Shelves overflow with reference books, raw material, and items that I have collected that give me inspiration. Colourful paint has splattered across the floor, dried and forgotten. The late afternoon sun shines through the windows, highlighting many half-finished projects. It’s perfect for me.
Suddenly, his eyes widen. “Oh wow. Did you create all these?” he asks, walking towards the exposed interior brick wall that I have hung a collection of my original pieces on.
I nod my head when I meet his eyes.
Looking back and forth between me and the abstract pieces, he says, “Wow, Hannah, these are incredible. They shouldn’t be hiding up here, they should be on display downstairs in the gallery.”
“Thank you,” I say awkwardly as I feel my face flush. “I have a few down there for sale that are made for market, but these ones are just for me.”
“What does that mean? Made for market?”
I remember this feeling – having Logan’s full attention – like what I’m saying is the most important thing in the world.
“You know like design and trends that reflect what people are currently buying. Don’t get me wrong, I put just as much time and love into the pieces in the gallery, each one is unique and special in its own way. It’s just these ones up here are for me. After Dad died, I had all these big feelings that I didn’t know what to do with, so I poured them into my art.” I shrug.
I’m proud of the pieces I created, but they aren’t for sale, they are personal.
“It was originally a coping mechanism, now it’s my passion.”
I continue to watch Logan as he wanders to each piece examining the details appreciatively. I chew the corner of my lip and try not to fidget when he reaches one of my very first projects. The one I created at the kitchen table, right after our breakup. I wonder if he recognizes our memories layered on the canvas. Fabric from the dress I wore on our first date, concert tickets, movie stubs, a dinner receipt, two random beer bottle caps. I even incorporated a page from my journal and a note he had left in my locker when we were in high school. It’s the story of us incorporated into art. The blues, grays, and black accurately reflected my hopelessness at the time. I watch his face fall the moment he knows what he’s looking at. He raises his hand to gently touch and looks back at me with emotion in his eyes.
“It was a long time ago,” I whisper, willing myself not to cry.
I can’t bear to shed any more tears over this man, I’m not that heart sick girl anymore.
He clears his throat before saying, “It’s beautiful. I just wish you got to make it with joy instead of pain. Fuck, Hannah, I’m so sorry. We have to talk about this.”
“We will,” I nod my head, “but not right now, okay? I need to get ready for tonight’s art class, and the kids will be here soon.”
“But promise me we will talk?” Shoving his hands in his pockets, his dark eyes search mine for answers I don’t want to give.
I nod in agreement. “I’m sorry, I’m not ready, I just need more time. I’m feeling very overwhelmed,” I say, carrying the basket of fabric I’m still holding over to the large harvest table I use for a work surface with the kids.
“Okay, I understand,” he acquiesces. After taking one last look at my art wall, he blows out a long breath and asks, “What can I do to help? Where are the ribbons you wanted?”
Pointing to the storage closet behind him, I watch him find what I’m looking for. It’s a magnificent view. He can certainly fill out a pair of jeans with that ass and those thighs. I quickly avert my eyes when he turns back around. The last thing I need is to be caught ogling him.
I really need to get my shit together; I’m giving myself whiplash. My emotions are all over the place and that’s not fair to either of us.
Placing the ribbon on the table beside me, he asks, “So tell me about what they will be working on. Do you have an example?”
I softly smile in appreciation that he’s trying to lighten the moment for both of us.
“No, I usually just give them a theme and tell them to grab the items that appeal to them the most. Mixed media is a form of self-expression. There is no need to worry about perfection because everything they create will be uniquely theirs.”
I set out paint, markers and coloured pencils beside the glue and Mod Podge already on the table.
“It sounds like a lot of fun,” he says as he picks up and examines pieces of newspaper and pages I have pulled out of old magazines and sets them back down.
“I think so. I make sure there are a lot of different colours and textures for them to choose from. Sometimes, they bring things they have found at home. There are no rules so they can mix and match mediums. I encourage them to get messy. Some of the best art comes from happy accidents.” I grin up at him.
“Wow, this is fantastic, Hannah,” he says as he scans the variety of mediums before him.
“Thank you. I love to see how they share ideas and encourage each other. They learn more from each other than they do from me.”
“You know you are amazing, right?”
“Not really, I just provide a judgement free space for them to play.”
