Chapter Four
Azizi
Frustration is a palette knife in the unstable hand of inadequacy. A flat metal blade able to mix dullness into vibrancy, give texture unto solidity.
A twist of the wrist casts light across the dark waves of a turbulent sea. A gentle press and drag blooms petals along the cliff's edge. Canvas heavens tear open with a sharp angle and spike of discontent.
In the hand of a master, an artist's tool can create life just as easily as it can cut creation from frame.
The painting before me was meant to be a simple one.
I sketched it perfectly, put charcoal to canvas, then layered my primers and flats and bases.
I mixed my paints by hand, slept only when I knew I must. Within days, the landscape came to life—a towering cliff's edge, a grey-stone manor perched atop it surrounded by flowered hedges and backed by the dark water of a stormy sea.
Simple.
Boring.
I hate it. It is exactly as it should be, and yet my dead heart feels nothing but disdain and revulsion upon looking at it.
I feel no pride in the curve of my brush strokes or my usage of colours.
They are too uniform, too bland. It does not show the life I feel when I gaze upon this strange, empty house. It does not feel real.
It is perfect and insipid.
My palette knife slips between the clouds before I can stop it, tearing the fibers as cleanly as flesh.
“Not good enough. Do it again.”
That old voice is a sting of turpentine in my lungs, and I shove it aside with the canvas, tossing the painting half-heartedly into the corner.
I find myself instead at the large cabinet shoved in the opposite corner of my new studio and tear it open with a yank, breathing in the familiar scent of oil and chemicals, fresh paint and raw ingredients.
I pluck a vial of ground lapis from one of the drawers and a thick bottle of linseed oil, carefully measuring each on my pewter scales before transferring them to the heavy porphyry slab beside the cabinet.
Jonas often asks why I insist on mixing my own paints still. Why spend so much on materials to grind my own pigments when I could simply purchase the small tubes of pre-made paint nowadays?
I have no answer for him, none that would satisfy anyhow.
It is a way to clear my mind, to scrape away the surface paint and reveal the blank canvas beneath.
And it is a comfort, the way the heavy muller fits so perfectly within the curve of my palm, the way it slides across the slick surface of the slab and effortlessly mixes color with oil until it shines the most beautiful of colours. Pure and perfect.
It has to be perfect.
I press harder and harder, letting the circular movements carry me into a blissful emptiness of repetition and familiarity. Curl, shift, scrape. Curl, shift, scrape.
By the time I finish, my slab is covered in an azure ocean that glitters in the lamp light like sapphire jewels.
The palette knife groans against the porphyry stone as I scrape the paint into a small pile, giving it a final fluff and mix before transferring it into a pig bladder and tying it off.
I have no intention of using it yet, but the simple act of making it has cooled the frustration burning behind my eyes somewhat, and I find it easier to draw my next breath.
Tucking the bundle into one of the cabinet drawers, I cannot help but consider the possibilities the new colour could lead to.
Mixing it with a bit of brick to create a dark plum, or a touch of mustard for a lovely sea green.
Dozens of different shades and hues and tones flood my mind’s eye as I drag a damp cleaning cloth across the porphyry stone to wipe away the remnants of pigment and oil.
Great, stormy skyscapes and fields of crumbled cornflowers.
Varicose veins stretching across pale skin and bruises pressed into wrists and throats and hips.
Hyacinth petals spilling from plush lips and freckled with bloody garnet…
Before I know what’s happened, I blink and find myself at my desk.
My back aches from my hunched position, my hand is stiff where it clutches at a dwindling stick of charcoal, black dust staining my skin between the blue smudges of dried lapis paint.
I do not remember abandoning my clean up, but my sketchpad lays open across my desk before me, the large page crowded with a newly sketched image.
At first glance, one might think it a portrait, for it certainly takes the structure of one, but I know it isn’t.
While it is a sketch of a woman, her back straight with a familiar poise and her loose curls tumbling over her bare shoulders, that is where the portraiture ends.
Beyond that is a gruesome truth—a gaping wound cut from chin to sternum, flowers pouring from the laceration to collect in the curve of her bosom where her gown has been torn open to reveal the corset underneath.
The woman has no face, but I recognize her all the same. I have seen glimpses of her in my dreams every night since arriving at my new home—the brief flash of her blue gown and golden curls, the touch of moonlight that spills across her pale, ivory skin.
I chase after her with desperation and hunger, though not the kind I am so used to.
I do not crave the taste of her life upon my tongue, nor the slow decline of her heartbeat as it trembles to a stop beneath my teeth.
No, I chase after the beauty of her, the mystery of her.
My hands stretch out for her in my dreams, and each evening I wake with my fingers itching for my coals and paints.
I am half-convinced she is a muse.
I glare at the sketch as though in accusation, cursing the dream specter for once again stealing away my waking thoughts, as if my slumbering ones were not enough for her.
I stare at the blue lapis on the back of my hands. I wonder what it might look like against her moonlit skin.
I close my sketchbook.
The Villin boy is an interesting creature, I have noticed.
He has only been attending to my home for three weeks, but Allard reports that he does his work well and is pleasantly attentive when given instructions.
This does not surprise me, as the boy seemed the curious and studious type when I’d given him a tour of my home all those weeks ago, but the praise itself is unexpected from someone like Allard.
The old steward has always been a stern, unyielding man.
Overprotective and fond of me and my siblings as he is, he leaves no room for excuses or laziness.
