right hand fluttered over the paintbrush, as if trying to forget the feel of it. My left hand became a mistress that slowly made the brush feel like this is home. A home that was being constructed brick by brick, but it was getting there, one way or another.
The new art was desperate. It was avid—a confused swirl of colors. The precision was gone now, replaced instead with more pronounced colors. A focus on forms and softer angles came with freedom of mind. I let myself go, detached myself from the burnt wings that came with the past few months.
The same wings I used to navigate through a new love, a new country and a new life were now too singed to be used to fly. I got a divorce from my own body and stood before my paint set-up bare, with nothing but my soul encompassed around me. I didn't need wings, I could be anything I wanted. I could create anything I wanted.
I could puke all of the obese melancholy that had created clots in my heart onto a canvas again. And the paintings born out of it weren't beautiful. They were tragic, they made Jessie cry, they reached out to the world, took its hand and made it feel what they felt. From the serenity that came with finding myself falling for a boy that could, this time, keep my heart safe, to the heartbreak that came with thinking that I could never paint again.
I was seeing everything as art. Maybe I was seeing a reflection of all that I'd missed out on, being locked as my own mind's prisoner, but I'd never felt more alive.
So, when I walked into the meeting with Georges Nash, I was an eagle. Ruthless, ready to fight for my store. My hair was on fire and I'd dressed up to look like it. Touches of red, a little bit of green. Enough black to remind him that color could be lost as much as it could be found.
He stood tall when he saw me. He wasn't like I expected him to be; old and sharp. His charm was alarming, but I came prepared to face worse than him. "Zoey Hunter, I presume?"
"You presume correctly," I shook his hand. I sat down at the same time as him, crossed my legs.
"Why isn't your partner here?" He asked. He leaned back in his chair like he owned the world, but what he didn't realize was that his world was equally as big as mine. "I thought there were two of you."
"There is," I didn't let any sign of amity seep through. "Only one of us could make it. We've got a shop to handle, as you know."
He smiled, and my stomach curdled. "Really? I didn't know. It's such a small, insignificant store, I almost forgot about it."
"That store is what you want, though, isn't it?"
"Indeed. And what I want, I get."
The twisted look in his eyes made me very tempted to punch him in the face, at least then, he'd have some color. "I guess that's something we have in common, then. I'm here to elaborate on the deal discussed on the phone," my voice was sharper than his jaw line. "A deal that isn't childish, that isn't a waste of your time, that actually contributes to your success."
"I'm listening."
"First thing. As you know, because you're nosy and well-informed, Elisa's lease is annual. It's approaching its end, which is, precisely, on the 30th of April. The fine for breaking the lease earlier is three times the rent, which you offered to pay, is that not true?"
"It's true," he cracked his neck. "But my patience is running low. Miss Hunter, you'll have to finish up."
"I'm only getting started. You believe that my store is less important than yours. Probably, because, again, you're aware of our financial status. My deal with you was that if Elisa made more than NASH in the next month, you'd leave us alone."
His eyes were a brewing thunderstorm. "Which is impossible. Therefore, this is a waste of time."
"If you agree to this deal, not only do you not have to pay the fine and save the money, but you save time. The chocolate shop opposing to the empty space you're using is owned by a girl and her grandfather. The girl got accepted in Harvard, but not on a scholarship. She needs the money to go there. If you buy the store from them, you'd be not only helping yourself, but helping her with her future. I'm hoping that there's some kind of heart under that suit," I said.
He shrugged. "I don't know her. Therefore, I don't care about her. Save me your pity stories."
"Okay," my view of him hardened. "Forget the girl. This is between you and me. When you decided to come after my store, you unwillingly declared a war. Because no one is letting this place go without a fight, whether it's Jessie and I or you. This bet, deal, whatever you want to call it is the last chance we'd have to win. If you think your place is worth taking Elisa away, you'll take the damn deal. We disagree on one thing and it's the worth of Elisa."
"Then we agree to disagree. Tell me, Miss Hunter. Why wouldn't you just take more money? It would save us both the time."
I smiled. "Because then, I wouldn't have the pleasure of winning against you."
"Ah," his jaw clenched, and he relaxed. "All right then. This will only be done because I believe I'll win."
