Chapter 6 #2
I put my pencil to the canvas and begin to sketch.
Sweat beads on my brow as I work. I think of Phantom as I do.
What would they focus on highlighting here?
What theme would they choose? What would bring them inspiration?
I like to think their artistic choices would be similar to mine, but sadly, there’s no real way of knowing that, so I push onward, leaning on my own creativity to guide me instead.
Using my pencil for reference, I measure the relative size of the subjects again.
Once I’m happy with the sketch, I pick up my palette and brush.
Before dipping my brush into the paint, I quickly reevaluate the original colors I chose.
Some of them won’t do after all. I wipe them off my palette with an old paint-stained rag and start again, squirting and mixing new color combinations.
I’ll use color to draw my viewers’ attention to the apple. Its red will be the most vibrant, almost as if it’s jumping off the canvas, attracting the viewer’s eye like a moth to a flame. With the realization, I’m immensely grateful I remembered to bring my favorite shade of vermillion today.
The corners of my mouth twist upward as I begin to paint. Nothing will ever compare to this rush. It’s exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure, being this vulnerable. Giving your viewers unrestricted access into the inner workings of your mind. Letting them see the good, the bad, and the ugly.
Once my first layer of paint is down and drying, I work on filling in the background, playing with different shades and hues to bring attention to the light in the room, inviting the viewer’s gaze to roam around the entire painting after taking in the main subject.
I play with shadows and highlight a few places where light is reflected.
I can’t help the flash of annoyance that flares when Daniel interrupts, asking if I would like to take a break.
“No, thank you,” I reply, more curtly than I mean to, before diving back into my work.
I return to the focal point of the painting, adding a second layer of paint to further illustrate the imperfections. The scar on the apple, the immaturity of the banana, the sickly pallor of the orange.
By the time I’m applying the finishing touches, my arm aches and my neck throbs, but I’m satisfied with my work. The theme I chose is perfect for the scene laid out before me.
To me, imperfection means individuality.
If perfection was actually achievable, we’d all be striving for the same thing, aiming toward one singular outcome, instead of honoring our differences.
In that dystopia, we’d be an army of clones.
And where the fuck is the beauty in that?
No. Individuality is beautiful. Imperfection is beautiful.
And that’s what I hope my viewer sees within this painting.
This apple is vastly more charming because of its scar, the banana more resilient because of its prematurity, and the orange far grittier because it was grown out of season.
The theme? An ode to individuality.
From behind me, Daniel asks, “Are you finishing up?”
I nod slowly while wiping my hands on a fresh rag, and though my gaze remains on my work, I reply quietly, “Yes. I believe I’m finished.”
His steps echo as he crosses the room, but the sharp intake of breath he takes as he steps up behind me has me turning in my seat.
The expression on his face as he studies the piece doesn’t do much to betray his thoughts, but the way his lips are thoughtfully pursed leaves a hopeful swell in my chest.
Daniel helps me clean my utensils and pack up my totes. When we’re done, I return them to the cart and turn toward the painting one last time. I take in the colors, the shapes, and the shadows, and hope, desperately, that I’ve done my inspiration justice.
Phantom.
Screw the admissions committee. I came here today to prove to myself what I’m made of.
And I did just that. I left it all on the canvas.
And even though I know that Phantom will never get to see this particular painting, imagining that they might allowed me to do my best today, and for that I’m grateful.
“Thank you for coming to audition, Maeve,” Daniel says as we walk toward the building’s entrance. “I’m sure the admissions committee is waiting on tenterhooks to see your work.”
My stomach flips at the reminder that my fate is now decidedly in their hands. The hands of experts, of complete strangers. I swallow hard before replying, “It was my pleasure. Thanks for your time, and please give my thanks to the committee.”
Scratching at his beard, he smiles warmly before leaving me by the front door.
Through a window, I spot Dad waiting for me in the car.
He’s tapping his fingers on the steering wheel like it’s a drum set while mouthing along to the words of a song only he can hear, totally jamming out.
I watch him for a bit and bite my lip, hesitant.
I wish I could’ve taken a picture of my audition painting to show him, but I guess I’ll just have to settle for describing every last inch of it in excruciating detail.
As I exit the building and walk toward the car, I wonder if it will annoy him or make him proud, me gushing about my art like that.
But when his gaze meets mine, I get my answer. He’ll be beaming the whole way home.
And damn, if that realization doesn’t feel almost as good as painting does.