It’s not that I’m worried about Gavin judging my technique, maybe I’m just worried about what he’ll see in the paintings themselves.
“Is this supposed to be a self-portrait?” he asks and I clear my throat. I don’t even have to look at the piece he’s talking about.
“I painted that when I was in a really dark place with Will. About three years ago.”
“Is this how you really viewed yourself?” he asks, and I shake my head.
“Not on the outside, no,” I reply, staring at the painting. It’s me sitting at a vanity, the back of my head in the foreground as I brush my hair. But the reflection is a stark contrast. It’s a gaunt version of myself, tears welling in my eyes, dark circles framing my too tight, too pale skin. “I felt like I was withering away from the inside and no one but me saw it happening. This piece reflects that.”
Gavin stares at it for a long time, almost to the point where I’m uncomfortable. The need to know what he’s thinking is near desperate, until he finally speaks.
“You know what’s interesting? I called it the first day I met you.”
“What’s that?” I ask as he turns around.
“That he didn’t know how to appreciate what he had right in front of him.”
“And you do?” I question.
“Nope. I don’t have a single fucking clue,” he says, turning around and moving canvases around left and right, looking at everything.
I clear my throat and the suggestion that tumbles out of me surprises even myself. “Do you want to paint something?” I ask him.
He stops his pursuing, the crease between his brows deepening. “I’m not an artist.”
“Anyone is an artist,” I disagree.
“You promise not to judge my painting?”
“Cross my heart,” I say, making a motion over my chest.
“Okay,” he agrees and I grin, setting him up at my station with a smaller twelve by sixteen canvas, while I take the floor.
I put on music and Gavin and I work on our pieces in companionable silence. I have no idea what he’s working on. He doesn’t want me to see it until it’s completely finished. I respect the creative process and sit on the floor painting a portrait of Mikey, except he’s a pirate, eye patch and all.
“Why don’t you sell your art?” he asks, nearly startling me.
I rest my hand on my chin and shrug. “Sometimes monetizing things takes away all the joy of something. I like teaching the history of art. I’m good at it. It’s a job. This is a release. There are no expectations, deadlines, boundaries. I canjust do whatever I feel like. Plus, it’s not like I need the money. If I wanted to, I could decide not to work at all.”
“Me either,” he says and I tilt my head and he sighs, his hand still on the paintbrush. “My family is well off. Ben and I had large trust funds. If we wanted to we could fuck off and travel, never work a day in our lives.”’
“So, why don’t you?”
“Don’t get me wrong, we did in our early twenties, but it felt empty.”
“Empty?”
He nods, but doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t make him. We go back to silence, but as I’m painting a sword in Mikey’s paw, I keep glancing over at Gavin, trying to figure him out. There are moments that he’s so serious. I wonder if he’s wound up too tight. Then there are moments, mostly around Ben, where he seems lighter, more easy going.
It makes me wonder who Gavin really is, and why he might be hiding his true self from the world.
26
CRITIQUE AND PROTECTION
Fuck.Now I know how she felt when I stared at her painting for way too long. It’s the same way I feel as I ponder how I’m going to show her my piece. It’s nowhere near as good as her paintings. I think the last time I picked up a paintbrush was junior year of high school for a mandatory credit and it shows.
But it was relaxing. More cathartic than I ever thought it would be. But as I look at my painting, I realize how brave Kate was to show me hers to begin with. Of course, hers looked realistic, mine is definitely more abstract, maybe she won’t even see what I meant or what I was feeling when I created it.