He ran a strict household when we lived in my father’s house, always checking his timepiece as he watched the maids and footmen scuttle around the villa, determined to keep a tight and well-ordered schedule.
I cannot recall a time when Allard had ever complimented any of his staff, though perhaps it makes it easier that Theodore has very little tasks appointed to him in the first place.
Regardless, there has been no complaint about the boy so far.
In fact, I have rarely seen him in the short time he has been working for me.
He has been respectful of my rules and does not disturb me in my studio, and on the rare occasion we pass in the halls, he simply offers a polite bow before hurrying away without a word.
I find myself more curious about him as the days go by. Even moreso when Allard reports to me that the boy rarely eats whatever meals he prepares for the day, instead hiding himself away in one of the stairwells during his breaks, a pen in hand and book in his lap.
Today, I find him in the foyer, his satchel slung over his shoulder as it always is and a bucket of rags tucked against his chest like a child’s doll.
He stares at the painting I’ve only recently finished and hung near the front doors, a landscape piece I’d sketched and painted three times over before finally deciding it was acceptable enough for the world to see—if I ever allowed the world within these walls, that is.
He does not look at this painting as he did the marble statues of my father’s, does not reach out for it to stroke with such reverence like he had then.
He stares at this one like he is searching for something he has lost, like he knows it must be there, and yet no matter where he looks, it is nowhere to be found.
I wonder what it is he is searching for.
“Do you like it?” I ask him, offering a smile when the boy jolts and turns to face me, his wide eyes blinking at me like a doe.
It takes a few moments for him to gather himself, but when he does, he swallows and nods. “It is very well painted,” he says politely.
That familiar unpleasantness writhes in my stomach at his words, and I cannot help but frown.
I look at the landscape with a keen eye, attempting to pick out what parts of it might be cause for his bland, cautious tone.
The colour choices, perhaps? I did experiment a bit with the green hedges that surround the chateau, paying special attention to the golden rays of sunlight that fell upon the leaves and flowers.
Or maybe it is the ocean waters that give him pause, for I chose to calm them during this piece, rather than allow the storm to rage against the shore like I’d been tempted to do.
If opinions are taken away, it is a perfect piece. I have not been known to be conceited about my work, but even I can admit there is nothing inherently wrong with the painting. The colours blend well together. The brushstrokes are exact and faultless. And yet…
“I do believe I asked how you liked it, Theodore, not if you thought it well painted.”
A beautiful scarlet spreads across his freckled cheeks and the gentle thrum of his heart quickens. I can see it thumping just beneath the sharp cut of his jaw, smell the rush of blood that floods the veins in his face.
“I am not much of an artist, Lady Alilovi?…”
“And yet I have asked for your opinion anyway.” I fold my hands behind my back, refusing to let my own insecurity leech into my query. “I have no need for the thoughts of an artist, but for those of a viewer.”
He does not look at me, but he listens, and he considers.
When he answers, his voice is still that calm politeness, but there is an air of truth behind his words and a hesitant challenge in his tone. “I think it is a perfect depiction of the manor, my lady. You’ve captured its appearance in exact detail…”
“But?” I question, watching carefully for any sign of what he could be thinking.
“But that’s all it is,” he finally says.
He turns to me with a set jaw and worry brimming in his pretty autumn eyes—like fallen leaves, yellow fading to brown as it decays in the coming of winter.
He searches my face for something, and I wonder if he finds it when his shoulders relax and his heartbeat slows once more.
“It’s a perfect image. Pretty to look at, yes, but there is nothing to see. ”
There is most definitely something to see. There are hours upon hours of work, thousands of brush strokes and dozens of colours, a miniature world tucked away on a cloth canvas.
Perhaps he sees the confusion in my eyes, because he ducks his head slightly in embarrassment and shoves his hands into his trouser pockets. “Apologies, Lady Alilovi?, I fear I’ve spoken out of turn. As I said, I’m not much of an artist. If you’ll excuse me—”
“What would you say it is missing?” I ask as he turns to leave. “You claim there is nothing to see, so what is it that you wish to see?”
He looks surprised to be addressed again, but he pauses as bid and his little nose scrunches up in thought. He glances back at the painting, head tilted slightly to the side, that searching look in his eyes once more.
After a long moment of contemplative silence, he says, “A story.”
“A story?”
“I imagine painting is much like writing to those who have a passion for it,” he says hesitantly, a blush dusting across his cheeks.
“The true works of art all tell a story, do they not? They tell of great heartbreak or epic loves, of longing and memory, seeking and finding. It's a way to show the heart inside the artist that cannot exist on its own outside of the body. You’ve painted this house to perfection, but…” He shrugs slightly, fingers reaching out to touch the wallpaper beside the painting, almost in reverence.
“You have forgotten the life that seeps from its walls. So yes, it is a lovely painting, but there is nothing there to see.”
I suppose I should be insulted that he has picked apart my work so easily, but I instead find myself grateful, in a way.
He has managed to put words to the feeling in my chest that aches when I stare at the paintings in my hallways.
The ones displayed for the world to see.
The ones that look so dull in my eyes, no matter how vibrant the colours I’ve used.
Briefly, as Theodore stutters an apology and disappears up the stairs to get back to work, I wonder what he might see if I allowed him into my private gallery.
I wonder what stories he might find in the dark woods and cracked bones, wonder how he would look then, staring up at the works that I am too ashamed to show.
Would he curse them, as many have before?
Would he be frightened of the death and gore that seeps from my soul into the canvas?
Or would he see life?