"So do I," my smile felt sweeter than honey. I only hoped it made him as sick as looking at him did to me.
He clapped his hands together and pulled out a sheet of paper from a drawer. "I had a contract made."
The paper that I'd been quick to take out of my bag as well was laid out over his. "So did I," I said. "I insist using mine."
Half an hour of arguing later, we settled on his contract. Only because I changed a few sentences in it.
Coming out of that meeting, I thought over and over about everything that had happened. I wondered if there was anything that I would have changed. Nothing came to mind.
I didn't want to be apologetic for my words or my actions anymore. I wasn't going to stand in the way of myself again. Therefore, just like my art, I would be unstoppable.
That was the only way of saving Elisa.
-
It took a total of four days for everyone to be prepared for the war ahead. The sound of my blood beating my eardrums was one I'd gotten used to. The brushes in my hands were never held without trembling, but the zeal pulsing through them calmed them enough to create the posters, to keep painting, to create patterns that made me fall so in love with art that I wanted to climb into the paintings and live in them forever.
Without Nico, Adrian, Jessie and Camilla, the entire plan would've gone to waste. We all had a role to play, but the ties of our friendship were made out of steel, not nylon. The "MAKE THE ART, SAVE THE ART" posters spread all over Nico and Camilla's university, as well as in the streets of central London were our main focus.
We set weekly goals to not lose hope, Jessie and I. Her faith didn't waver, and it held me up. There was no time to feel sad, to despair. We had one chance to save our store and it couldn't get thrown away.
Today, my first art class would be held in the store. Small stools had been borrowed from Adrian and Nico's place. They kept them in their storage for parties, apparently. The only indication on the posters was to bring a pencil and a piece of paper, but we prepared stacks of them in case no one brought any.
I sat on the counter, watched the time on my phone turn to 7 p.m. sharp. The store was empty, but I couldn't expect anyone to show up on time.
The bell rang. A short woman walked in. She sat on a stool and stared at me without saying a single word. We just stared at each other for a solid thirty seconds before I made my way over to her, a big smile on my face.
"Hi," I said, taking her in. Her black bob bounced with every move. Freckles that didn't have their place in February somehow graced her face. "I'm Zoey Hunter. Thank you for coming."
She was a quiet, serene pour of rain. She gave me the money in my hands. "Yes. When do we begin?"
"Uh—" I looked around me, and regretted suggesting this at all. No one was going to show up other than her, and for the hundred pounds that Jessie and I were hoping to get, we'd only get ten. I sat on the stool next to her. "Now, I guess. What's your name?"
"Flora."
"Okay, Flora. Tell me, what is the thing you love most?"
I got a grimace as a response.
"Okay, how about something that you love in general? That makes you happy?"
She didn't blink. "Something that you love doesn't have to make you happy."
No longer a silent pour of rain, I began to see the thud of the water on her sidewalks. She was either emotionless or very rational, or both, but there was something burning inside her. It was begging to come out, to thrive.
"Well, for you to love it, it must have made you happy at some point," I answered and saw the shift in her eyes. "What are you thinking of?"
"Jackie," she said. Her features were individually beautiful, and only made the entire result intriguing. The wild freckles, the hair, the smoke swallowed eyes. The void of emotion she walked in with was gone, and I saw the crash.
The crash of all the memories. I recognized it because I'd lived in it for a while, when I thought of Nico without precaution. The flash of all the beautiful and horrible ides that came along with love, that made the stars align and form constellations all at once. Love didn't know how to settle for an in-between. A maybe was never a choice. A maybe was a loss. A maybe was a "I think I might love you" thrown in the trash; moments of love that the universe missed out on.
I nodded. "When Jackie is in your head, what picture comes to mind? Not of her face, but something small. Something you shared together. Food, a tradition—"
"Coffee. Dulce de leche coffee without any sugar. Too much cream. It dripped to the sides. She always put too much cream, spilled it all over the table, all over her hands. She talked and talked. Didn't notice the cream falling out."
The pencil in my hands was ready. I attracted her attention to the paper. "You know how in a picture, you see all of the details? Forget about that now. Focus on the outline of that mug of coffee. The cream falling to the sides. Art is about making something beautiful, making anything come to life. What could happen to the coffee that explains her?"
