“What would your life be like without painting? Without art in general? Close your eyes, and think about it. Try to imagine it.”
Phantom’s voice fades away, replaced by the sounds of the forest,as my eyelids droop closed. I see myself back at home, desperately searching for an outlet for my emotions, still trying to gain my parent’s attention in any way possible—good or bad. I imagine myself acting out, getting in trouble, befriending the wrong people. Without a creative outlet, I’d be a raging ball of emotions, like a meteor with destructive intent, headed straight for planet Earth.
“Do you like what you see?” they ask.
My mouth dries out. “No.”
“Is life survivable without it?”
“Possibly?” I say as I rattle my head. “Maybe? I don’t know.”
“If your answer isn’t yes, then you know what you have to do.”
“What’s that?”
“Open your eyes, Maeve.”
When I do, Phantom is kneeling on the ground before me. I hadn’t even heard them move—hadn’tfeltthem move, like I, somehow, on some deeper instinctual level, think I should have. The incandescence of their gaze transfixes mine.
“Fight for your life. Fight for your art. Fight for inspiration. Every second of every day if you have to. Because if you don’t, you’ll wither away to nothing. And it will be no one’s fault but your own.”
My breath catches.
“Look around,” they continue, turning my face away from theirs with two gentle, slender fingers. The skin on my cheek fizzes beneath their touch, feeling as though it were dissolving into a cascade of effervescent bubbles. “What do you see here that brings you joy?”
My gaze sweeps over the scene around us before returning to its origin.
“Feel that spark?” they ask as they remove their fingers from my face, leaving it tingling and icy-hot in their wake. “Right there, in the center of your chest?” They point a steady finger toward my wildly pounding heart.
“Yes,” I breathe, barely audible over the torrent of the river. “I feel it.”
“Then pick up your brush and fight for it.”
I’m already squirting paint onto my palette when Phantom returns to their easel behind me. My hand moves like it has a mind of its own. Once the foundation brush strokes are in place, I switch to a palette knife. And as the sun sets over the horizon, the forest comes to life on my canvas.
“Almost finished?” I ask Phantom as the last of the light threatens to blink out of the sky. The shadow of night teases the wood around us, promising anonymity in its inky embrace.
“Almost.”
“Can I see?”
They nod, and I hop from my seat, walking toward them. When I round on their easel, I gasp.
I’m painting what I see before me.
It’s a painting of me, today—just now—painting the forest around us. My back is toward the viewer and my arm is raised at an angle that makes it look like it’s moving, like you canseeme painting; not just a single moment in time, but many moments, sewn together with paint. I’ve never seen anything like it before. It’s magnificent.
“Phantom—”
“My turn,” they interrupt as they walk to stand before my painting.
I painted a portrait of the forest, reveling in the late evening light, with the addition of a lone deer drinking from the river. A deer with dual-toned eyes.
Phantom doesn’t speak for several minutes as dusk descends around us.
Eventually, my nerves get the better of me. “It’s not as good as yours,” I finally say into the silence.
“It’s brilliant,” they whisper.
