My hand settles over my own heart, aching for what the woman in this painting is feeling.
I wish I could touch it—feel the texture of the paint beneath my fingers and absorb some of the passion through my skin.
This. This is what I’m missing right now.
A dark, toxic cloud has been looming around my head, and I haven’t been able to clear it. But looking at this painting, Iyearnto. I want to shine a light so bright that it obliterates the darkness entirely.
New job idea:
9. Find whatever it is that makes me feel this inspired.
Leaning closer, I read the small card beside the painting.
Self-portrait
Victoria Adams
“What do you think?”
I turn my head at the kind voice and find a carbon copy of the woman in the painting. But in person, her sparkly brown eyes are open, watching her reflection in the artwork.
“I love it,” I whisper, glancing over her shoulder for Gavin, but the space is empty.
“He went to the car,” she says with a grin. “That’s a wonderful man you have there.”
The urge to correct her never arises, so I smile back before turning to face the painting again. “It feels …” I tilt my head. “It feels like it’s speaking right to my soul.”
“Are you an artist?”
“I used to think I was.” I sigh, shoving my hands in the pockets of my coat. “But lately I don’t know.”
Her palm lands softly between my shoulder blades, and the comfort of it has my chin quivering. “You’re always an artist, even if you haven’t done it in a while. I like to think everyone has an artist in them. You and I have simply explored it enough to let our passion flourish.”
I press my lips together to hide their shaking as I nod toward her self-portrait. “I think I’m missing that passion right now.”
She slides her hand in a circle on my back. “Well, I didn’t when I started that piece, honey. Sometimes you have to force yourself to start, and the inspiration comes later.”
My face scrunches in a wince. “I haven’t picked up a pencil or a paintbrush for myself in months,” I admit.
The weight of those words lifts from my chest as I let them out. They land heavily in the air before me, but the relief of saying them out loud loosens my shoulders.
“Can I show you something?” she asks gently.
I nod, and she guides me through a door at the back of the gallery and into a work studio. The back wall of windows overlooks a line of snowy trees, and the room is filled with easels, paints, stools, and canvases.
Following behind Victoria, I’m careful not to brush against anything in my dress and coat as she leads me to the back. Dim snow-reflected light shines through the windows, showcasing a landscape in progress on an easel.
“You’re welcome here anytime you want,” she offers, dumping a jar of paint water into the nearby sink. “It’s usually just me here, but on Thursdays, a few other artists join me in the evening for a little get-together.” She fills the jar with clean water and sets it beside the canvas. “Sometimes everyone works, sometimes we all chat, and sometimes we sit in silence. But it helps us refill our store of creativity.” Her arm brushes mine as she joins me by the window.
“I would love that,” I tell her, the possibility already cultivating in my head.
Could I drive two hours here once a week to join them? It sounds just wild enough to be a great idea.
She laughs, warm and raspy. “I’ll see you Thursday, then, honey.”
19
LENA