Her gaze was faraway now. The image was forming and I felt some kind of relief in my stomach. I was doing something right. I only hoped she knew it as well.
"It spills. Like a waterfall?"
"Perfect," I smiled. "Now, watch. Let's make the outline of the mug first."
Time passed slowly, yet it trickled by. She was a fast learner, but always too eager to make everything perfect. I had to explain over, over and over again that art had to be felt. She had to draw with her heart and not her mind. She didn't say much, but the silence between us didn't need words. Everything was as loud as it was quiet and we both appreciated it. Giving her the tools she needed to make the cream fall softly on the table, to make an outline curvy and lost. She wasn't a great artist. But she was so full of heartbreak that it would be a waste for her not to create something out of it.
My shoulders had fallen and so did my hair. I tried not to focus on the disappointment, but it was there. It gnawed on the back of my brain like a disease. I looked instead at the empty canvases all around and promised myself to either destroy them (improbable, it would be throwing money away. also; they could be sold.) or make them not so lonely.
"Zoey?" asked Flora. "Is it done?"
I looked at her painting. It wasn't. "How about we make the spilled foam look like clouds? You can put a little bit of the universe into the painting. The less realistic, the better."
Just as my sentence was finished, the bell for the store opened. And it was perhaps the most beautiful sight I'd ever seen. Jessie walked in and held the door.
Fifteen to twenty people came in. They were all chattering excitedly, and some shook my hand. Others sat down on the stools. Different people, in sense of style and in manners.
"Hello!" One of them shoved a heavy amount of money in my hand. It was a tall man, whose beard somehow made his height less intimidating. "I'm Carl. Very sorry to be late. Hoping that this makes up for it." He winked and took a seat beside Flora.
We were running out of seats. My hands were full with money from everyone. They all apologized to be late with money. I felt like the foam from Flora's painting, spilling everywhere. Melting with relief and joy.
Jessie was smiling, shining through the store. She was nothing but unstoppable. If I could, I'd kiss her. I simply looked at her and she winked as well, leaning against the door lazily.
"What is this?" I asked.
"My friends," she said. Her now blonde ends were crushed against the door. She belonged in an 80's movie, with the big hair and red, vibrant lips. "I'm loved, don't you know?"
I threw myself at her, because I did know. She hugged me tightly, laughing. She was someone who felt like home. She left the door open behind her.
"Why—how did you do this? My God," I looked at the room full of strangers, ready to fall in love with art. Or at least try.
Jessie pursed her lips. "Darling, you keep forgetting that we're in this together. Your success is mine and vice-versa. I'm not losing this. They all either owe me something, or are great people. Don't look at me like that!" She chuckled, then shooed me. "Go teach art! They're not paying us for nothing."
-
We made more than I'd expected. Flora came up to me and thanked me for the lesson, with a glacial expression. She did overpay me as well, but asked for the information about the next lesson. The last left in the store, aside from Jessie and I, her fingers lingered over her finished piece. My curiosity got the best of me; I asked her about Jackie, if she was someone still in her life.
She simply shook her head. "I wasn't important enough to her. But that's also none of your business. Goodnight, Zoey. I'll see you on Thursday."
"Sorry!"
A few moments after she left, Jessie poked my arm. "She's kinda cute, don't you think?"
"She's very pretty, yes," I closed the now empty cash and the box of money. "But not only is she heartbroken and healing, you also have a boyfriend."
"God," the lights were off and we stood outside of the store, the treasure box in my hands and the apartment keys in hers. She locked the store up. "I said she was cute, not that I wanted to date her. Relax."
"Jess."
She looked up at me and noticed the slight curiosity I conveyed. "What? I'm not allowed to find anyone cute anymore?"
"Is everything okay with you and Adrian?"
"Hm," she licked the corners of her lips, a habit I'd noticed when she got annoyed. "It's all great. He's just a little-ah, how can I say this? Sensitive. That's all."
We walked slowly, because my legs were shorter than hers. But I always had to remind her to slow down, so this pace wasn't normal. She was defensive; had walls around her, ones that I thought I had broken a while back. I truly loved her, but I wondered if she treated Adrian the way he deserved to be treated.
