Chapter 18 #2
“Do you, like… draw people? Still life?”
“A bit of everything,” he answers.
I walk a little further into the room, inspecting all the little bits and pieces he’d left strewn about.
Paint tubes, brushes, empty glasses of water not to be confused with a bright red mug of dipping water for the aforementioned brushes.
There’s an ashtray with what looks to be the last bit of a joint in it.
“It helps me relax,” he explains when he catches me looking at it.
“I can see why. Are you an anxious person?”
“A little. An overthinker is what my Mam would call me.”
“Well, what do you think about?”
“Well, right now I’m up to ninety over finishing enough artwork in time for my exhibit in August.” He gestures toward the easel. “So far, I’ve got nothing.”
“Not even an idea?”
“Nope.” He pops the P at the end. “Usually, I have a sense for what I want to paint. Like the world whispers it right into my ear. Or an instinct, you know? But the world’s gone quiet on me. If it’s telling me something, I don’t hear it.”
I know exactly how he feels. I think back to my own experience writing.
How every second I’m here has been a leap of faith, even with no signs the net will appear.
“If there’s anything I’ve learned… Sometimes the world waits for us to be the person we need to be in order to create something.
We have to live life in order to depict it. ”
His gaze pierces through me, straight to the bone.
“I mean, that’s just what I’ve learned,” I hurry to add. “From experience.”
“You make art?”
“I wouldn’t call it art,” I say, laughing. “I just write.”
“Writing is art,” he offers.
“Maybe just not mine.” I move to sit on the couch. “How come I can’t find any of your art online?” I ask.
Kieran leans against a load-bearing post and smirks at me. “You looked me up?”
“I wanted to see what you were up to, but I was worried you’d send me away if I knocked again.”
He sighs. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m really bad at socializing when I’m trying to work.”
I wave him off. “It’s okay. I get it. It’s best not to be interrupted when you’re in the flow.”
He nods, then sits on the opposite end of the couch. “I don’t publish under my name. I use a pseudonym.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “So I don’t have to blur the lines between the personal and the professional. I want people to come to my work with no preconceptions. Plus, I suck at networking. During my senior exhibit, I mostly just stood there, nodding at everyone who came up to speak to me.”
I can picture it in my head. Kieran, all dressed up and nursing a glass of wine with an inscrutable expression on his face. What I can’t imagine is the artwork displayed next to him.
He takes out his phone and shows me a picture.
I took several Fine Arts classes in college as a prerequisite to my Bachelor of Fine Arts in Creative Writing that never was, so I had a rudimentary grasp on what lay before me.
It’s an oil painting of somebody swimming at sunset, their head lifted above the water mid-inhale.
Each brush stroke is a ripple in the water.
There’s an ache in me, as if I’m there too, drawing in the deepest of breaths with the subject. I’m transported. It’s real.
“Can I—”
He nods, and I swipe left to see the next painting. Two middle-aged women sit on a sloping hill. More sunlight, more ache.
“My mums,” he explains.
I continue swiping, my breath taken by each and every painting I see.
He loves to play with light and shadow; it’s a recurring theme in his work, all scenes of idle individuals.
It’s as if he’d taken hazy snapshots with his eyes, pulled the visions out of his mind, and spread them out on the canvas. Incredible.
I zoom into the signature.
“Dermott,” he reads out. “It’s my granddad’s name. My middle name.”
Kieran Dermott O’Connor. How interesting.
“So, what’s the problem?” I ask, handing him back his phone.
“I told you,” he says. “I’m all out of ideas.”
“Then take a break,” I say. “Keep your eyes wide open. There’s plenty of scenes worthy of painting here.” Like what I’m doing, without the guilt of having to do it in secret.
He smiles at me but says nothing.
“You could paint Natalia sunbathing,” I offer.
He snorts. “She’d love that.”
“Who wouldn’t?” I think I’d cry tears of joy if anyone ever painted me. I’m sure the many thousands of followers Natalia has would adore the fan art, too.
I shift in my seat to face him. “Listen. You’ve got, what, nine people with you this summer who, I guarantee, are willing to be your subject.”
“Nine?” he echoes.
“Yeah? Natalia, Luz, Ravina, Erin, Chiara… Jaime, Bo, Cisco… Not including you, obviously, unless you’re into self-portraits.”
“That’s only eight,” he points out. My cheeks flush.
“Oh. I mean, I guess me, too.”
“You would model for me?”
“Well—” Don’t do it. Don’t do it. He’s Natalia’s. You’re not trying to make the same mistake you did with Jaime. But my eyes are wide open, right? I’m not doing this to get back at Natalia. If I say yes, I would be doing it to help a friend.
I nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I would.”
There is a pause, and then Kieran stands to head toward the easel. He pulls up a stool and sets it against the backdrop, then gestures for me to approach. He’s quiet as he sits me down. His touch brings me back to the night I was high, when he talked me through the worst of it.
“Can I—?” His hands hover above my hair. I nod, holding my breath as he brushes it back behind my shoulders. He then takes his place behind the easel and peeks out at me.
“How do you want me?” I ask.
He lifts his pencil and sets it on the canvas. “Just as you are.”