"You sure? Because you don't seem-"
"Babe," she laughed, "I'm not miserable. I'm just neutral. To him. Like it was all great; exciting even. He was wonderful, that's undeniable. It's just that being with him doesn't make my heart and my stomach switch places. God, I just!"
Jessie stopped. The moonlight made me see her a little clearer. She was truly a wonder, a sight to be seen. She was not afraid of anything held in store for her; her mettle was solid enough to build a protective gear of steel. She had a heart covered in metal, but the inside was mush. The inside was too precious for her to let go of so easily.
I waited. "I just want to feel untouchable," she said. It was then that I realized how little she cared for Adrian. She didn't care for him, she cared for the way he made her feel. The way he looked at her was more important than the way her heart felt around him. "I need someone who makes me feel like I'm on fire all the time. Like I'm high, but on him. I know you don't get it, and that you think that I'm heartless. But I'm not. I'm just not in love with him."
"I don't think you're heartless!" I was quick to answer, as long as her voice dimmed. "I don't think anything at all. I just worry for you, and him." Her head was bowed, deep in thought. Or in some feeling that I was too afraid to approach. "Jess. It's okay to not be in love with him. You don't owe him that kind of love. You do owe him the truth. Don't break his heart."
"Oh," Jessie smiled with warmth, and it made my insides relax. "I'm a heartbreaker," she winked. "Can't promise that."
Then, she whistled for a while. Her step was lighter, and so was my heart. I had too much to worry about, but seeing her feel better checked one of my worries off. I thought about painting her, but I could never capture her onto paper. She was fleeting, too indescribable to be painted. Usually, people could be portrayed through nature, in my brain. But she, well, she was so free of everything that even art couldn't capture her essence.
As she talked about the difficulties of finding love as a beautiful, young woman (her words), I thanked God for Nico. He was real. Everything about him added a little softness and zeal to my life. I didn't need him, not in the same way that I thought I did at sixteen. I wanted him around. Having him around made me feel like I was floating on the ground, and perhaps that was all that anyone should look for in people. I felt untouchable.
I got home a few minutes later, and felt the overwhelming need to call him. Just to hear his voice.
"Hi," I said.
"Hey, love," his voice was tired. "How was your day?"
"Good, it was a lot better than I expected. Did you know that Jessie has a shit ton of friends?"
He laughed. "I'm not surprised. Did you talk to her about Adrian?"
"Yeah. I don't think they're gonna make it."
A small pause. "Me neither. I don't think he'll have the heart to end it, though. He's a little blinded."
"And she sees a little too clearly," I sighed. "How was your day, though?"
"Good. Okay. Better now, though. I got an interview for a job, at a bookstore near Uni!"
"Books? You? You've read like, what, five books in your life? All in school?"
"Oh, come on!" His laugh vibrated through the phone, "I love books. Reading is my life. I inhale books," he did a deep inhaling sound, "and exhale knowledge."
We both stayed silent for a few seconds, until I giggled like a fool. "Okay, so maybe not to that extent. But it's better than nothing."
We talked until it was late, later than we both liked to admit. Random silences were frequent, but we always had something to say. The banter and relaxed appreciation shared over the phone was all I needed. In the clouds that was my brain were loops of an old telephone wire being drawn over, over and over again, connecting two opposite hearts. The loops would change colors as they got closer to each side. One green, and one blue. I turned everything into art, including him.
But he made it all so easy.
So easy, that when I thought he'd fallen asleep on me, I took a deep breath.
"Nico? Are you sleeping?"
"No. Are you sleep-talking again?"
"No," I smiled. "I just wanted to say-"
"..."
"I-" think I might be falling in love with you all over again. Really. I love you. "-am tired. Goodnight."
"All right," he yawned. "Goodnight, love."
"Goodnight."
-
Take 2 is better, no? This chapter is a lot like a calming cup of tea, so I hope you like it! We need some calm to build-up for the intense stuff, now don't we?
(also, WHO LOVES FLORA. BECAUSE I DO.)
Thank you for your patience, I'll try to have another chapter up soon!
love, yas